Bouillabaisse – Marseille in a Bowl

First comes the sound of oil. A gentle sizzle as onion and fennel slide into the wide pot, then the dry tap of a knife chopping garlic. The tomato releases its juices and the saffron colours everything a warm golden orange. As the fish stock goes in, a scent rises that is both sweet and salty: simmered fish bones, herbs, fennel and a thin strip of orange zest. The fish waits on the chopping board. Its moment has not yet come.

It is precisely this waiting that distinguishes a thoughtfully made bouillabaisse from a stew in which everything has cooked for the same length of time. The broth needs to develop; the fish needs protecting. One should become rich and rounded, the other just cooked, juicy and firm enough to lift from the pot without breaking into tiny flakes.

At Marseille’s old harbour, Vieux-Port, the sea is never merely a view. It has been a workplace, a transport route and a larder. The fish market makes that connection visible: whole fish with heads and fins, and species that defy the simple division between cod and salmon found in Swedish shops. This is where bouillabaisse belongs, in a food culture where different fish serve different purposes.

The table also needs bread and rouille, the rust-coloured sauce with a powerful garlic kick. A spoonful of rouille on a slice of bread, hot broth poured over: first comes the bite of garlic, then the sweetness of fish and saffron’s dry, almost hay-like aroma. It is a generous meal, but not an indistinct jumble of a stew. Each element should still be recognisable.

Bouillabaisse is associated with fishing households in Marseille and along the Provençal coast. The familiar origin story describes a meal made from fish left over or difficult to sell: small, bony, irregularly shaped species that offered more flavour than neat portions. It is a plausible picture of coastal thrift, but not a documented moment of invention. We know of no single creator and no first pot.

Describing the ingredients as poor-quality fish, however, misses the point. Fish that is hard to sell is not necessarily poor eating. A spiny fish with a large head may be awkward to clean but excellent in a broth. The distinction between market value and culinary value is an important part of the bouillabaisse story. What failed to meet a customer’s wishes might suit the pot very well.

The story is often traced further back, to the Greek settlers who founded Massalia around 600 BC. Greeks cooked fish in pots, and Marseille undeniably has Greek roots. But that does not establish that today’s saffron-scented bouillabaisse existed in antiquity. It is better to speak of a very old Mediterranean tradition of cooking fish in liquid than of an unbroken, unchanged recipe.

The name comes from Provençal and is usually explained through words meaning to boil and to lower. The explanation is often presented as a kitchen instruction: let it boil, then lower the heat. It suits the dish’s technique, but should not be read as a complete original recipe. The history of language is rarely as tidy as an instruction printed on a tea towel.

By the 19th century, bouillabaisse was firmly established in culinary literature. Alexandre Dumas discusses it in his posthumously published Grand dictionnaire de cuisine of 1873, and Jean-Baptiste Reboul includes it in La Cuisinière provençale, first published in 1897. Such works reveal a dish with a regional identity and recognisable ingredients, but also show that it already had several interpreters.

Along the way, fishermen’s food became restaurant food. Larger fish for serving, careful presentation and service in several stages made the meal more elaborate and expensive. Today, a serious bouillabaisse may need ordering in advance rather than choosing on the spot for a quick lunch. This does not contradict its humble origins; it shows how labour-intensive recreating a catch-based dish can become when every ingredient must be bought specially.

When a regional dish becomes famous, its name soon begins to be used more freely. A smooth fish broth with cream, a seafood stew with salmon or a tomato soup with a few mussels may be good food, but adding saffron does not automatically make it bouillabaisse. It was precisely this dilution that prompted Marseille restaurateurs to draw up the Charte de la Bouillabaisse in 1980.

The charter is a professional agreement on the dish’s identity, not a law governing every French home kitchen. It highlights particular fish species, cooking methods and service. Its description calls for at least four species from the specified selection. These include rascasse, congre, grondin and vive, alongside other fish associated with the local tradition.

So it is not simply the number of varieties that matters. A mixture of four arbitrary fish fillets will not necessarily produce the same result. The species contribute different amounts of bone, connective tissue, fat and flavour. The charter also makes the fish visible as the main ingredient: it is served separately from the broth, which is accompanied by bread and sauce. Diners should be able to see that they are eating fish, rather than simply drinking a delicious liquid in which the ingredients have disappeared.

At the same time, a charter must be understood in its historical context. It tells us how certain restaurateurs wanted to safeguard the dish in 1980, not exactly how every fishing family cooked dinner a hundred years earlier. Tradition is bigger than a document, but the document helps us distinguish a bouillabaisse rooted in Marseille from a broadly Mediterranean-inspired fish stew.

The recipe here is therefore explicitly a Swedish home version. It follows the dish’s flavour principles with fish stock, several species of fish, olive oil, saffron, fennel and rouille served separately. It does not, however, claim to meet the Marseille charter’s species requirements. Being clear about the adaptation is more respectful than calling every substitution authentic.

Rascasse is a central name in the world of bouillabaisse and refers to scorpionfish. These fish are associated with rocky seabeds, and their heads and bones can contribute to a flavourful broth. When Swedish texts describe them as klippfisk, or rock fish, they are referring to their habitat. This should not be confused with klippfisk meaning salted and dried fish. That has no place in this stew.

Congre is conger eel and grondin is gurnard; vive means weever fish. Knowing their Swedish names will not necessarily make them easy to buy, as availability varies greatly. Weever fish and scorpionfish also have venomous spines that require expert handling. If you find them, ask the fishmonger to clean and prepare them. There is no culinary merit in learning that part through a puncture wound in your hand.

In Sweden, it is more practical to think in terms of function. You need a good foundation of bones and frames, a firm fish that holds its shape and ideally another species or two to vary the flavour and texture. Monkfish is firm and almost springy. Cod or haddock offers softer flesh with distinct flakes. Hake is another possible choice. Gurnard, when available, provides a closer link to the southern French range of fish.

None of these combinations is an exact replica of rascasse and its companions. Above all, you cannot replace the contribution of fish heads and frames by buying even finer boneless fillets. Ask for frames from lean white fish, with the gills and guts removed. They should smell fresh and mild, not sharp or stale. A larger head may need splitting by the fishmonger to fit in the pan.