Hawaiian Bouillabaisse

Why Hawaiian Bouillabaisse Found Me So Late

This time on Maui, my friends decided to show us a side of the island I had never explored before — its fine dining scene. Until now, that world simply wasn’t part of my Maui experience. I have to admit, it was both surprising and inspiring. I came home with a few new dishes that made their way into my own menus.

The Hawaiian Bouillabaisse is one of them. You’ll see it at the very beginning of the first food episode in this video about Mama's Fish House restaurant. Unfortunately, I didn’t yet know what to expect, so my camera passed over the dishes far too quickly. The restaurant is famous, celebrated, practically a Maui landmark. It’s not easy to get in; reservations must be made far in advance. For years, we would just drive by, never trying our luck. But this time, everything aligned.

My French-Texan Fish Stew aka Bouillabaisse

Bouillabaisse has long been part of my own repertoire — both as a cooking class and as a formal sit-down dinner menu. I’ve been adapting it for Texas ingredients and my own taste for many years. It’s always been a layered, intricate dish with many steps and components.

So when I tried Mama’s version, my first thought was, “Well, that’s not bouillabaisse,” and my second — “Wait… you can do that?” It was a delicious seafood soup with the flavor notes of bouillabaisse — bright, light, and cheerful. I loved the whole peeled cherry tomatoes, so sweet; the tiny diced vegetables left visible in the broth; the delicate fish stock; and the clever use of seafood parts that didn’t go into other dishes. The colorful presentation, too.

Hawaiian Bouillabaisse couldn’t really be anything else.

Why Hawaiian Bouillabaisse Makes Sense

Before I tasted it at Mama’s Fish House, I had no idea Hawaii even had its own versions of bouillabaisse. Later, when I started reading more, I realized it actually makes perfect sense. Hawaii’s culinary scene has long been a meeting place for French technique, Pacific ingredients, and island sensibility. In other words, a bouillabaisse was destined to wash ashore here sooner or later.

Bouillabaisse, in its French form, is a fishermen’s stew — rich, layered, full of saffron and fennel. On the islands, that classic broth found new company: local reef fish, Kona lobster, sweet tomatoes, and sometimes a lighter, cleaner interpretation that lets the seafood shine. It’s the same concept — transformed by ocean, climate, and culture.

The Chefs Who Paved the Way

Two chefs in particular — Alan Wong and George Mavrothalassitis (Chef Mavro) — helped make this kind of cross-cultural seafood dish feel natural in Hawaii.

Alan Wong, one of the founders of the Hawaii Regional Cuisine movement, created what Sunset Magazine in 2004 called a “Hawaii-style bouillabaisse”. His King Street restaurant in Honolulu closed in 2020 after twenty-five years, but that dish — and the whole idea of elevating local ingredients through classic technique — still echoes across the islands. (Sunset Magazine, Alan Wong’s site)

Chef Mavro — an award-winning French chef who made Honolulu his home — followed a similar path. At his namesake restaurant, now closed after a long and celebrated run, he championed local farmers and fishermen while cooking with unmistakable French finesse. His cuisine didn’t just fit in Hawaii; it redefined what French cooking could mean there. (Chef Mavro Facebook)

Together, they built a bridge between Provence and Polynesia — one saffron-scented dish at a time.

Still Alive on the Menu

Even today, a few restaurants keep that spirit alive.

On Oʻahu, Michel’s at the Colony Surf serves a classic Seafood Bouillabaisse with Maine lobster, clams, local fish, and saffron broth. (Michel’s menu)

MW Restaurant in Honolulu lists its own Seafood Bouillabaisse, blending island seafood with elegant plating and contemporary flavor. (MW Restaurant)

Over on the Big Island, La Bourgogne in Kona offers a coastal French version that feels right at home in the tropics. (La Bourgogne Restaurant)

And of course, there’s Mama’s Fish House on Maui — where I finally tasted it myself. Their version is light and vivid, full of local fish and shellfish, bright with saffron and cherry tomatoes yet grounded in a light broth with diced vegetables. It’s not trying to be Marseille. It’s exactly what it should be: Maui’s own interpretation.

Once you see that lineage, Hawaiian bouillabaisse stops looking like a novelty. It’s simply what happens when French seafaring tradition meets the Pacific’s abundance and island sensibility. A natural evolution, not a reinvention.

When I make it at home, though, I add my own touch — borrowing a little from Japanese cooking. There are so many dishes in Hawaii shaped by Japanese influence that it feels completely natural to let that spirit flow into my kitchen too. A dashi base and gentle steaming over konbu with a splash of sake bring clarity and depth that remind me of Hawaii’s ocean light, even far from the island.

Recreating Hawaiian Bouillabaisse in Central Texas

Back home in Texas, I wanted to taste that memory again — not to copy it, but to understand what made it so special. Of course, my kitchen is a long way from Maui. There are no morning fish markets with reef catch, and “fresh” seafood here usually means “previously frozen.” But I’ve learned that a little imagination and a lot of respect for ingredients can go a long way.

Making Hawaiian Bouillabaise in Texas

When I cook, I don’t measure. I paint with flavor — by taste, by smell, by instinct. My Hawaiian bouillabaisse isn’t a recipe; it’s an approach, a mood. Here’s the way I think about it.

• The Broth

In France, bouillabaisse begins with fish bones and fennel; in Hawaii, with the catch of the day; and in Texas — with what I have.I start with dashi — a stock made from anchovies, konbu, katsuo, and shiitake — and a pinch of saffron. It gives that golden hue and delicate depth of umami, bridging Japan and Provence beautifully. I let it steep for hours, slow and gentle, until it turns fragrant and rich.

• The Vegetables

I dice sweet Texas onion, carrot, celery, and fennel, then slowly melt them in ghee. Salt, pepper, and a few soft bubbles of cream at the end — that’s all. Meanwhile, I roast cherry tomatoes under the broiler until their skins pop. Peeled and chilled, they wait quietly for their turn to brighten the broth.

• The Seafood

In Texas, preparing seafood mostly means thawing. Slowly. Patiently. Some ingredients — like langoustine tails or mussel meat — are already cooked before freezing. Others, like scallops or shrimp, need a rinse and cooking. There are two ways to cook them: simmer gently in the broth, which makes it richer but a little cloudy; or steam them Japanese-style, laid on konbu and misted with sake and salt. The first way tastes like comfort; the second, like elegance.

The fish itself can be anything local or seasonal. In Maui, they used opakapaka cheeks — a pink snapper. Here, I often choose wild rockfish or Gulf red snapper, depending on what looks freshest at the market. Each brings its own voice to the bowl.

• The Assembly

Finally, all the elements meet. I warm the broth with the vegetables and seafood just until everything hums together — not boiling, not rushing.

Traditionally, bouillabaisse is served with toasted bread rubbed with garlic and topped with rouille, but I skip that part for dietary reasons. Still, I encourage others to include it — for the crunch, for the joy of contrast. A good crouton is a little celebration in itself.

I finish with whatever herbs are nearby — fennel fronds, parsley, chives, maybe cilantro — depending on the season and my mood.

This version isn’t pretending to be French, or even Hawaiian. It’s simply my way of honoring both: the discipline of technique and the freedom of taste. A bridge between Marseille, Maui, and Central Texas — built in one pot.

This Dish Is My Exception

I love recipes because they make food repeatable. A good recipe is like a musical score: it lets anyone who follows it recreate the same flavor, the same texture, the same emotion. That’s why I write them, test them, and adjust them — to capture a taste as faithfully as possible, even when ingredients or seasons change.

Hawaiian Bouillabaise in Texas

But this dish is my exception. When I make Hawaiian Bouillabaisse, I cook by instinct. No notes, no measurements, no stopwatch. I trust my nose and my palate, chasing the memory of that Maui flavor until it feels right. Each time, the seafood is a little different — the broth, more or less concentrated — and I simply adjust.

I judge the final taste against the standard I hold in my mind: light but deep, bright with tomato and saffron, full of quiet sweetness from the sea. Once in a while, it feels right to speak without a script. Hawaiian Bouillabaisse gives me that freedom — and maybe that’s why it’s become one of my favorite dishes to revisit again and again.