THE <i> FOIE GRAS</i> EXPRESS, PART II

ON THE ROAD IN FRANCE — We began our last day in France down south with soupe de poisson . We then got on a plane and flew 500 miles just to have dinner up north near Strasbourg. But after spending an entire week devoted to eating, this no longer even seemed strange.

MARSEILLE

“Who do they think we are?” wondered Paula Wolfert when we landed in Marseille on the third day of the trip. There seemed to be about a hundred people on the tarmac waiting to welcome us. There were representatives from the city, from the airport, from the French National Tourist Office. “At last,” said James Villas, “we have come to a place that really appreciates eaters.”

Nobody strolling through the fish market in the old port of Marseille could possibly doubt that. The fish dance about the tables, waving their tails while shoppers shoulder their way through the throng to get a better look. “Fresh, fresh, fresh,” shout the fishermen standing under the Provencal sun. The rest of the city may be thoroughly modern, but on the waterfront nothing has changed for years.

It’s been 51 years since anything changed at Maurice Brun, a sort of food museum overlooking the Vieux Port. “My father served the first meal here on Feb. 15, 1936,” says Frederic Brun, who is still serving the exact same meal today. It is the only meal the restaurant serves, morning and night; it takes two to three hours to eat.

Wells has brought us to this old-time, family-run restaurant with its single, home-like dining room because “it is the one place that continues to serve real old-fashioned Provencal fare.” As if to prove her point, Brun comes out carrying a little crock of frozen olive oil, which we are to spread on bread like butter. “This is how they used to eat olive oil around here,” says Wells, “but you hardly ever see it served anymore.” The oil is amazing in your mouth; almost instantly, it changes from a cool solid, melting into warm rivulets of concentrated flavor.

To begin, there is a parade of hors d’oeuvres like oil-cured olives and tiny salted fish and tiny octopus in tomato sauce. There are small cold beef daubes , their tops shiny with natural meat glaze. And there is the famous “Provencal caviar,” poutargue , made out of dried mullet eggs; it has the color and flavor of sea urchin and I find it enormously appealing. But at my side, Paula Wolfert is tasting the extremely salty tapenade. “There’s rum in it,” she says, explaining its peculiar harshness.

Now they are parading a gorgeously grilled fish around the table. It is daurade , a highly prized local bream, and it is wonderful. “It would be a lot more wonderful with a little salt and lemon,” says Villas irritably. But salt, it says right here on the menu, will not be served.

There is a lot of food yet to come. But the artichokes berigoulo (the Provencal word for mushrooms) are watery and tired. Villas is intrigued with the way the birds are cooked in the big fireplace, but watching them rotate over the fire turns out to be more exciting than actually eating them. We finish off with cheese, fruit, nuts and candies, the nougat and calissons of the region.

“Since we always serve the same meal,” says Brun, leading us down the stairs, “people do not come often to our restaurant.” “Maybe,” says Wolfert under her breath, “that’s not the only reason.”

“But didn’t you think it was interesting?” asks Wells, as we drive inland through the bleached landscape to Arles. Occasional patches of green flash by like gifts, and the ghost of Van Gogh hovers in the air.

“Yes,” says Villas, “but I’m already dreaming about the lovely little omelet I am going to have for dinner.”

LE PARADOU

Outside it was 95 degrees but in this dim rectangular stone room that looks like a cross between a Breugel painting and a chic Paris restaurant, it is fresh and cool. From where we sit, we can see a tattooed man in a green undershirt sitting beneath the enormous tree that shades the patio.

When we walked in, Jean-Louis Pons threw his arms around Wells as if she were a long-lost friend and led us to a table already piled high with bowls of tomatoes, cauliflower, red cabbage and celery; these are to dip into the anchoiade , a simple mixture of anchovies, olive oil from the local mill, a bit of vinegar, pepper and a touch of garlic. It is perfect fare for summertime in Provence, washed down with the straightforward local wine.

But there is better yet to come. On Fridays, everybody from miles around turns out to eat the grand aioli . “We make its by hand,” says Pons. “For each liter of oil, we use five egg yolks, mixed in drop by drop. I don’t add the garlic until I see that the mixture is about to break; the garlic holds it together.”

Garlic is the cement of Provencal life, the element that holds everything in this part of the world together. As we sit in the hot, slow afternoon, dipping potatoes, carrots, codfish and the most delectable little snails into the pungent aioli, the garlic haze takes on a dreamlike quality. We finish with the local Picodon goat cheese and another which has the gentle texture of custard. Then there are grapes and melons and figs, and finally hot bitter cups of coffee to gulp quickly before we go down the road to the olive oil mill at Mausanne-Les-Alpilles. Weeks later in Los Angeles, a single whiff takes me straight back to Paradou.

CASSIS

Between meals, we have talked constantly about food. About the great recipes for gratin dauphinois . “There are 12,” said Villas, ticking them off and then adding, “but nobody makes it as well as the little ladies in the Savoie.” About pizza. “My dream,” said Wells, pointing out the window as a brightly painted pizza truck goes whizzing by, “is to have a truck of my own. We’ll call it Patty’s Perfect Pizzas.” About bouillabaisse. “I used to think,” said Wolfert, “that is should not be eaten more than 50 miles outside of Marseille.” But now as we wend our way across the hills and back to the coast, we suddenly come over the crest to the town of Cassis--and nobody talks at all.

It is a perfect little town, small and quaint, lounging along the sea beneath enormous cliffs called Calanques . Dozens of small cafes crowd the curve of a little port filled with sailing boats, and as we settle down to drink Ricard and coffee, we fall into the lazy rhythm of the place.

Chez Gilbert is just another one of the little cafes on the waterfront. “Just wait,” says Wells, “until you taste the ratatouille.” But first there are tartines of anchovies, salty and fine. Then the great vegetable casserole into which we dunk our crusts of bread. And finally, the piece de resistance , a soupe de poisson . “Now this,” says Wolfert, a woman who is not easily impressed, “is a fish soup.” It is clear and briny, deeply flavored with saffron. We float toasts covered with rouille in the soup. And then we ask for more. It is wonderful stuff. Afterwards there is grilled sard, another local member of the sea bream family, grilled over fennel branches.

Villas looks at dessert, a hot and cold extravaganza involving raspberries, raspberry sorbet, vanilla ice cream and Champagne saboyon . He shakes his head. “Remember where we’re eating dinner,” he says.

STRASBOURG

Looking down, the light changes before your eyes. The blue whiteness of Provence melts into the Alps. Beyond the mountains the ground turns green and gold, the land divided into neat parcels. Long before the plane touches earth it is clear that Alsace will feel and taste very different from anyplace we have been before.

Strasbourg is a city of flowers, an immaculate medieval fairy tale of gables and window boxes. “I love Alsace,” say Wells and Villas, almost in the same breath.

Jean-Pierre Haeberlin, proprietor of the three-star Auberge de l’Ill, greets Wells and Villas with such warmth that it is clear that Alsace loves them. “You know,” he says, leading us outside to a table by the river, beneath an enormous willow tree, “we just celebrated the 20th anniversary of our third star.”

We sit there for a while, listening to the sigh of the water and watching the light fade. We drink a fresh Muscat d’Alsace and eat flammekueche , tiny Alsatian pizzas topped with onion, bacon and fresh cream. “The thing I love about the food here,” says Wells as we make or way inside to the table, “is that they manage to take peasant food and make it a little more delicate.”

But the dinner that we sit down to is a far cry from peasant food. The first course is a pigeon salad with sauteed foie gras , the meat fanned out around a tiny potato filled with a puree of white cheese and heavy cream. The dressing is made of pigeon stock and truffle juice; the flavors are concentrated, extraordinary.

The next dish really wins my heart. Out comes a little dish that looks like a Venetian paperweight. It is a cold consomme the texture of thick honey, topped with a dollop of caviar. Suspended in it are pieces of poached mackerel, little bits of carrots and tomato, feathery pieces of dill. Down at the very bottom is a poached quail egg. “Start with an egg, end with an egg,” says Wolfert.

Next there are crab claws stuffed with a mousse of seabass in a sauce that is thick and beautiful. And then a dish they call “crunchy lobster strudel,” a complex concoction involving sweetbreads and, surprisingly, barley. The meat course is venison that was caught in the nearby hills, served with spaetzle, wild mushrooms and a pillow of lightly stuffed cabbage. This is amazing food; there is not a misstep, not a single false note.

“Try the Muenster,” whispers Wells when the cheese cart trundles up, pointing out not only the familiar aged cheese but its pale young counterpart. It is fresh and delicate, a perfect foil for the spicy Gewurztraminer.

There are too many desserts. First comes creme brulee with mangoes and coconut. It is followed by a symphony of plums. Plums are wrapped in frozen cream and folded into crepes with crushed almonds. They are hidden between layers of puff pastry. And finally they are frozen into a sorbet, so that all that remains is a purple haze. “This,” says Villas, “makes you understand what three-star cooking is supposed to be. I feel great.”

So great, in fact, that when it is suggested that we go on to a little wine bar a few miles away, nobody has the sense to say no. It is midnight, and we have been eating all day. Nevertheless, we go merrily off to the town of Beblenheim, which looks exactly like a set for the Student Prince, to drink Champagne and eaux de vie . Sitting outside in a cool, enchanting courtyard cafe called La Basse Cour, Wolfert suddenly looks up at the stars. “Can you believe,” she says, “that only 12 hours ago we were eating fish soup by the sea?”

Maurice Brun, 18 Quai Rive-Neuve, Marseille. (91.33.35.38). Meal with wine, 330 francs.

Le Bistro du Paradou, Ave. de la Vallee-des-Baux, 13125 Le Paradou. (90.97.32.70) Menu, 78 francs.

Chez Gilbert, Quai Baux, 13260 Cassis. (42.01.71.36) Menu 140 francs.

Auberge de l’Ill, Rue de Collonges, Illhaeusern, 68150 (89.71.83.23). Menu 475 francs.

La Basse Cour, 10 Rue Jean Mace, Beblenheim 68980. (89.47.91.49).