A four-leaf clover decorates the exterior facade, under the logos of the FDJ (Française des jeux) and PMU. Lost at the intersection of the Barbini and Toussaint streets in the 3rd arrondissement of Marseille, one of the poorest in France if not in Europe, the “Bar Marius” is one of the last places to live in a neighborhood that is wasting away, trapped by different teams of drug traffickers, whose “ovens” at Moulin de Mai or Félix-Pyat regularly make the news.
But here, on the two screens placed on each side of the single room of around forty square meters, it is the horse races which are the entertainment. The most loyal of the “high rollers” – nicknames of the players – arrived in the morning to scan the horse racing pages of the newspaper and validate their sports betting tickets on the dedicated FDJ and PMU terminals. Taciturn, their faces are closed and the few words exchanged with Dominique, the owner of the “Bar Marius” with thirty-two years at the counter, consist of ordering coffees after the usual greetings.
High rollers, deserters, big wins and big descents
“A high roller doesn’t talk,” explains Jasmine*, just 40 years old and leaning on the counter with an Orangina in one hand. It follows 1,000 things at the same time and when it's over, he leaves without a word. » Whether the day was good or not. Shortly before the confinements linked to the Covid-19 pandemic, a player hit the jackpot: 1.3 million euros. “He left without saying anything, like nothing. And we never saw him again,” remembers Dominique. “He was an undocumented migrant by the way,” adds the boss who came from Flemish Belgium to Marseille in 1983 when she was not yet 20 years old.
Other players experience fortune briefly before sinking: “there are some we don't know what becomes of them, and others who go crazy”, continues Dominique before giving the example of a former client who had received 80,000 euros and who is now begging further down in the neighborhood.
And although there are many players in this bar, they are not, far from it, the only clientele. “At the beginning I came to collect packages,” says Sébastien, who arrived in the neighborhood around ten years ago. The employee of the prefecture services now has his habits there, he who thus reconnects with his “social class”, more accustomed to the zinc counters than to the polished parquet floors of the State services.
“You know when you enter but never when you leave”
In terms of decor, the “Bar Marius” is of the minimalist type: a counter, a few stools, two tables with four chairs, that's all. A third of the room and two other tables are occupied by packages and betting terminals. In the middle of this cozy mess, a karaoke machine and two speakers. On one of them Boulette, the bar cat, visibly likes to scratch his claws between two naps
At “Bar Marius”, the day is a continuous coming and going. Players, punters, those who come to collect packages, those who come to drink coffee meet there. “It’s like Customs or Border Police, this bar. You know when you come in but never when you leave,” Jasmine returns. And on this late Monday morning, between two pastis, customers make jokes about lazy civil servants or talk about the lottery organized by Elon Musk to push for the election of Donald Trump. Two colorful old punk couples turn their spoons in their cafes.
To eat you will have to go elsewhere, the owner having stopped the kitchen. Damage. “I can no longer do everything at 62. I started working at 13 and a half as an engraver. And in any case, people no longer have any money,” notes the woman who opens her bar every day between 7 and 8 a.m. and closes it when the last customers leave. Who, this Monday, will have seen “Liquidateur” win the trotting race in which “Admiral Darling” or even “Laussac de Buisson” participated. Everyone here would have liked to play number 11, who had a rating of 143 and who ranked 3rd. “If you had bet on it, you were good,” regrets a punter.
Entertainment also comes from the street
And if the “Bar Marius” is bustling all day long, the entertainment also comes from the street. Outside, a Flemish moving truck is stuck in the alley. A van, parked “Marseillaise” straddling the sidewalk, prevents passage. Don't panic, Jasmine knows the owner of the van: he got in Paris and is on the train to come back down. Phone call. A friend left a spare apartment key in his mailbox. A trip to the block, a skillful hand and the apartment is open. The keys to the van in their pockets, the path is made for the truckers, lucky to come across Dominique who speaks their language and offers them a coffee while they wait. The owner avoids the pound and a hefty bill.
In short, fortunately Dominique is here and it is for this service provided for more than thirty years that Fooding has placed its bar among the 100 PMUs that count in France. A small consolation for the one who works tirelessly and who, shortly before 4 p.m., before the bar really comes alive with its races scheduled until 9:30 p.m., barely has time to confide in her players: “we don't not going to lie, most of the players are of foreign origin. They live like tramps here, ten in a room with a bag of rice and chicken. The winnings do not stay in France. I don't find that normal and Marine Le Pen is right about that…” This will be the only slightly political word of the day: because this is the rule at “Bar Marius”, as in many PMUs in France: ” neither religion nor politics. Here we flame, we drink and we leave everything else at home,” summarizes the boss.
*The first name has been changed
