Burning Love

I try to wait, I really do. The server sets the bowl down in front of me and I try my best to be patient. I turn to my friends and start to talk, but inevitably my hand wraps around the spoon.

“No,” I think to myself. “You do this every darn time.”

I take a sip of my drink, trying to hold off. I watch the steam rise from the bowl and focus on the smooth surface punctuated by pieces of lobster and tomato. Finally, I can’t hold out any longer. After 30 seconds of attempting to be patient, I dip my spoon into the soup. Then I blow on it for about two seconds. I know it’s too hot and I know what’s coming next but I guess I’m a glutton for punishment. So I put the spoon in my mouth and swallow the piping hot soup down. And I burn my tongue. Like always.

We’ve been coming here for lobster bisque and chocolate lava cake since high school and I always burn my tongue. Sometimes it’s just the tip and other times I spend the whole next day in a taste bud coma. And if I do that then I just know my dad’s going to make something I love for dinner. But will I be able to really taste it? No, because I burnt my tongue on that darn soup again.

I guess I just can’t help it. I love the velvety texture of the bisque. Then you get a lump of lobster meat and you have to chew. But it’s not too chewy. It’s perfect. Your teeth gently bite down once or twice and then you can swallow. The buttery lobster flavor lingers for a few moments while you dip your spoon into the bowl again. And again. And again. Until the lobster’s all gone and there’s not enough soup left to fill the spoon. So you take a piece of bread and dip it into what’s left. You put it into your mouth and that warm sensation hits your tongue. Whoever came up with the idea to combine bread and soup is a genius. They took the two warmest, coziest foods and combined them into something delectable. I might actually cry thinking about it.

The only downfall of this particular bread is the crust. It’s good but it involves Herculean teeth strength to rip apart. All I want it a chunk of this darn bread but the crust is keeping it together like you’re trying to tear apart its family. Eventually my incisors break through and the lovely combination of soup and bread is in my mouth.

I repeat this process until the bread is all gone. Then I stare forlornly at my empty bowl of soup, the white porcelain mocking me. I debate for a few moments whether I should get some more. I’m not really hungry, but I don’t think my soup really had enough lobster. This time they could give me a half a lobster for all I know. And then I could get more bread! We all know how I feel about soup and bread.

But then out of the corner of my eye, I see a figure dressed in white and black approaching. They appear to be holding a plate of some kind. Fingers crossed, I will the restaurant gods to make that ethereal figure come my way. And they do! My waitress tries to make small talk about the soup, but my mind is focused on the decadence balanced on her try. Gone are all traces of my heavenly soup experience, now I’m ready for dessert.