A Bite That Changed My Life
I don’t really like this term, but I consider myself a foodie. I pay a lot of attention to what I eat, and when something is truly special, I feel pretty solid in my ability to recognize it and to savor it. I constantly think about food (both preparing it and eating it), and many of my strongest memories are in some way tied to the food that I was eating at the time.
Moreover, there are a few bites in my life that I can isolate as truly awe-inspiring, life-changing moments. Bites that changed my perspective on how food should be consumed, how it should be prepared, cooked and presented, etc. A bowl of Hummus in Jerusalem, my first real Mission Burrito in San Francisco, a real Cuban sandwich in Miami, pizza with mushrooms and prosciutto in Florence, barbecued ribs in St. Louis, my first time at In-N-Out Burger, sticky rice and sweet and spicy roast pork in Laos, genuine Pad See-Ew in Thailand, a porterhouse for two at Peter Luger’s in Brooklyn, a true New York Bagel with cream cheese and lox, and a few other food memories really stick out. This handful of experiences has helped to form my opinion about the power and authenticity of food made right. Recognizing how much effort, care, and love go into these dishes in order to make the diner immensely happy and satisfied, while at the same time fulfilling the chef’s mission, has really made an impression on me, and created in me a greater appreciation for food done exceptionally well at multiple levels of the cuisine hierarchy.
This past weekend, I had another one of these experiences. As a kid who has been obsessed with cooking (and let’s be honest, eating) for all of his life, and who is currently studying and traveling in Europe, Paris was very, very high on my list of “must” places to visit, and I wasted little time in getting there. This was my first time in France, and I am writing this blog post on my train back to London at seven in the morning because I do not want to forget the emotional experience that eating in Paris elicited in me. To quote the classic Pixar film Ratatouille, “The best food in the world is made in France. The best food in France is made in Paris…” Well, I am here to report that throughout my four day stay in Paris, the food did not disappoint. Specifically, I was blown away by one of my absolute favorite dishes in the entire world, French Onion Soup. This famous offering is made by cooking onions painstakingly slowly, allowing the natural sugars in the onion to release, eventually making the onions almost jam-like in texture. The pot is then deglazed with wine, typically Sherry or Madeira, and covered with high quality beef stock. At this point, the onions can barely withstand the force of a ladle, much less one’s teeth. The soup is spooned into a crock, topped with crusty pieces of sourdough or baguette that soak up the broth, and then smothered in cheese, typically gruyere, which melts to a beautiful consistency and color and creates a natural and penetrable “lid” to the deliciousness below it. If the soup is made to perfection, the melted cheese that hardens as it slides down the outsides of the crock becomes the final bites of the dish, carefully removed with spoons or fingers, after every last drop in the crock has been discovered and consumed. If I could only have one kind of soup for the rest of my life, it would be French Onion, and anyone who knows me well knows how difficult a decision that is for me. The little Jewish boy in me craves soup literally all of the time- when I’m happy, when I’m sad, when I’m tired, when I’m sick, when I’m cold, and pretty much any time I need something that feels comfortable, I turn to the restorative power of a good bowl of soup.
So naturally last night, when I was walking around the chilly streets of Paris at dusk, I remembered that my time in France was dwindling and I hadn’t yet eaten the one thing that I promised myself I wouldn’t miss. I walked into a small Brasserie on the Ile St. Louis, a quiet, quaint little neighborhood on an island in the Seine, which feels like an oasis of calm right in the middle of the more hectic metropolis that surrounds it. As I sat down, another man walked into the restaurant. I heard him order a Pinot Noir in an American accent, and we get to talking about certain bites of food that you truly must try in their native land. His first meditation on this subject is “Onion Soup, eaten by one’s self, on a cold winter’s night.” Unbeknownst to him, I had come into the restaurant with exactly that as my intention, and my steaming white crock with its crusty cheese top was soon to be on its way out. As my anticipation built, the waiter brought the soup to me in all of its glory, with the addition of a basket of fresh baguette, warm, as if it had recently come out of the oven. I took a deep breath, got a good smell of the soup into my nostrils, dipped my spoon in through the layer of cheese, and watched as the cheese gave way to reveal a layer of once crispy, now bordering on soggy sourdough, soaked in the dark brown liquid. I carefully gathered the perfect spoonful: a bit of gooey cheese on a soggy crouton of bread, and a hearty amount of soup containing both broth and onions, closed my eyes, and imbibed.
As I’ve mentioned on my Instagram, when food is really, truly special, it makes me laugh with a sense of pure joy. Immediately after swallowing, a deep smile, almost deeper than the flavor profile of the soup, raced across my face. How could one spoonful of soup contain so much ecstasy? The sharpness of the gruyere, the texture of the crouton, and the rich, beefy, sweet, tangy, overwhelmingly unctuous broth with chunks of onion all worked together in perfect concert that rattled me to my bones. I have had this feeling before, and I quickly started to recall some of the perfect bites I described at the top of this post. If I knew more about brain and behavior I could explain how food engages all five senses and can invoke and create powerful memories, but no matter, I know what I felt as I dug in for more spoonfuls. As I worked on this perfect crock of soup, warmth and satisfaction spread all the way to my toes, and I felt a sense of ease, comfort and happiness. Eating this soup was like getting a hug from a close relative after not seeing them for months. The warm embrace of the broth created an out of body experience. This soup wasn’t just good, it was truly exceptional. Whenever I think of Paris in the future, my thoughts will be drawn to this particular night, this Brasserie, and this outstanding and memorable crock of French onion soup - a bite that changed my life.
