March, Marseille.

My flight to Copenhagen is taking off, a kid screams at the top of his lungs two rows behind me, I’m a bit tired and my mind keeps spinning between kitchen orders and the last two days is Marseille. I missed being away. And when away means sunshine, an unknown city and one of my best friends, well, it’s very hard to come back.

Marseille. The perfect mix of France and a troubled port city: vast, chaotic, beautiful and decadent. All my favorite things a city can be. I had less than 48 hours to explore it and - for once - no FOMO: all I needed was enough time to start breathing again and reset, through open-heart conversations and endless walks, snacking on floral navettes, flaky and warm msemen, pompe à l’huile and bouillabaisse - with a generous amount of wine on the side.
And oh, Marseille’s light. The brightest sun turning in pure gold at the end of the afternoon, melting over the elusive facades of the old buildings, with their long and narrow windows, coloured in scratched white or light blue.

Friendship is a miracle - I often think. And it’s crazy like nothing changes, it just deepens, weather you live in the same city and see each other almost every day (actually every day, if I think about when Monica and I used to bake together, almost three years ago) or you only manage to share a weekend together every six months or so. She always reminds me of who I am. But this time the reminder was twofold: Marseille felt a little bit like looking at a younger version of myself, with many things I might be missing at the moment. Comfort zone is a gift and a curse, especially when you’re a bit of an unquiet, restless soul with a deep hunger for freedom and a tendency toward impulsiveness.

Some days ago, I was having a conversation around this topic and I said something like: “Sometimes I just wish I could give myself a break and let me be”.
Well, meanwhile I do my best to pretend I’m becoming better at staying, contemplating and appreciating the present, a quick escape every now and then definitely helps. I’m as happy as a kid every time I can pack a bag and slide my passport in.

I let out a sigh and I lean back in my seat, while the kid still screams and the flight assistances start strolling around, offering sandwiched and drinks. It’s mid-March, and I’m still revolving around the same thoughts, the same frustrations - just slightly dissolved into routines and distractions. Sometimes you feel it in your guts, that same pull you sense when you meet certain people: you don’t know what is happening, but you know something is there - and that it, or they, will, maybe, play a role in your life.

(I just wish my French were a bit better.)

Golden hour and windows patterns.

Libre de penser - Vive la vie

Pompe à l’huile - or: the thing you’ll never notice on a bakery counter, until you are 100% addicted to it. Soft and moist brioche made with olive oil, traditional from the south of France. The one at Pétrin Couchette is crazy good.

Bouillabasse to-go from Bouillabaisse Turfu

Pie of my dreams (with pork and sweetbreads) at Ippon.

Take a walk through the multicultural quartier of Noailles to get a taste of the whole Mediterranean. Along Rue Longue des Capucins, you’ll find several spots where msemen are prepared right in front of you: grab one, still warm, soft and flaky (my favorite is always the spinach-filled one), and eat it while soaking in the sun.
You’ll also find baklavas and other sweets. I’m especially fond of the Moroccan ones made with semolina and filled with dates, not too sugary but still indulgent (semolina and dates, what else).

Surprisingly but not really, I didn’t have the best pastilla in Morocco, but in Marseille.
Crispy on the outside, juicy, magnetically spiced.

We managed to get a last minute table at Livingston (ok, I admit I would have been very disappointed if we had missed out). Vibe was great, playlist on point, cool crowd, we got the hype. The wine list was also interesting and refreshing (not the usual labels I see in Copenhagen, at least). Good food by chef Valentin Raffali. Can you feel the “but” coming? Well, I wasn’t super thrilled about paying 58 euros for a three-course meal where the main was chicken, potatoes, and Comté.
But. I fall for people who know how to run this industry. And they do - they absolutely do.

Probably not the coolest dish we had and not a signature, but give me a plate (or a bouquet) of seasonal veggies - all with perfect textures, balancing sweetness, bitterness, tenderness, and crispiness - and I’d be the happiest guest.
On the side, not pictured: a bright charred ramsons aïoli.

(Maybe one day we should talk about what’s a fair price to pay for dining out? In Marseille everything was, in general, quite pricey - more than in Copenhagen, I’d say. And it got me wondering: is this the way to allow people in our industry to have a good lifestyle and run a successful business? Am I the first one selling myself and my craft too cheaply? More dilemmas to come.)

Peroni for staff everywhere.

Brezza dentro.

A bloody sunset, the sensation of my heart cracking, wondering how long it’s been since I last breathed. How is it possible to feel deeply alive and, at the same time, fear that I'm not fully living?
(All that I miss, all that I hold, all that I’m hungry for.)

Kitchen stories will be back soon.