Rail Europe, From Paella to Bouillabaise
France and Spain
Since food is an enduring obsession in my life, as well as my profession, it wasn’t enough for me to merely take the train from Spain to France this summer (and, I may add, as a food writer, flying definitely wasn’t within my budget). Nope, I had to ride the rails from Valencia, home of paella, to Marseilles, birthplace of bouillabaisse. Might as well make this an educational trip.
Armed with a Spain-France Pass, which was issued by Rail Europe, I started my journey by first making a reservation for my 13-hour trip from Valencia to Provence (note that purchasing a pass isn’t a guarantee of getting a seat, it’s merely a pre-paid ticket, so book ahead to avoid potentially waiting around for available seats on future trains). Advance reservations are definitely essential during high season if you have time constraints or need to arrive at a destination on a specific date. My reservation still resulted in my arriving in Marseilles at 4:30 a.m., but because I knew my arrival time in advance, I was able to alert my hotel that I would be pounding on the door at an ungodly hour, so check-in wasn’t a problem.
With my ongoing travel taken care of, I was able to focus on more important things, like eating. Valencia is a pretty, relaxed city rife with neo-classical, baroque, and contemporary architecture, museums, public gardens, and the famous indoor market, the Mercado Central. Since paella was my focus, I visited the Museo del Arroz de la Ciudad de Valencia, a former rice mill turned rice museum (really), toured the lush rice fields of Parque Natural de Albufera de Valencia, which also offer hiking and biking trails, and enjoyed a boat ride on peaceful Lago de Albufera, and long, Albarino and Rioja wine-soaked lunches at Restaurante Casa Salvador, which specializes in paella and seafood dishes, and is located in the sleepy fishing village of L’Estany de Cullera, and the family-owned El Matandeta, located in the middle of a rice field in Alfafar. Manolo Baixauli, the “patron de paella,” has been making paella for over 60 years, and still prepares authentic paella Valenciana, made with chicken, rabbit, vegetables, and snails, in the traditional manner, over an open fire.
After enjoying a last, icy horchata from Horchateria el Siglo, a 118-year-old artisan horchateria (a Valencian specialty, made from chufa nuts), I stocked up on jamon, Marcona almonds, fruit, and crusty bolillos from the Mercado, and headed to Valencia’s gorgeously ornate train station, the 20-inch aluminum paella pan my hosts had given to me clanking against my backpack. Although it would prove a conversation piece throughout France, it also annoyed the hell out of every passenger who was tagged in the head by it as I squeezed down narrow train aisles or awakened by the sound of it crashing onto overhead racks and floors, until it was finally relegated to baggage check for my flight home because, the ticketing agent explained, as a carry-on it could be used as “weapon against pilot.” Never underestimate the masterminds at the FFA.
I’ve always enjoyed rail travel, as it affords a stress-free way to see the countryside. I found Spanish trains to generally be clean, comfortable, and on time, and the views ranged from arid grassland to the steep, terraced vineyards of Cerbere, at the French border. The only irritation proved to be in the form of a four-year-old Spanish girl who appeared to have materialized straight out of The Omen. After enduring hours of her climbing over seats (including mine), screeching, and generally preventing any form of sleep or sanity, I started devising ways to slip her a Xanax when her grossly indulgent parents weren’t looking. As the train pulled into Barcelona, where they mercifully gathered their belongings to get off, I noticed that she was wearing a little pair of J-Lo type sweatpants with the word “Sexy” emblazoned across the ass. Apparently Ma and Pa Kettle from the Ozarks have relocated to a Spanish suburb.
Marseilles is a vibrant, bustling seaport, bursting with bars, pubs, cafes, and atmospheric seaside restaurants. The city, once known for its crime and general sketchiness, has undergone a massive image overhaul and general cleansing, and has emerged as one of Europe’s most lively, enjoyable tourist destinations. As for food, I found Marseilles to be a veritable orgy of edible delights. My favorite place to eat was the Noailles, the Arab quarter, which was full of incredible food shops and markets. Don’t miss the mahjouba, enormous Algerian or Egyptian crepes stuffed with saut�ed peppers, tomatoes, onions, and harissa, for under two dollars.
Other regional treats are all manner of shellfish, croque monsieur or croque madame, fried eggs on thickly-sliced toast and topped with jamon or b�chamel, respectively, crespelles, similar to waffles, and the ubiquitous Pernod or Pastis, aperitif of choice. It’s easy to while away a day just sipping your Pernod and people watching.
As for bouillabaisse, the famed fish soup, it can be found at any of the touristy seafront restaurants, but that doesn’t mean it will be good. Two of the most highly-recommended places by those in the know are Chez Fon Fon, in the adorable seaside “village” (actually a suburb) of Vallon des Auffes, and Chez Michel, located on the seaside promenade at Plage de Catalan. I, alas, ate at Miramar, a Vieux Port (old port) institution, but was disappointed, not least of which by the stuffy atmosphere. Reservations are essential for all, and be forewarned that two people are generally required by most restaurants for an order of bouillabaisse, or it’s sister soup, bourride, but if you’ve got deep pockets (average cost for two is $50 U.S.) and big appetite, you can probably get away with pleading a solo order – you are, after all, in Marseilles.
For the trip back to Madrid, a 15-hour haul, you might want to break up the journey by stopping for a few days in the spectacular French or Spanish Basque country en route. I didn’t have time to stop, as I had a flight to catch, but I did have one hell of a picnic, from a selection of goat cheeses, pates, bread, and fruit that I’d purchased at a Provencal farmers’ market. Sure, you can buy food on the train, but why, when every village has regional delicacies to offer, for very little money?
If eating in the Basque region is on your itinerary, San Sebastian is home to 15 Michelin-starred restaurants, more than any other Spanish capital city, and even on a budget is reputed to have some of the planet’s best eating, as well as a lovely bay and nearby hiking. Be sure to stock up on the local wine, txacoli, to help pass the hours on the train – it certainly worked for the group of backpackers one car down from me. They were having so much fun that I kept inventing excuses to walk past them so I could join in (when I wasn’t eavesdropping on the morbidly obese American teenager across from me, as he tried in vain to impress our other seatmate, a beautiful Swede, with enticements of his material excess and the job at Dairy Queen that awaited him back in Minnesota). And that’s the thing about rail travel: it can be time consuming, it can be frustrating, it can be relaxing, but rarely is it boring.
A France-Spain Pass provides unlimited train travel on the national railways of both countries from four to 10 days in a two-month period, in either 1st or 2nd class. For travel in France, you can also purchase a French Railpass, which provides four days of unlimited train travel in one month, or a Spain Flexipass, good for three days of travel in a two-month period. Youth and senior passes also available.
