Soup: Thanks, but no thanks.
I’m probably not supposed to say this, but I hate soup. God, I hate it.
It’s not that soup isn’t delicious. It certainly can be. In my food dreams, soups such as creamy potato and leek, lobster bisque or cold vichyssoise, deftly prepared with a light touch and seasoned with a sensibility that would make a sommelier envious, are true culinary delights. There’s history, craft, technique and expertise that go into soup, and I can appreciate all these things.
But sorry Auguste Escoffier, I don’t want your chanterelle soup. Sorry, Anthony Bourdain, I’d kill to sit at your table, but not if there’s phở on it. And sorry, Mom, please stop making that thing you call “friendship soup” that has both lentils and tiny pasta bits in it. Hard pass.
Let me explain: Soup is just a chunky beverage or a watery entrée. Neither here nor there, soup is not particularly filling and a waste of a perfectly good opportunity to have a more nuanced meal.
Also, there’s slurping involved, and seeing as how I’m as uncoordinated as a baby learning to use utensils, I’ll inevitably end up with soup on my chin. Or shirt. Or lap. Probably all three. It’s embarrassing, and in these cases, I will stubbornly pout about the soup, not my lack of table etiquette. Bah humbug!
Last fall, I went to the Phoenix-favorite restaurant Molly’s* with a girlfriend of mine. She’s a server, her partner works as the chef de cuisine at another local hotspot, and I used to write about food for a local paper. So, when Jeff Moore*, chef-owner of Molly’s spotted us, he quickly bustled over with a friendly hello.
“Can I send some stuff out for you two?” He asked. Of course, we said yes. What an honor!
First, Moore crafted up a small salad with persimmons, greens, and nuts. The complexity of the persimmon, the bitterness of the greens, and the pleasant crunch of the nuts made the whole thing utterly delightful. Because the food was essentially a gift, it would have been rude to leave but a single morsel behind, so we dutifully cleared our plates. I couldn’t wait for what the award-winning chef would send out next.
But then the worst of the worst happened.
Our server pranced out of the kitchen balancing two white bowls. My spidey-senses started to tingle. And when she placed the bowls on our table, my heart sank. It was soup.
The annual return of Moore’s signature cauliflower soup is a notable event in the Phoenix food community. Writers pen articles, Instagram floods with artistically filtered photos, and groupies from across town flock to Molly’s tables to get a spoonful.
But me? I was horrified. The soup was a pale orange, with an artistic corolla of crème fraiche. I had to admit it was beautiful, but I resented its presence at our table anyway. I couldn’t decline to eat the soup, couldn’t refuse its too-sweet broth and rich texture, and couldn’t even leave a drop behind for the kind chef to discover.
Somehow, I persevered. I lifted a spoon to my mouth and took a sip. Then another. And another. I bravely attempted to keep my face expressionless, and I managed to avoid the tiny gags I get when I eat something I don’t like. But sip after sip slowly emptied the bowl, and I was filled with relief when our server returned to retrieve them.
“Wasn’t that delicious?” my friend asked.
I said, “Absolutely.”
*obviously not their real names
