“Please allow me to invite you. I don’t have the means for a proper dinner. But I could treat you to a glass of rosé and a slice of pizza. Come sit with me! What would you rather see? How they bake pizza on the open fire? Then sit right next to me. The old port? Then you should sit opposite me instead. From here you’ll be able to see the sun go down behind Fort Saint-Nicolas. I’m sure that won’t bore you.”

Anna Seghers, Transit

Anna Seghers’ 1944 novel Transit begins with bad news. On the run from a Nazi concentration camp, the protagonist reaches the port of Marseille. Here, he’s greeted by the rumor of a ship named “Montreal” having hit a naval mine and sunk with refugees on board. Any hope of leaving a continent drowning in fascism seems dashed from the start. And the reader is led to believe that instead of Transit, a more fitting title for this novel may have been Terminus.

Thank goodness, the bad news is soon mitigated by some tidings of joy. As we learn from the cited passage, pizza culture is well-established in 1940s Marseille. And slices are served right in the heart of the Old Port—to all those who are squeezed by limited means and an empty stomach to replace a proper meal with a quick bite of pleasure, be they seamen, port workers, or refugees from Nazi Germany. For Seghers’ protagonist, the savory pie is an unexpected culinary adventure:

“Isn’t pizza a peculiar type of delicacy? Round and colorful like a pie. You expect something sweet, and you bite into pepper. You take a close look and realize that actually it’s not topped with cherries or raisins, but with peppers and olives. Yes, you can get used to it.”

I, for my part, was a bit more prepared for this adventure when I first came to Marseille from Germany after the COVID pandemic. Not only was I accustomed to the comforting habit of replacing a proper meal with a savory pie since my childhood, but I had also watched the Marseille episode of Parts Unknown before I decided to move to that city. Watching it, I was enticed by Anthony Bourdain and his French-born buddy Eric Ripert hijacking a pizza truck, familiarizing their international audiences with the idea that Marseille’s culinary landscape has a more accessible entry point than a fish soup named bouillabaisse, which you ought to preorder and that costs you more than a night at a bedbug-free hotel, lest you risk fish poisoning.

Without Bourdain, it would’ve taken me a while to understand how crucial a role pizza plays in the culinary infrastructure of this city. It is as inconspicuous as it is indispensable. All the more so since Marseille suffers from a strange lack of street food, even to this day. Maybe it’s the national hegemony of French etiquette that dictates: a proper meal is to be enjoyed at table.

Bouillabaisse, soup au pistou, panisses, pieds paquets, or daube—none of these local specialties are eaten on the go. And even where Marseille goes global—with its cheap Burger joints, “French Taco” dens, and Berliner Kebab salons that have sprouted like mushrooms over the past decades—fast meals, for the most part, remain a stationary affair. Around here, a sandwich is served on a plate, with sauce, and an obligatory side of mysteriously soggy fries.

Marseille pizza sets a welcome counterpoint. Like in New York City, you can grab it by the slice. Upon order, your “part” of choice goes back into the oven for a little reheat—an excellent opportunity for a quick chat with the pizzaiolo. Pulled back out, your slice is put on a little sheet of paper layered with a napkin, exchanged for a coin or two, and off you go with a drooping delicacy in hand. If you need more, there are plenty of establishments, stationary or ambulant, that will sell you a whole pie.

My favorite whole-pie place in Marseille is called Casa Pizza, on rue Breteuil, a narrow but noisy street leading up to the neighborhood Vauban. What makes this place special is its unassuming charm as well as the craftsmanly dedication and no-bullshit attitude of the guys who run it.

They open seven days a week, from 6:30 pm till 10 pm; apart from the obligatory congé annuel (summer vacation in August), the guys take virtually no day off. Every day, the same pizzaiolo prepares the pies and puts them in the oven. A few seconds later, with the same peel, his colleague takes them out, flings them into a box to send them out for delivery. Their work ethic is breathtaking, they don’t miss a day, never call in sick. Talk about the health benefits of a wood-fired sauna infused with dough, cheese, and that certain je ne sais quoi.

On busy days, they have support of an extra pizzaiolo/a, and an additional guy, set at a triage table beside the counter, who takes several orders simultaneously with two coil-cord phones like a broker back in the eighties. The place is a stock exchange of pizza take-out, and they’re in command of their own delivery cohort. Kids barely old enough to get their scooter license scurry in and out with their helmets and insulated bike bags.

I prefer to pick up the steaming pies myself. I can’t think of anything more soothing than watching the rhythm of their work routine, and the fact that they are always there, greeting me with a warm smile and a genuine “comment allez-vous?”

Last time I went, I mustered up my courage to ask the pizzaiolo for a quick interview. I’m almost surprised by how willingly he steps away from his counter, puts his endless pie-shaping routine on hold, and tries to answer every single one of my inquisitive questions.

He proudly confides to me that, like his pizza, he’s “made in Marseille,” and that he became a pizzaiolo at the tender age of 17, choosing a proper job over spending time in the army. He took up his current work at Casa at the age of 21. And assuming that he’s now about twice this age, he’s been in the same good place shaping pies for over two decades. The dedication that makes true craftsmanship! He says he doesn’t know how many pies he’s shaped since, but it’s probably over a million. The nominal temperature of their wood-fire oven is 450 degrees Celsius; no thermometer needed, as they can tell from the color of the stone inside the oven when the right temp is reached.

Despite all his experience, he can’t put into words what it is that makes Marseille pizza special. “I don’t know, it’s just different than anywhere else in the world. A little less fluffy than in Italy. At the beginning, there were fewer than 10 different styles, now there are almost 40.”

When you come to Marseille, sure, get that view of the old port, and yes, watch the sun go down behind the Fort Saint-Nicolas. But please, don’t miss the opportunity to also get some pizza. Get a good view of the oven and watch how pizza is made on the open fire. There are few things more comforting in this world.

(Quotes are my translation.)