Lunch in Cassis – a memoir
“Parlez-vous Anglais?” I asked the smiling woman behind the desk at the tourist information office. At her affirmative reply, I continued. “We would like to take a bus to La Ciotat. Can you help us with directions?”
“The bus does not go to La Ciotat at this time of year. However, if you wish to go to see the coast, there is a tour to Cassis and Marseille today. It goes from here in 20 minutes.”
On vacation in southern France, we had chosen to stay inland, in Aix-en-Provence. But I wanted to see the Mediterranean coast at least once before going home. After confirming the tour cost and a brief discussion, my husband and I decided to take the tour. A short time later our guide arrived, and we climbed into an SUV along with another American couple. Our guide kept up a running commentary while driving fast and aggressively—like a New York City cabbie—on the highway to the coast.
“God, protect us!” I prayed silently. “She drives like a maniac.” Thankfully, we made it to Cassis unscathed. A small fishing port south of Marseille, Cassis draws travelers who prefer to shun the fatuous glamour of Cote d’Azur cities like St. Tropez and Cannes. Our guide dropped us off near the harbor. We had two-and-a-half hours to explore on our own.
Bruised-looking clouds scudded overhead while a brisk November breeze flapped the tent canopies of vendors selling produce and assorted goods at an outdoor street market. We browsed the market, walked the short sand beach, investigated a tiny lighthouse at the harbor entrance, then strolled back along the concrete-edged boat basin. Facing the harbor were a jumble of pastel-colored, three and four-story buildings with restaurants and shops on the ground floor.
“I’m hungry. Shall we get some lunch?” I said. My husband Tom smiled and rolled-his eyes at this familiar refrain coming from my lips. He’d learned that it was best for marital accord to keep me fed.
“Sure. Where do you want to go?”
“I’d like to try some bouillabaisse. It’s a traditional Provençal dish,” I said, heading toward the row of restaurants fronting the harbor. “Let’s see what’s over here.” We chose the Bar de la Marine, sitting down at a table for two beneath its blue and white striped awning. Even though it was chilly out, I wanted the atmosphere of an outdoor table with a harbor view.
A wiry, black-haired waiter wearing a wrinkled white shirt and blue jeans covered by a long black apron came briskly from inside. “Monsieur. Madame. Les menus,” he said, presenting them with a flourish.
“Merci,” we murmured.
“Americain?” he inquired. Was it really so obvious? I wondered.
“Yes. Oui.” I said.
He switched to speaking English. “Would you like a drink, an aperitif?”
I ordered white wine. Perusing the menu, I discovered the bouillabaisse to be ridiculously expensive, no doubt priced to gouge the summer tourists. Instead, Tom ordered fish soup and I chose steamed mussels. Our swarthy server brought a generous basket of crusty bread, along with glasses of water and my wine. Our food order arrived not long after, and we settled in to enjoy our meal.
Two other couples anchored outdoor tables next to the café’s front windows; one pair drinking coffee, the other some sort of liqueur in small glasses. Most likely local residents, they appeared relaxed, content to while away time in quiet companionship. Once again, I admired the French habit of frequent, leisurely socializing at cafés over coffee, drinks or an extended meal.
A tall, muscular man and two attractive women arrived and claimed a table close to ours. From their conversation, I could tell they were speaking Russian. After a lengthy discussion in fractured English between the Russian trio and the French waiter, they placed their order. The server brought wine for the ladies, and beer for their companion.
I could not help but be intrigued by our new neighbors, and spied on them surreptitiously. The man wore slacks and a dark sweater, topped by an expensive-looking leather jacket. He sat quietly and chain smoked, paying little attention to the women. He appeared to be pushing 40, while the ladies were at least ten years younger.
Turning my attention to the girls, I noticed that they were slender yet well-proportioned, fashionably dressed and impeccably made up. One had luxuriant shoulder-length black hair, the other a stylish bob of dark blond. While waiting for their food, the two women pulled out their mobile phones and began taking pictures of one another as well as selfies. I nearly laughed out loud as I watched them pose and preen for the camera, pouting their lips, turning their profiles this way and that, chin up, chin down, displaying a range of expressions from mischievous to smoldering passion.
“Could they be fashion models?” I wondered. “If so, who is he? A boyfriend? Brother? Their bodyguard? A government handler? They must be on an outing from one of the tonier cities on the Riviera,” I mused. Trying not to stare, I turned my attention back to my lunch.
“This is really good. How’s yours?” I asked Tom. In response, he gave me a taste of his soup.
A little later, I noticed our waiter energetically clearing an unused small square table of its glasses and napkins. Then, hefting it up in his arms he tottered over to the seawall and set it carefully down near the water. He restored the table settings and added two chairs. “How odd,” I thought. “What is he doing?”
The explanation came moments later when the two women, showering the fawning waiter with brilliant smiles and cries of “Merci,” took their wine glasses and phones and sat down there. They proceeded to take numerous selfies, holding wine glasses before their smiling faces, with a backdrop of small sailboats, the harbor and Mediterranean Sea. Meanwhile, their companion continued to ignore them, smoking and drinking in sullen silence.
“Oh. My. God.” I could not believe their vanity, these sisters of Narcissus. It was like a comedy sketch from Saturday Night Live, it was so over-the-top. My husband and I exchanged glances, smiling. Once again, I stifled the urge to laugh. I’ll never know the true story about that group, but it doesn’t matter. They provided us with amusement. You know, I always thought people-watching as an activity was overrated, until then, that is.