A Tale of Two French Onion Soups

It was the best of soups, it was the worst of soups, it was the soup of wisdom, it was the soup of foolishness, it was the soup of belief, it was the soup of incredulity, it was the soup of Light, it was the soup of Darkness, it was the soup of hope, it was the soup of despair, we had soup before us, we had more soup before us, we were all going direct to soup....

In my nearly 22 years, there have been two important episodes that involve French Onion soup. Perhaps not so coincidentally, they are my first encounter with la soupe à l'oignon and my last, which occurred about an hour ago. For chronology's sake in la grande histoire de la soupe à l'oignon, I will begin with the former.

Let us travel way back, dear reader, to the olden streets of London in 1998. While the chimney sweeps swept and the cobblers cobbed, a young Aliza sat for dinner with her grandparents in the London Hilton. The story has been retold many a time, and each time the quantity of French onion soup consumed has grown. But alas, I get ahead of myself. As Aliza dined with Grandpa Paul and Grandma Nelly, she ordered something that was not of much importance and has disappeared as the sands of time have fallen. But it was Grandpa Paul, knowing not how his choice from the menu would alter the course of history, who requested that the server satiate him with a bowl of French Onion Soup.

The bowl of soup arrived along with the other forgotten victuals. Grandpa Paul began to sink his spoon through the viscous cheese when young Aliza's eyes lifted from her plate, and gazed upon the gooey fromage (though she had not yet learned that mot francais). She grew curious. What wonders loomed below that yellow layer of dairy? If a spoon were to dive beneath it, with what splendors might it return? Perhaps Grandpa Paul knew of Aliza's curiosity, or perhaps he was just being kind. Regardless, it is at this very moment in history that he made his infamous error.

He asked, "Aliza, would you like to try the French Onion soup?"

In some versions of the story, young Aliza begins with hesitation with a single taste. She pauses and returns to her food. Then asks for another taste and another. In other accounts, she grabs the crock from Grandpa Paul's plate, blistering her little fingers and tongue as she pours the soup into her mouth, cheesy goo and all. Grandma Nelly screams, "No! Don't do that! You will burn your mouth!" but Aliza pays no heed, and swallows the soup in a matter of seconds, while fearful diners look on, disgusted with what is before them but unable to turn away. No matter what incarnation of the tale you may have heard whispered in the back alleys behind restaurants where the mice nibble on leftover crumbs, the ending is always the same. Young Aliza commandeered Grandpa Paul's soup, leaving him nary a drop, and went on to order it at restaurants with great regularity.

Tonight marked the great second coming of French onion soup. It shouldn't have happened, which makes the experience all the more surprising and wonderful. A rare heat wave hit Alameda, and our un-air conditioned apartment was unprepared to house us comfortably. As we sat before the fan and sweat, and all we could think of was the solace of lemon sorbet (a new favorite in this dwelling.) Though it was surely not a day to even think of French onion soup, an apparition came to Jesse. The ghost of Food Network past floated before his sweaty brow, and suddenly he became possessed by the spirit of the French Onion.

He started to shake, and I became afraid. "Il est necessaire que je prepare la soupe à l'oignon!" he shrieked as his eyes rolled up in his head and he began to convulse. As soon as it has come, the ghostly possession ended and Jesse came to. "Why do you look so terrified?" he asked me, not realizing the spectacle I had just witnessed. I recounted what had just passed, and he said, "Yea, I could totally go for making some French onion soup." I warned of the sweltering heat. "Eh, it'll be okay" he replied, unfazed.

And so it was.

We journeyed to Ikea to acquire the proper crocks (and also purchased a new dish set after we realized a few days ago that the reason we kept burning ourselves when we microwaved food was because our dishes from the 1970s are not Microwave safe). The spirit o the French Onion guided us through the crowded and cluttered aisles. Miracle of miracles, we had all of the necessary ingredients. (Not such a miracle, actually, since Jesse had seen a show about French onion soup on the Food Network a few days ago and purchased all of the ingredients on a recent trip to the supermarket).

The cooking began. First Jesse sauteed the onions in butter, olive oil, balsamic vinegar and garlic. Soon he added a half cup of 2004 Judd Hill Petite Syrah that we acquired on a recent trip to Napa. With a dash of sugar to help the onions caramelize, he brought it to boil and let it simmer for ten minutes. He then added beef broth, let it boil and then let it simmer. Meanwhile, Aliza looked. Jesse also soaked two chicken breasts in a garlic and herb sauce, and made rice (that Aliza measured!) He cut up Ciabatta bread and toasted it in the oven with a bit of olive oil.

As Aliza eagerly set the table, she was unable to wait for this soup. Jesse put the soup, bread and Fontina cheese in our new Ikea crock pots and put them in the oven, while he also tended to the tender chicken breasts. Aliza sat at the table, her eyes as big as Ikea.

Finally, their rendezvous with French Onion fate arrived. 90 degree heat notwithstanding, they dined. And oh how they dined. The intense, rich flavors of the soup enveloped their tongues. They could taste the dash of balsamic vinegar, the half cup of Napa spirits. They washed the soup down with that very same wine. They tried to cool down to no avail. But it didn't matter. The soup was just so good. Ice cubes on forehead, they pushed on. Spoonful after spoonful, I recalled my first spoonful of French onion soup in London those many years ago. Nay, I recalled every spoonful off French onion soup that all man has tasted for all time. Jesse is truly an amazing chef.

It is a far, far better thing I eat than I have ever eaten. It is a far, far better food coma I go to than I have ever known.