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When I say the world's largest bouillabaisse, I mean a bouillabaisse that has been certified by "The Guinness Book of Records" as such. I mean a bouillabaisse large enough to serve 1,500 people. I mean a steel marmite or cauldron nine and a half feet in diameter weighing 1,300 pounds in which to cook the bouillabaisse. It looks like a backyard swimming pool, and it was specially forged for this annual extravaganza. It has to be placed by crane on a fire made of 140 cubic feet of wood in a roped-off area on what is usually Sanary's main parking lot.

French? Drink Rose American? Drink Zin

I mean a bouillabaisse that requires 2,200 pounds of fish. I mean a recipe that asks for 15 quarts of olive oil, 1 1/2 pounds of saffron, 650 pounds of potatoes, 35 pounds of garlic, 65 gallons of fish stock, 5 log-sized bouquets garnis and 10 pounds of salt, not to mention Pantagruelian portions of tomatoes, pepper and onions. I mean a very big bouillabaisse. Lucien and his fellow fishermen ask 125 francs per person (about $19), and the profits benefit the Prud'homie, the fishermen's union. With your entry ticket, you receive a hefty portion of the bouillabaisse -- served in two stages, as always, broth first and then the fish -- bread, salad, aperitif, cheese, desert and all the wine you can drink.

Before I came to Sanary-sur-Mer, I had never eaten bouillabaisse. In fact, I wasn't even sure what it was. I imagined it as a kind of fish stew. That is incorrect, I discovered. Stew, with its connotations of long, languid simmering, is the wrong idea altogether. Bouillabaisse is cooked rapidly over a very hot fire -- once it reaches a boil, it's done -- and must be served immediately. It is magic, a flourish, a grand show, full of saffron, scents and the bounty of the Mediterranean, as well as the South of France's elixirs -- olive oil, garlic and tomatoes. It is a dish that should be served to many people. It does not retain its character and ability to delight so well when just three or four people are present. So why not 1,500 guests?

On the day of the great event, many of Lucien's friends met at Sanary's quay at 5 a.m. to unload, separate and wash the 2,000 pounds of fish that would be cooked and eaten later. The morning air was cool and soft and delicious to smell. It was light even at this hour, the port was placid and the water limpid. Many of the men at the quay at that early hour I did not know, or had only seen and had never met. They came to be part of something magnificent. The small town of Sanary-sur-Mer, which curves itself to accommodate the half moon shape of the harbor, looked like a Utrillo painting in the fresh gray light. I had come to Sanary eight months earlier to work with these fishermen and to write about them. This was a delightful and quirky conclusion to this sojourn.

We all began to separate the semi-frozen fish. The fish were still in the boxes from the wholesale market in Toulon, and they cracked apart sometimes reluctantly. It was impossible for the fishermen to guarantee supplying enough of the required fish from their own nets, so Lucien had to purchase more from a market. We washed the frigid fish off by dunking them in big buckets of water. There they were, all together, all at once, the most heralded, fabled, delicious fish of the Mediterranean -- St. Pierre, with its black thumbprint on its side; the arm-thick congre, or eel; the famed rascasse, which plays an important role in Marcel Pagnol's book, "My Father's Glory"; the lethal vive; the very expensive lotte; the ridiculous-looking galinette. They were all there, all the fish I'd seen throughout the year, hauled up in the fishermen's nets and then sold by the fishermen's wives. I handled them affectionately.

I saw familiar faces. The irrepressible octogenarian Louis Berenger was there, barefoot and talking away. So was Lucien's misanthropic cousin, Achille, working steadily and issuing gruff pronouncements. So was Jeannot, Lucien's mate, and Georges Bollani and even the doleful Henri. He and I had dived for sea urchins one cold morning. As I worked, I would glance up from time to time at the tall, stately palm trees and gaze. At 7 a.m., we stopped to have a casse croute, a meal of bread, cheese, salami, paté, wine and pastis.

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