Chichi Frégi

The chichi frégi is the signature of L'Estaque, the harbour village northwest of central Marseille that later drew Cézanne and the early Cubist painters to its rooftops. Its name is Provençal — fregi meaning fried — and it belongs to the broad Mediterranean family of fried, sugared festival doughs, scented here with the orange-flower water that runs through Provençal baking. Made and sold from seafront stalls, it became inseparable from the fairs and summer crowds of L'Estaque, where the same fryers turn out savoury panisse alongside it. It is a fairground and street treat rather than a restaurant dish.

Pulled hot from the fryer and tossed in sugar, a chichi frégi crackles at the first bite and then turns soft and breadlike inside, light from the yeast rather than dense like cake. The orange-flower water carries a floral, faintly bitter perfume that cuts the sweetness and marks it as unmistakably Provençal. It is long enough to share, eaten in torn lengths, fingers sticky with sugar. Too little proofing and it fries up dense and heavy instead of airy.

The lift comes from yeast: a slack, sweet batter is left to ferment so the yeast produces carbon dioxide that inflates a web of bubbles through the dough. When piped into hot oil, that gas expands and the water in the batter flashes to steam, puffing the stick open and setting the crumb light, while the surface dehydrates and browns into a crisp shell. Sugar is added after frying, not before — sprinkled into the batter it would scorch in the oil; rolled on hot, it clings to the surface oil and crystallises.