Waitman

I pulled into the girlfriend's driveway and she was leaning on her rake talking to her neighbor, who is married (or something) to a former long-time employee of the Tabard Inn who was purged by the owner and her Svengali boyfriend and she says "Bob and I were just talking about Jermiah," son of aforementioned owner and also purged, who we met when he was behind the bar at 2 Amy's. We bantered about bagels Jermiah's home life (very wholesome) and such for a bit and I said, "Every time I hear the name "Jeremiah," I think of 'Jeremiah was a bullfrog/was a good friend of mine...'" and Bob says, "Yeah, he likes that song, that's why he named his place Bullfrog." And I slapped my forehead because for six months I've been trying to figure out why anyone would name a place "Bullfrog Bagels." Apparently, I'm not even master of the obvious.

To Albert Hofman and long strange trips -- that start with a bicycle ride.

I definitely prefer Pepe's to Modern.

I give foreign restaurants a break for "Super" because it seems so English as a Second Language.

Just tried Shophouse the other day and it was pretty awful. I noticed that the opening week lines had shortened dramatically, so maybe it wasn't an aberration. i think the key phrase is "best chains in the business." That strikes me as a low bar.

30+ places that suck. OK, 25+ places that suck and 5 that serve something edible.

I admit we had the inside track from the get-go. But there was always something more. Stephanie and I met Eric at a boozy Thanksgiving dinner hosted by Jarad Slipp and his charming and exceptionally tolerant wife Anna "“ a dinner highlighted (for me, if not for the impressionable teenagers I had in tow) by a loud and often obscene discussion of the personal and professional proclivities of a number of industry leaders "“ a discussion led by a certain food website host and joined by a couple of industry vets and regular high-end diners. Eric largely abstained from this free and frank exchange of views, but was charming and polite "“ no hint of the hot-shot chef showed through. We had coincidentally made a reservation to celebrate Stephanie's birthday at CityZen two days later and we always appreciated the chance to meet and suck up to someone whose restaurant we had on the agenda. But Stephanie's major takeaway seemed to be: "that Eric Ziebold, he's such a cutie-pie." The subsequent meal ("Spain gave us Dali, Surrealism and Jose Andres, who took clam chowder apart and spun cotton candy around foie gras. France gave us Monet, Impressionism and Michelle Richard, who puts tradition in the sous-vide and brings it back with brighter colors and softer edges"¦. And Iowa gave us Grant Wood, Prairie Style and Eric Ziebold, who serves pizza and boiled beef on his $120 tasting menu") goddam near killed us with the extra stuff Eric sent out but we were awed and charmed by the chef and the food "“ maybe more charmed than awed, much to Eric's credit -- and CityZen became the go-to for major life events for many years. It wasn't just the food, though the food always impressed and occasionally astounded -- even the lowly bar menu. Especially when she was working at home, I was working in jeans, the kids were still around, and money was tighter, we enjoyed the fuss and circumstance "“ the last minute pressing of critical garments for the Big Night Out, fighting for mirror space, bumping into each other as I tried to hop into my trousers and she wrestled with her hose"¦. It seemed that all the frantic preparations followed by the anxious dash for the cab actually heightened the endorphin-stroking elegant calm we encountered as crossed the threshold (late) handing off coats, bags, cares en route to a chilled martini or crisp Champagne. There were celebrity sightings, too: Thomas Keller at the next table (and Don Rockwell at the bar); sitting with HillValley when Harvey Keitel and family picked up something for their room and his buddy Bobby D. looking in to see when he'd be back upstairs; a certain famous ice cream socialist (and friend of a friend) who arrive stoned and tieless and flirted shamelessly with Stephanie all night, which she hated not at all. And always the food "“ dishes you never forget, especially the odd ones: the chili consumee or the truffle pizza or those weird, deli-inspired treats that kept showing up on the bar menu, pickled lamb flank or some such thing. Of course, we got schmoozed. We knew Eric, kind of. And when Jarad came on as Majordomo, it wasn't just the Rolling Stones bringing in Mick Taylor for the best albums ever by the best rock and roll band ever, was CityZen bringing on a guy who'd had had dinner at my house and had fed me at his. And I'll take that. A couple of middle class kids who loved dining walking into the best restaurant in town and being coddled by people who enjoyed seeing you "“ it felt like million bucks. And sometimes if there wasn't a place at the bar they'd stick the flowers somewhere else and make room. And we got the Parker House Rolls even if we sat in the cheap seats. It felt like a million bucks, and it didn't cost nearly that much. We mostly ate at the bar "“ though our bar tabs were pretty impressive. And I could never understand why Andy so damn nice to us. We spent a tiny fraction of what we could have spent on that carefully-curated wine card. And then, every time, I'd get too drunk to remember what the hell he was pouring anyway. His genius was lost on (or washed out of) me. And yet bottles and glasses were always appearing at the table and occasionally disappearing from the check. I can still see Andy coming through the crowd with a broad grin and a bottle of red held high, like a shark fin cutting through the waters off Martha's Vineyard and announcing "it's been a long night, your palates are tired so you need this Pinot. It's utterly lacking in subtlety and completely delicious." He could have poured us anything "“ it almost didn't seem like dinner if we weren't drinking something that was introduced with "you've probably never heard of this before, but"¦." CityZen was allegedly a formal dining room but Eric's food was never effete, our servers "“ though sometimes mystified "“ never distant and Andy and Jared brought a barely concealed and slightly deranged glee to the whole show. It wasn't just good, it was fuckin' rock and roll and we liked it. And I guess they liked us. Three days after Stephanie's funeral, just before dawn, I was alone in my house when someone woke me up by shoving a pistol in my face and yelling "where's the fucking money?" I poured Stephanie's jewelry into a pillow case and poured myself a pre-dawn vodka and thanked the Lord (with whom I don't much chat) that the kids weren't home and that they weren't orphans and reflected on a pretty tough week. By sunset I was surprisingly sober and feeling pretty kicked around and my son had come into town and we needed to go to ground "“ I needed a drink and a decent meal and somewhere very, very civilized where I could hide from life for a couple of calming hours. I called Jared and promised a great story if he'd break the rules and hold the last two seats that I knew were open at the bar "“ shamelessly playing both the regular cards and the death card in the same sentence "“ and he said he would. Dylan and I sat down and Jarad dropped both the dining room and the bar menu in front of us and said not to worry about anything. Andy dropped by to let us know that we were in her hands. And, of course, Eric came by when he had a chance. For a little while we ate and drank well, and talked about every damn thing in the world except what we didn't want to talk about any more --with friends. We left the restaurant that nigh warmed and nourished and grateful. I was back again the other night -- back to good friends, with good friends. The dinner was delicious "“ as a friend says, playing chords rather than notes on the palate. I was pleased and surprised to see Sharon back for the wind-down, she was part of many great meals and used to make Stephanie a little jealous (not that Stephanie didn't have a huge mom crush on EZ). It was great to see Michael, who was our waiter for that first birthday dinner, in charge. Dave (whose first week was, a faulty memory suggests, that tough week that I was talking about) was running the wine cellar and sold us some excellent Riesling and a stellar Spanish whose name I drank too much to remember. Plus í§a change... This new dynamic duo doesn't yet bring a deranged glee to their jobs "“ I told Dave that he could pick up a lot of credibility points if he'd just take a few cheap shots at Andy's wine list, and he wouldn't take the bait. But they have their own style and they'll have their own dining rooms and cellars and clippings soon enough and they'll see me strolling through the door and say, "I thought I ditched that guy." I'm pretty sure Eric doesn't tell me anything he doesn't tell everybody else, but I was reassured to hear that he hopes to keep doing what he does well, and there won't be any gourmet burgers or faux gras in his future. Nothing wrong with Michel Richard's Centrale. It was just never nearly as good as Citronelle. I suppose everybody knew that Eric would move on someday. I'm just glad he's not going to New York. And I guess I've moved on in some ways too. Not everybody loves the pomp and elegant excess of fine dining. Nothing is more tedious than retreating into the good old days, chasing a moment that won't and shouldn't ever be cast in amber. There are new things to discover that you can't find sitting around a table saying "remember when"¦?" But it was a moment. And am glad I was there. . When Stephanie was angry at the kids --who each rotated through a couple of years when their job was to set the places for dinner -- for flinging the silver and the napkins and the glasses into random sullen arrangements, she would scold: "LaLa [grandma] always said that you should set the table with love." Eric's team, the team he created, trained and led, loved what they did. And you felt it whenever you sat down to dine at their table.

I often wore jeans (and a jacket) in the bar and have seen some borderline grunge there.Of course, they wouldn't let me order the good Burgundies because I didn't appear "worthy." Also, they'd trot the Parker House rolls by every now and again just to underscore the fact that I wasn't getting any. Actually ate in the dining room in jeans once, when the bar was full and the resto had seats and Jared was in an alarmingly good mood (having earlier led my friend and I through an impromptu horizontal of the various Domaine Weinbach Gewurtztraminer cuvees). Normally, though, I think looking pretty sharp is the order of the day in the dining room. A friend who once inquired formally was told that a jacket would be appropriate for a gentleman, though a tie was not required.

Figures Trautmann would work at a fish joint. I might hold the applause for the moment given the departure of Julian to where?

Drinking but not driving to Tom Maglliozzi aka either Click or Clack Tappet, who kept me and especially Stephanie company for uncounted Saturdays of errand-running and child-ferrying over many years. Of Alzheimers. Said brother Ray, in a statement, "Turns out he wasn't kidding -- he really couldn't remember last weeks puzzler."

I think that the only redeeming feature of a disappointing meal at a well-regarded restaurant is the chance to whack the hornets nest by posting a negative review here! Of course, you're probably a better person than I am. To clarify my earlier report somewhat, while my co-conspirator enjoyed eating at The Shack more than Alinea, neither she nor I assert, imply, suggest or otherwise allege that the cooking is better in Staunton than in Chicago. We just had a great time and take particular delight in discovering serious cooking in an informal and inexpensive atmosphere, way out in the sticks.

A staple of the Doctor Demento show when I was at the age at which one listens to Doctor Demento.

Note Neil's t-shirt. And Ronnie's.

Clearly there is no point in trying to prove, by logic or art, that someone who doesn't really want to like Dylan/rock and roll (and I think it's clear that at the very least Don doesn't want to be browbeaten into liking Dylan -- at this point it would be an admission of defeat), actually should like Dylan/rock and roll. It's like saying, "no, really, try the Murgh Massalam at this place, it's freakin' brilliant. It will open up the whole world of Indian food for you" to someone who, for whatever reason has no actual desire to eat Murgh Massalam and have the world of subcontinental cuisine unfold before them. No matter how vigorously you expound upon the nunace of the spices, the quality of the chicken ("c'mon, you like chicken, don't you?"), the skill of the chef, the extraordianry alchemy of indredients and preparation. They're just going to like it. Maybe, someday, they'll be walking by the restaurant and wander in just for the hell of it, and maybe they'll catch on and maybe they won't. In the mean time, you just force them into a defensive posture. The only hope is sneaking something on in the background next time Don's working his way through a decent Puligny. Get some good associatons, let that little plinky second guitar in Tambourine man infiltrate his subconscious -- maybe then, Hell, it took 20 years, but my kid eats fish now.

Legend Merry Clayton on "Sweet Home Alabama".

Google results. That's like invoking Yelp reviews! Allmans were the better band, but Skynyrd was a pretty good rock and roll outfit, despite "Smell that Smell" or whatever that song was called. Plus, they did a gun control song! I like "Dear Doctor", but the accents are almost realistic on "Torn and Frayed," and the prominent pedal steel pushes its twang score up to 9.5. Of course: "Country Honk." And the less well known "Blinded by Love."

Oh, come on...Lynyrd Skynyrd wasn't twangy, wasn't hillbilly and wasn't crap! And who doesn;t love those Molly Hatchet album covers? You want twangy hillbilly crap, you got to listen to the Rolling Stones

Don, you know a great deal more about classical music than I ever will, but let me help you with the modern stuff. "Rockabilly" is as different from "Southern Rock" as "Baroque" is from "Romantic." All due respect to Al's points, but there is nothing derogatory about the Southern Rock label and I defy you to tell a proud son of Macon, Georgia that they need to get out from under the "southern" label without getting a bottle broken across the bridge of your nose. (Also, how much wider appeal is a band that had their last hit record in the mid-70s going to earn? How much do they need?) Also, While Ramblin' Man was their biggest hit, Whippin' Post -- or the whole Fillmore East album -- is what they identified with by people who still care about the band.

Seen it? I linked to it! It comes up prominently on Google if you search bouillabaisse, Marseille, btw. But I must have glossed over the paragraph with the toast directions before I went, as I had forgotten them by the time the fish was set down.

Aww, shucks.

Sorry. Back when I worked (briefly) at a swank French restaurant (Le Pavillon) waiters would sometimes eat the unfinished (usually, untouched, especially foie gras) portion off diners' plates, a practice that became known as "manging" from the French verb to eat: "manger." It has become rather common slang in my inner circle and so I use it sometimes forgetting that only about 6 people know what I'm talking about. So, bouillabaisse -eating. (i.e., how to distribute toast, rouille and cheese appropriately).

Joe, no hints on bouillabaisse-manging?

Marseille is the Queens of France "“ a grungy, graffiti-splattered outer-borough sort of place largely populated by multi-ethnic, clock-punching types who still drink pastisse (when they're not Muslim) and leave the fine dining to the swells and tourists. Although my colleague Olivier, who grew up in the gangster-turned-hipster Panier neighborhood (his father's shop was just out of camera range when a baguette-bearing bad-guy is murdered in the opening scene of the French Connection) scoffs at Marseille's reputation for crime and violence, there are still websites full of dire warnings that perhaps should be consulted, if only to make yourself feel braver for going there. I lived downtown during DC's "Murder Capital of America" reign and, in MFK Fisher's account of her time in Marseille, in "Two Towns in Provence," I sense the same sort of machismo (if more refined) that we all felt in those days. She writes about her time with her daughters and then, two decades later, her sister in what was called "the wickedest port city in the world," with no apparent concerns. In fact, she loves dropping "wicked" into her essays and referring to the visitors and relatives who were appalled enough to flee town or simply self-incarcerate in their rooms. I imagine her abandoning these timid acquaintances to their fears and Scotch for the sheer spiteful delight of mingling with the drunks and whores and riff-raff (and maybe a pre-famous Julia Child) along The Canbabiere (Marseille's main drag) or the Vieux Port in a Chanel suit as proper and impeccable her prose. Indeed, as I read Mary Frances I found myself wishing that Marseille had not cleaned up quite so much. The Old Port is newly spiffed and the whores and sailors apparently exiled to the edge of town where the new port deals in cruise and container ships. Happily, the town does retain a certain louche air about it. You're tempted not to shave and to take up smoking once again. Perhaps to over-indulge in pastisse and make a few bad decisions. Certainly to check into the Mama Shelter hotel to change out of your jet-lagged skivvies and into something faded and worn, warm yourself with a drink and head into the night to make those bad decisions, your imagination fired by the sordid suggestions that surround you in Mama's hotel. Mama is a randy old broad, it seems: You're standing there at the front desk waiting for your accomplice to park the car and present her passport and you look at the creams and unguents in the glass shelf next to normal branded merch and discover they have names like "Touch My Body" and "Spank Me Baby." In your small, stark (and Philip Stark-designed "“ exposed concrete, odd angles, clean lines ) rooms you find that the "do not disturb" sign is a photograph of silk panties ostensibly hanging from a doorknob. I don't even want to know what the Halloween masks (Superman, Popeye) hanging in the rooms are for. And don't let the kids alone with the remote and the on-demand video menu. No matter. The rooms are relatively cheap "“ from 70 Euros or so "“ and very stylish. The neighborhood is funky, the breakfast is great (although it needs to be said that French scrambled eggs look like yellow puke), the staff is friendly and the New York Times likes it. Perhaps it was the postmodern prurience of the hotel and the ageless funk of the neighborhood that somewhat skewed my expectations as I set forth for what would be my first real bouillabaisse. Those things, as well as bouillabaise's origins as a fishwive's pot-luck and its status the reigning dish of a rough port city and memories of the inelegantly-spiced and usually-overcooked random seafood soup served in Washington and even the purple prose of political gastronome Johnny Apple and our own superlative-prone Joe H., I expected a dish perhaps more rustic than refined, more enthusiastic than nuanced. Of course, I should have realized that Michelin doesn't hand out stars to roadhouses or clam shacks and that l'Epuisette's one-star status signaled that a touch of elegance was in store. As soon as we parked our car on a sidewalk walking distance from the place (I love France "“ you park on the sidewalk and walk in the street) and wandered in, it was clear that this bright, clean-lined and heavily-staffed space existed almost in a separate world from the rest of town. After a quick, tasty puddle of clear fish soup with rouget and rouget liver ravioli, we got onto the main event. Each of us received a hubcap-sized bowl of broth and a side plate holding toast rounds, two small bowls of rouille "“ one a straight-up garlic mayonnaise and one more shaded to saffron -- and a small bowl of shredded, perhaps Emmenthaler, cheese. I had no idea what to do. Stir the rouilles into the broth and drop the toasts in? Float rouille-topped toast on the broth like little garlicky fishing boats and wait for the broth to soak through? Eat the rouilles like a dip? (probably not) And what was up with the cheese? So we did whatever and slurped soup that was surprisingly restrained given fish, garlic and olive oil, all in quantity. Then they came out to show us the five fish they'd cooked, none of which was rascasse, which I thought was kind of required and kind of tasty. But, hey, if Johnny Apple says this place is the real deal and if they don't do rascasse I guess you don't need rascasse done. I was facing the window, so I don't know if they did the thing of boning the fish more or less tableside or just brought it back into the kitchen. But, the next time we saw the fish, they had been fileted and divided and set gently atop another Frisbee of broth, this time with the rouille already stirred in by the chef, which seemed an altogether more sensible way of serving it. The fish was quite delicious "“ memorably delicious, in fact, delicately cooked and well-married to the broth. But again: confusion on my part, as it was simply five filets set atop a thick soup, rather than the gleeful mélange served up by stateside purveyors. I was expecting something a little messier. The sommelier did me the honor of speaking to me only in French, which made me feel as sophisticated as my inability to figure out what to do with the cheese made me feel uncouth. But, as a consequence, I didn't get as much about the wine as I might have. It was a Côes de Duras (kind of a Bordeaux suburb) Sauvignon Blanc/Semillon blend and took on the Bouillabaisse quite well. The bottle, a 2009, was just starting to show its age, a little darker in the glass and a hint of nuttiness on the palate. (I'm wondering "“ since this has happened to me before "“ if serious wine people actually do like a white that's just getting toasty, or if the sommeliers just see me coming and know that with a little sales pitch or indecipherable French they can unload some old stuff from their cellar.) Whatever. I liked it and the somm seemed quite enthused. In the end, I was not blown away by bouillabaisse in the way that I expected to be. But that was, I think, the result of expectations and jet lag. And the more I think about it, the more I develop a retrospective appreciation. I hope to try it again, possibly at Fon Fon (which also makes the opening scene of The French Connection), with proper expectations and perhaps some rascasse. I'd also like to return to L'Epuisette for its other fish, which I suspect would be quite good. Mary Francis did not like bouillabaisse but she did like to eat and "TwoTowns" has a whole chapter on restaurants that almost makes you weep to think that they are long gone and makes you strongly suspect that no restaurant today can capture the vitality and flavors of those long-dead dining rooms. But L'Arome does a pretty good job of feeling very vital and Marseillaise, from the graffiti on the wall to the reasonably-priced menu (26.50 for three courses) to the harried, friendly staff. We got a table on a crowded Friday night in part because the waitress/hostess/(and I got the impression) part owner decided I look a lot like Jean Reno (which is so much more flattering than being told you look like Jeff Goldblum). There was almost an international incident when she thought that I hadn't seen "Léon," which was resolved once we figured out that the movie was released as "The Professional" over here and I had seen it. I love watching people who care about their work doing their work, and I sort of felt fortunate to be invited to pull up a small table in a small room, and make my way through a pretty decent hand-made meal prepared and served by people who see their job as a calling. We learned that "tourteau" does not mean turtle, but crab, and ate it with confited lemon; tossed back some cromesques of veal, a filet mignon of pork and some duck. The wine was cheap and tasty. We quite enjoyed ourselves. L'Arome also has the advantage of being smack dab in the middle of the hip and crowded nightlife district around Cours Julien and so we wandered past the art opening and bad blues and grabbed a Cinquante-et-un at an outdoor bar and chatted up an unwed mother whose friend (how good a friend he was, we weren't quite clear on) stood just beyond the rope pushing the stroller back and forth so she could duck inside the perimeter for a few drinks. And then we wandered back, half-drunk on post-midnight streets, to Mama Shelter. We were not murdered. We held off leaving for Vaucluse until after lunch so that we could hit up La Boí®te í Sardine, a lunch "“only (served until 5PM) place which also felt like a place that MFK would have written up. Bright, boisterous, inexpensive and known for impeccably fresh fish and its sardine can décor, the Boí®te is one of those places whose personalities are irresistible to travel writers. But fame has neither gone to its head nor scared off the locals, who had filled every table by the time we arrived. The scruffy guy in the wife beater and watch cap who told us that we could certainly eat at the bar turned out to be the owner and he fetched around the a chalkboard from which we selected Atlantic and Mediterranean oysters, a plate of deep-friend rougets (I love those little guys, aka red mullet) and a standout cuttlefish in squid ink. The bartender/dessert prepper/designated gopher was quite pleased to be serving a couple of Americans and when we noticed sea urchins being brought in, he snagged us one, for free. Kind a perfect counter-balance to L'Epuissette "“ great food once again, but in a decidedly no-star setting. A week later, we blew back into town without dinner plans, found a place on line but found out it was closed in real time and drifted jetsam-like around the Vieux Port until the writer in me was drawn to La Virgule (The Comma). Half a block off the quay and a world away from the fried fish and tourist bouillabaisse (it is required to sneer at all bouillabaisse that costs less than 30€ a portion), it seemed the sort of spot that affluent locals drop into and that you enjoy, but you're not sure you'd go out of your way to go back again. I had a quite good fish soup, which was a lot like bouillabaisse but without fish, and a delightful magret de canard, aka duck breast. Madam enjoyed her risotto quite a bit. Earlier, as we'd checked into our hotel, we discovered that Mama was not the only saucy babe hovering over our hotel selections. I'm not speaking of Ms. Fisher, though I actually was reading "Two Towns" in my room at the Grand Hotel Beauvau when I turned a page and discovered that she was was devoting the entire next chapter to her adventures at "The Good Old Beauvau" (including a Christmas story starring her two little girls and a cast of locals that would have melted Scrooge's heart if the ghosts hadn't already gotten to him). Rather, I speak of George Sand, who shacked up at the Beauvau with both Alfred de Musset (who is, apparently, famous in France) and the famous-everywhere Chopin, though not at the same time. According to Fisher, local gossips alleged that she was also having Chopin's pulmonologist over for nooners, but this is unconfirmed and the doctor's portrait is not displayed in the lobby next to the other three. Also according to Fisher, Sand quite disliked the place, due to the noise and stench from the port. Although the hotel sits directly on Quai des Belges and you can, by asking politely and paying extra, get a room that looks directly over the Old Port (well worth it), the raw sewage problem has been resolved and the windows are soundproofed, although I prefer them open (except when trying to sleep -- I'm not sure what bar was open until 6 AM, but there sure were some loud happy drunks along the quay when we woke up to catch our plane). The concierge who bedeviled MFK Fisher across three decades is long gone, but the place does retain a certain civilized charm, particularly the bar. And they found and are shipping my iPod, which was apparently not swiped by a larcenous Marseillais after all. Directly across from the Beauvau is the fish market. Very small "“ maybe six boats -- and not much use if you don't have access to a stove. But it is the only market I've ever been to where the occasional fish (a rascasse, perhaps?) was still actually flopping about its display case, and I was half tempted to pick one up, bring it back to my room and hack it into crudo with the knives we'd brought along for use at the country house. After eating dinner steps away from the Beauvau, at La Virgule, do not go to Pelle-Mèle expecting it to be a jazz bar. Unless a Frenchman singing R&B to a recorded soundtrack is jazz (hint: it is not). Unfortunately La Caravelle, also only steps from the hotel, only has live music two days a week, so if you are there on a Saturday, you might pass it up. But, craving a nightcap, you might wander "“ yes, just a few steps -- over to L'Uniq Bar. One of my favorite things about France is the dive-y little bar-tabaq's and outright dives that still cling to life. Just pull up a plastic streetcorner seat, order a "pression" (draft beer) and watch the world go by. After a slightly disappointing stroll through the Arab neighborhood between the Panier and the train station (just drab, surprisingly) we decided to regroup at the Bar-tabac La Francaise, at the intersection of Rue Nationale and Rue Providence. Both the names of the streets and of the bar suggest something grander than the reality of this multiculturally blue collar crossroads. But it was perfect in in a sort of classic way: the coffee-swilling Muslims inside gambling on the horses, the lovely original bar, the customer who looked exactly like Popeye and the guy who walked by with a goiter the size of a grapefruit slung against his neck by a bandana-sling. But the L'Unic Bar, a block off the port, was the more classic spot (and made me feel that my dive-spotting instincts were still spot on). We sat outside, ignored the all-American cocktail list stuck to the wall (who knew you could get a Long Island Iced Tea in Marseille?) in favor of beers during an initial afternoon foray and apéros on the return engagement, and watched the all-French passing show. Waitresses who seemed to love everybody, colorful crowd, eccentric décor and, of course, the passing show "“ it's the sort of place that people like me, who think of The Raven as a treasured cultural institution, will love. I don't think that MFK Fisher would have sipped an Americano at Unic. But I do think she would have walked out of her way to pass by on her way back to the Beauvau, just to smile at the smiling crowds crowded around its tables. And it did seem the perfect kiss goodbye from an underrated town.

A product of Philly's deserved insecurity.

My daughter was traumatized by the Speedo incident. So was I, but in a Speedo and sipping the wine that was available from the snack bar at the public pool, I felt extremely French, which made up for a lot. Visitors to the region with access to a kitchen should consider the local appetizer of Cavaillon melon (which drew raves at the dinner I alluded to in the original post, even though it was not gussied up) split in half, its central cavity filled with Beames de Venice.