a fiction based on actual events in Marseilles.

"Marseilles is full of shit." These were the first words that came out of my host's mouth as we exchanged hugs and European double kisses. A very proper introduction to France I thought. "No, It's really full of shit, you really have to watch where you step here." He followed with, "No one comes to tour Marseilles anymore, what do you know about this place?" I rummaged through my brain, thinking of something intelligent to say. I thought about bringing up the diversity I knew existed here, the fact that it is the oldest city in France and the second largest city next to Paris, or something about it's importance as a port city to Northern Africa. What came out was simply, "Bouillabaisse?" It was a surprisingly honest answer. I had been dreaming of the hearty French Mediterranean fare that awaited me since arriving in Madrid for this two-month excursion through Western Europe. In my mind, France was a sure thing regarding cuisine. This is why I was here. I wanted sea creatures soaked in butter and then soaked in olive oil and then slathered on a toasty baguette, I wanted to wash it down with Pastis and macaroons. Tapenade, ratatouille, and aioli were all invented here. This is why, Marseilles. Julien, the host, took note of my one word reply and filed it away somewhere as he began talking about the "[h]ip [h]op."

I would not eat Bouillabaisse on this trip. Instead, I would eat like a 6 ft 7 in basketball player named Julien, I would eat like a true Marseillais. We began at L'Authentique, "the best" sandwich shop in Marseilles. Le Charolais is a foot long chopped steak sandwich smothered in aioli, caramelized onions, comté and topped with perfectly seasoned pommes frites. Cheese, fat, salt, carbohydrates and protein all accounted for here. Yes, this is a meal for 3 and yet I managed to only feed myself. As I watched the sunset on my impossibly delicious and diminishing sandwich, Julien informed me that there was no hurry, because lucky for us, "the best" bakery in Marseilles never closes. This was not dinner I thought, this was an eating contest.

Julien advised getting two treats at the 24-hour bakery. He recommended the plum cake though the layered chocolate mousse or lemon tart were sure things he said. We consciously walked home, hopping over piles of neglected dog poo, (it turns out there is a lot of shit in this city) with an éclair, a chocolate mousse, and a lemon tart for balance. Steps from our door, we make one final stop to pick up a bottle of "the best" drink in Marseilles, Quebec soda. Over pastries, Julien spoke passionately about tomorrow's calories. "Fougasse" he said, "is fat, fat and lardons, it is incredible, tomorrow we eat the best Fougasse." Indeed we did.

After a week of Marseilles' best, I left with many extra pounds, an addiction to lardons and a deep respect for the wonderful people of this gritty Southern French city. Luckily, a week of hiking in the Austrian Alps awaited my rapidly beating lardon heart.