One of the great features of Martigues is its cookery, its fish cookery in particular, for the _bouillabaisse_ of Martigues leads the world. It is far better than that which is supplied to “stop-over” tourists at Marseilles, _en route_ to Egypt, the East, or the Riviera. Thackeray sang the praises of _bouillabaisse_ most enthusiastically in his “Ballad of the Bouillabaisse,” but then he ate it at a restaurant “on a street in Paris,” and he knew not the real thing as Chabas dishes it up at Martigues’s “Grand Hôtel.” Chabas is known for fifty miles around. He is not a Martigaux, but comes from Cavaillon, the home of all good cooks, or at least one may say unreservedly that all the people of Cavaillon are good cooks: “_les maîtres de la cuisine Provençale_” they are known to all _bons-vivants_. Neither is madame a Martigaux; she is an Arlesienne (and wears the Arlesienne coiffe at all times); Arles is a town as celebrated for its fair women as is Cavaillon for its cooks. Together M. and Madame Chabas hold a big daily reception in the _cuisine_ of the hotel, formerly the kitchen of an old convent. M. Paul is a “handy man;” he cooks easily and naturally, and carries on a running conversation with all who drop in for a chat. Most cooks are irascible and cranky individuals, but not so M. Paul; the more, the merrier with him, and not a drop too much oil (or too little), not a taste too much of garlic, nor too much saffron in the _bouillabaisse_, nor too much salt or pepper on the _rôti_ or the _légumes_. It’s all chance apparently with him, for like all good cooks he never measures anything, but the wonder is that he doesn’t get rattled and forget, with the mixed crew of _pensionnaires_ and neighbours always at his elbow, warming themselves before the same fire that heats his pots and pans and furnishes the flame for the great _broche_ on which sizzle the well-basted _petits oiseaux_. _Bouillabaisse_ is always the _plat-du-jour_ at the “Grand Hôtel,” and it’s the most wonderfully savoury dish that one can imagine--as Chabas cooks it. Outside a Provençal cookery-book one would hardly expect to find a recipe for _bouillabaisse_ that one could accept with confidence, but on the other hand no writer could possibly have the temerity to write of Provence and not have his say about the wonderful fish stew known to lovers of good-living the world over. It is more or less a risky proceeding, but to omit it altogether would be equally so, so the attempt is here made. “_La bouillabaisse_,” of which poets have sung, has its variations and its intermittent excellencies, and sometimes it is better than at others; but always it is a dish which gives off an aroma which is the very spirit of Provence, an unmistakable reminiscence of Martigues, where it is at its best.