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Me, knocking on heaven's door

A soup of a different color

Who knew that REAL French onion soup began its life in Lyon? So declared lyonnais Bernard Chaléat, friend of Catherine (pictured), before we ever arrived: “La soupe à l’oignon est d’origine lyonnaise!”

Me, I would have put money on its origin in Paris, old standby that its soupe à l’oignon has been historically at Les Halles and Montmartre. And I would have lost.

Come south with me from Paris to Lyon, at the confluence of the Rhone and Saone rivers–a town founded as a Roman military colony of Lugdunum in 43 BCE, then rising to prominence from its easy position on major trading routes. The town nearly backrupted itself buying the gorgeous silks that came over the silk road from China–to the point that in 1436 Louis XI declared the town should make its own silk…and in 1536, Francois I gave Lyon the French monopoly. By the 1750s Lyon had become the silk-weaving capital of Europe.

What does all this have to do with onion soup? In fact, onion soup had everything to do with Lyon’s masses of overworked/underpaid canuts (silk workers). They worked 18 hours a day; they needed hot, rich, cheap food. Voila, onion soup poured over stale bread and a little cheese thrown on top. Probably it started as a way to flavor and enrich the broth of traditional pot-au-feu–and to use up stale bread. Then it became a tradition–and was traditionally served as the last course (if the meal was lucky enough to have several courses) to fill up and warm the bellies of workers on their way back to the looms.

Crazy, though, that this simple beginning blossomed into today’s “gratinée lyonnaise” that insists on the addition of egg yolks and…port! Don’t ask me how a red fortified wine from the Douro Valley in Portugal found its way into this soup. In any case, you can see the upshot in the picture, under Catherine’s smiling face at Les Fines Gueules bouchon in the St. Jean district of Lyon. And you should taste it too. Despite my doubts, it’s marvelous. The chopped onions pretty much dissolve into browned richness; the egg yolks make it silky; and the port, at the end, envelopes you in heady fragrance.

Gratinée lyonnaise (for 4)

• 2 Tablespoons butter; 2 Tablespoons oil
• 4 medium onions, chopped
• 6 cups beef stock (ideally, broth from your pot-au-feu)
• salt and pepper to taste
• 2-3 egg yolks
• 1/2 cup red port, medium dry
• stale sliced French bread, toasted in a slow oven until crisp through
• 1/2-1 cup grated Comté cheese (Gruyére or Swiss is also fine, though Comté is more local to the area)

Heat the butter and oil over medium heat, toss in the onions, and sauté, stirring, for a few minutes. Reduce the heat to low, cover, and let cook until the onions have browned on the bottom. Stir the browned bits through the onion, then pour in the stock, taste for seasoning, and heat to boiling. Reduce heat to low, cover, and let simmer for at least 30 minutes. The onions should have mostly melted away.

Toast the stale French bread slices. Grate the cheese. Have the egg yolks and port handy.

When ready to serve, beat the egg yolks into the port and stir into the simmering pot. Let thicken and get silky for about 5 minutes. Place the toasted croutons into flat serving plates. Ladle the soup on top. Sprinkle each serving with as much or as little cheese as you like–but err on the light side. Such a relief to not be confronted with the Parisian throat-choking plate of cheese on top. You can serve the soup immediately or run the plates under the broiler for a quick crust.

As a last note, many thanks to Bernard and Anne Chaléat, who gave Catherine and me such an extraordinary tour of the city and its Roman aqueduct, then happily fed us in their beautiful home–all the best food of Lyon, culinary capital of France.

Finally, do I recommend Les Fines Gueules, founded by Franck Perrin and Ludovic Rouviere in 2002? Certainement! Lovely atmosphere and excellent food.
16 rue LAINERIE
69005 LYON 05
Téléphone : 04 78 28 99 14

vichy broomheads

soupe d'avocat froide au citron vert, brunoise de concombre

As I stepped off my train in Vichy’s exquisite station, I had all sorts of pre-conceptions. Yes, yes, I would find the perfect building or monument to capture the shame of Pétain’s collaborationist government with the 3rd Reich…and somehow it would also capture the long history of aristocratic pleasuring at Vichy’s thermal springs. And, oh yes, I would dine in elegance, somewhere, on native son Louis Diat’s vichyssoise and capture that on film for you too.

Oh well.

Please know that Vichy is an extraordinary town–a little down at the heels, maybe, despite the gilding, the eye-popping statuary, the exotic moorish architecture, the parks and river walks. But still dedicated to pleasure, as it has been since Emperor Napoleon III took its cool, metallic and also hot, stinky waters in the 1860s for his health. Horseracing, casinos, golf, casinos, theater, casinos, opera, casinos, and temples to health and beauty that clothe then divest you of impossibly thick white terry robes between your massages, baths, languid slumps in the hammam, you get the picture.

I had only two commitments: 1. Meeting foodie friend Catherine for a sensational lunch at Brasserie du Casino on Sunday. 2. Finding a local soup that would set your hair on fire, preferably a creation of chef Diat. First stop on Saturday morning, Brasserie du Casino–to establish that I would find a great soup there to order next day. Absolument non. There it was again–the only offering that same old bland gaspacho that is everywhere. From that point on, it was Experience the Town and Find a Soup, all day long.

How about in the oldest part of town, past Mme. de Sévigné’s house, where Pétain held his cabinet meetings, and twisting down from the heights on narrow streets to the river and the elegant pavilion housing the source of Celestin waters? Nope. Lots of restos, none served soup.

How about along the formal Parc des Sources, bristling with the priciest boutiques and most expensive restaurants? Um, no. No soup.

The center of town, cachinking from the casinos and oompah-pahing from the bandstand? Non.

Surely at the Grand Marché, a stadium of over a hundred food markets of every stripe? Rien.

In the end, the giant Les Quatre Chemins shopping center/casino complex to the north of town saved me: Soupe d’avocat froide au citron vert, brunoise de concombre in its cool panoramic restaurant just a winding staircase up from the heated, neonized casino. You can see how good it was. Thick and creamy; mild (of course, it’s French) with only a hint of lime and tarragon; tiny chunks of cucumber and sweet red pepper, a drizzle of fruity olive oil. And, you know, there it was: a 21st century version of Diat’s vichyssoise–his classic cold leek/potato soup whipped with avocado and sweetly garnished. Make it yourself from my recipe Colombian Avocado Vichyssoise .

So, a perfect and very full vacation in less than 2 days. And if I hadn’t been scouring the town for a good soup, I never would have stumbled into this pictured evidence of local wedding customs. Is it just me, or is this custom a little gender bending?

Summer goodbyes at the Cafe de la Paix

French twist on a classic Spanish soup

Well, you’d certainly think I’d been whisked away by little green men, for all I’ve been blogging. But, alas, I return with no Alien Soup recipes…only some that are Out Of This World. I hope you’ll look for them in the days ahead.

Here, though, you see a bittersweet occasion at the famous Café de la Paix. The hard core of the Paris Embassy book club is sending Elizabeth back to a new assignment in Washington and Dominique into the pleasures of la retraite, her much anticipated retirement. See how happy they both look at the front of the picture? In the case of Elizabeth, it’s an illusion. An unreconstructed lover of all things Italian, she finally admitted to Scarlett O’Hara pangs, realizing only at the end that her heart had been stolen by the Rhett Butler of Paris.

I ordered the onion soup (Soupe à l’oignon gratinée), which was okay. Dominique ordered gaspacho, pictured here. And it’s this French take on the classic Spanish soup that I want to talk about. “Gaspacho” (and I put it in quotes advisedly) is a classic of French summer cuisine. It is on the menu everywhere, from the quickest lunch takeout to the most elegant restaurant. But is it gazpacho? I’ve ordered it a number of times and found it similar to Spanish gazpacho only in that it was cold and had tomatoes in it.

Was that the case here? Already you must be scratching your head over the pot full of Parmesan slices. Just listen to my post-event interview with Dominique:

Pat: “Tell me, Dominique, was it sweet, spicy? Blandly tomato or flavorful with garlic, cucumber, and peppers? Could you taste vinegar in it…and if so, could you describe it? Was the soup smooth or chunky? And while I can see the croutons in one little bowl…was that shavings of Parmesan cheese in the other???”

Dominique: “I remember the shavings of Parmesan as very pleasant. It tasted predominantly of tomato, rather fluid in texture, not particularly sweet, but with no noticeable trace of vinegar, possibly with slices of cucumber and/or pepper if you say so (can you see them?). There must have been garlic but surprisingly the taste was not striking. All in all, a pleasant refreshing flavor much overshadowed by the charming company. Does this mean it could be improved? Well, that may be a failing of the place living more on its reputation than on the actual quality of its cuisine.”

A charming, thoughtful, and factual account, always Dominique’s signature. So be warned: when you order gaspacho in France, you are likely going to get a nicely seasoned, cold tomato puree with garnishes more suited for a hot soup.

A last word on what Dominique wickedly called “the place living more on its reputation than on the actual quality of its cuisine”. Café de la Paix is gorgeous, an icon of Paris, and parked right in front of the over-the-top Garnier Opéra–as close as we could get to Elizabeth’s fave opera house. It opened its doors on June 30, 1862, as the café/restaurant of the Grand Hotel, immediately catered to visitors of the Universal Exhibition of 1867…and soon became a favorite watering hole of luminaries like Massenet, Zola, and Maupassant. We’d just finished a highly contentious book club on that last Prince of Darkness and hoped we were sitting at Maupassant’s very table.

Pat: So, Dominique, was it worth all $16 for that cup of gaspacho?
Dominique: Évidemment!

Giant snowy head pondering the question

The answer: No!

Why no soup blogs for nearly a month? Easy–I have been on the road. First a pleasure trip to Seattle (where I ate no soup) to celebrate daughter Meg’s birthday and cuddle darling petite enfant Rosalind…then, unexpectedly, a 30-day assignment to…Sana’a, Yemen.

! ! !

Let me tell you, as I sit here in southern Arabia ringed by brown mountains, the hot sun beating out of a cloudless, deep blue sky, my quick trip to snowy Krakow, Poland, with friend Elizabeth seems years instead of weeks past. But it was a marvelous trip, and literally so full of soup that I’ve had to split the blog into four.

We went on a whim–Transavia Air flew out of Orly round trip for $182–and landed late at night in a blizzard. And by the time we arrived at the little La Fontaine Bed and Breakfast, right off Market Square, we were starved. After a circuit around the square, full of high spirited people despite the hour, and after getting turned away at restaurants bursting at the seams, I was so happy to find Pod Sloncem, meaning “Under the Sun,” located in a 13th century basement and offering cable TV “so you can have dinner without missing out on the most important sports events.” Why “under the sun”? If you go to its website, you will see a giant sun, eyes closed and tongue protruding, carved right into the stone foundations.

My first meal is Poland was completely yummy:
Czerwony barszczy, podawany z krokietem z kapusta i grzybami (clear and sour red beet soup with a chopped herb garnish, served with a fried croquette suffed with cabbage and mushrooms)–washed down with the excellent Zywtec beer. I remember feeling so good, so tired, tummy full, walking home through the snow. On that note, I’ll put part I of this soupy blog to bed and get on with the next one. Truly, there cannot be too much Polish soup.

And yes, I recommend Pod Sloncem for a good hearty meal, not to mention not missing the most important sports events!
Pod Sloncem
Rynek Glówny 43
31-013 Kraków
Tel.: 012 422 93 78

Another kind of parade...to Krzysztofory Palace

Let the soup parade begin!

Elizabeth and I stumbled into an exquisite exhibit of Nativity Scenes at the Krzysztofory Palace Museum–and couldn’t tear ourselves away. As many as a hundred towering structures, many larger than a full grown man, were strung with lights and moving parts and populated with the most beloved traditions and history of Krakow–its dragon, its architecture, devils, grim reapers, Tartars, peasants, kings, queens, nobles, merchants, in many cases you really have to look sharp to find tiny little Mary and Joseph huddled over a little crib. This was the 66th year that artists of all ages created their entries and lined up at midnight on the first Thursday of December to parade to the palace. Lucky Elizabeth and I caught the very last day the scenes were on view.

And, lucky again, one good parade led to another. Polskie Jadlo Compendium Culinarium, close to St. Florian’s Gate, literally offered a “Parade of Soups” (Defilada zup Polskich)–I got to choose 4 out of 11 traditional Polish soups for 15 zlotys ($4.50). Imagine! There was classic sour white barszcz, “white soup” (whey boiled with cream and served with ham, bacon, eggs, and fennel), “ziober kwasnica” (sauerkraut soup), mushroom soup, chicken soup with meat dumplings, barszcz with yeast knish, Christmas barszcz, clear red barszcz, beef tripe soup, bread top soups, and chicken noodle soup. Here you see my choices, clockwise, the Christmas barszcz served with mushroom pierogi; the sauerkraut soup, boiled on the shoat’s snout, I was told; classic sour white barszcz with white sausage, eggs, and potatoes; and dense mushroom soup topped with thick cream. All absolutely sensational.

And please know that the restaurant was darling. I was greeted warmly at the door, seated, and brought a loaf of Polish village bread, a clay pot of homemade lard stuffed with meat bits, better not ask what, and mined salt for sprinkling. The walls were bright turquoise and decorated with embroideries, jars of pickles and preserves, copper lamps, religious pictures, and a large crucifix just under the arched ceiling. All the tables and benches were rough hewn. Lively drinking music pulsed. And tables of men and of couples were red cheeked from the snow and the beer.

Do I recommend this place? You know I do–and I hope to return myself one of these fine days.
Polskie Jadlo Compendium Culinarium
ul. Sw. Jana 30
31-018 Krakow
+48 12 433 98 25

Barking up the wrong tree

classic soupe de poisson

It was a sunny Sunday afternoon after a winter of cold and misery. Carmen and I had scheduled a rendezvous, but after my disastrous choice of a pleasant but seedy guinguette for our last meeting, I put her in charge of restaurant reservations. She chose Au Chien Qui Fume–which, it turns out, positively bristles with history. Not to mention extreme nuttiness. According to its own take on things, this restaurant started out in 1740 as a small inn in the heart of old Paris, right off the Pont Neuf…but it was blasted away by the Haussman reconstruction and only reappeared in 1920 when a new restaurant was opened by a man who owned a poodle that smoked cigars and a terrier that smoked a pipe. I don’t know about you, but I am taking all of this cum grano salis. Au Chien Qui Fume was the belle of the old Les Halles ball, until that febrile “belly of Paris” moved to Rungis in 1971. Now it remains popular–yes for its food, but obviously also for the novelty of its dog theme–and it sits at the corner of a clean and odorless green space in sight of the storied Saint-Eustache gothic church. It’s a darling restaurant; it’s completely ridiculous; and it serves excellent food.

Ten guesses on my first course. Soup, of course: la soupe de poisson from Provence. It was a selection on “Menu Bazil à 33,70 €” and it was yummy, served with the traditional crouton, parmesan, and rouille (recipe for rouille on soupsong’s Aziminu). Second course La Daurade Royale Grillée au Thym, Tomate, Epinards, Pommes Safranées, a great fish platter–I was actually shown the whole freshly grilled fish in its wire cage before it was deconstructed into fillets and served with thyme, tomatoes, spinach, and saffroned potatoes. A glass of white wine, coffee and chocolates, a stroll in and around Saint Eustache to see where Richelieu, Mme. Pompadour, and Moliere had been baptised–an absolutely delicious day.

But what about that Soupe de Poisson? Please note its particular construction: la soupe DE poisson, not la soupe AUX poissons–intimating it’s the very essence of fish, not just made of fishes. Surely it started out with fishermen and their wives making do with the small and broken leftovers of the daily catch–smooshing them in a pot and straining the flesh and goodness out, leaving the bones and skin behind. Then, it being France, it got improved over time until at a certain point it became a masterpiece. I love that about France.

In fact, though, the soup is not that hard to make, as Anthony Bourdain, author of Kitchen Confidential demonstrates:

6 tablespoons olive oil
4 garlic cloves
2 small onions, thinly sliced
2 leeks, whites only, washed and thinly sliced
1 fennel bulb, thinly sliced
1 can (18 ounces) plum tomatoes, chopped
2 pounds tiny whole fish (such as porgies or whiting), gutted with heads intact, or 4 pounds fish bones and heads
1 Bouquet Garni
zest of 1 orange
3 strands of saffron
1 ounce Pernod
salt and pepper

Garnishes: Rouille, freshly grated Parmesan, croutons

Heat the olive oil over medium heat in a heavy pot, add the garlic, onions, leeks, and fennel, cover, and let them sweat for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon.
Add tomatoes and cook for another 4 to 5 minutes, then add the small fish or bones. Cook for about 15 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add water to cover, as well as the bouquet garni and orange zest. Stir well; add saffron, a dash of salt and pepper, and Pernod. Lower the heat and simmer for about an hour.
Remove pot from heat and let soup cool slightly. Strain the liquid into a large bowl. Crush the remaining solids in the pot, then add them to the strainer and press as much liquid as possible from them. Return all the soup to another pot, reheat, ladle into bowls, and serve with croutons, rouille, and some grated Parmesan on the side.

Whether you make it yourself or order it out, you’ll love it. And I recommend you try it, if your travels bring you this way, at:
Au Chien Qui Fume
33, rue du Pont Neuf
75001 Paris
01.42.36.07.42

Limoges: A town to dine for

Chinois? Thailandais? Is there a difference?

It all started with a clock. Stu bought a magnificent pendulum table clock on French eBay and needed to fetch it, somewhere on the “1000 cow” plateau (Millevaches) in Limousin (200 miles south of Paris), by noon. What’s the street address, he’d asked Madame X. “Il n’y a pas de rue, Marcy est le nom du hameau ou lieu-dit. Il y a 9 maisons. Merçi, cordialement.” No street, she said, it’s just a little hamlet called Marcy made up of 9 homes. Thanks, cordially.

Stu picked me up in Paris at o’dark thirty and I was purring by the time we broke south on local roads, down through the flat and fecund Loire then suddenly up into rocky hills spotted with dark evergreens, patches of snow everywhere. We’d arrived in the Limousin. Cows galore. Sheep and goats too. Bye bye agriculture; hello animal husbandry.

Not easy finding Marcy! You had to be zen about it–use the GPS, follow your intuition, then call Mme. X when you were in shouting distance but had lost confidence.

Suddenly, there it was: a tiny sign on a tiny road that said (in black and in French) MARCY, then (in red) “village burned on 15 July 1944″, then (in black, large print) “by the Nazis”. We were impressed that 9 houses would have the nerve to describe themselves as a village, but when we asked about it, our sellers sniffed that in 1944 Marcy been made up of FIFTEEN homes. And when the Nazis were alerted it was serving as a safe house for the resistance, they torched the place. Six homes were obliterated. We could see on the remaining 9 homes where the new stones started and the old stones left off.

I don’t know why we were so surprised. Vichy is close by. It was a great hiding place. Deeds of derring do were hoped for and dreamed of. Really thrilling to feel that life-and-death drama come up through our shoes from the rough soil. Stu, overcome, insisted on giving Mme. X the bottle of wine he’d bought for us to take the curse off the day. We were a little sad about that later. But we had made the clock purchase by noon, right on schedule, and now were loose in the Limousin, with hours to get to our nighttime destination of Limoges and me ready to read out at length about all the best sites between here and there from the zillions of books I’d brought.

On the agenda: Aubusson (capital of extraordinary handmade French tapestry and rugs since the 12th century); anything that looked remotely interesting or had a historical marker on it; above all, any flea market, brocante, troc, or roadside table that we could paw through. We were so happy with the clock, we were hungry for more deals.

And so all our good resolutions to hit Limoges’ museums and cultural activities and porcelain houses went right out the window. We bonged around the countryside, picked through flea markets, and bought loads of cool stuff, not arriving in Limoges til well after dark. Thus the shot of cathedral square in rosy fingered dawn, as we were about to head back to Paris next morning. Thus the silly picture of our soups at Kim Lin’s “Baguettes of gold”, where we ended up after striking out everywhere else.

So, what do you think about these two soups from completely different cultures on the same table? I am excited to tell you that this illustrates perfectly something I have long wanted to share: viz., the French are so nonspecific about Asian food that Asian restaurants simply cannot make a profit unless they bundle Chinese, Thai, and Vietnamese menus under the same roof. Incredible, huh? It’s okay for Japanese restaurants to be pure, but no one else. In Limoges, in Marseilles, in Strasbourg, in Bordeaux, and above all in Paris, you cannot go into an Asian restaurant without being offered a menu that features Chinese, Vietnamese, and Thai dishes. Forgive me, I can’t get over it. I am amazed.

But the proof is in the pudding. I ordered Potage pekinois; Stu ordered potage d’asperge au crabe. A little nutty, but a great way to end an enchanting day. We recommend it, obviously a local favorite:

Restaurant Kim Lin “Baguettes d’or”
9 rue Montmouller
87000 Limoges
05.55.79.44.52

Le Pain de la Bourse

A day away from the national strike, Dominique strikes a pose in front of the Bourse

Yes, it LOOKS like there’s “Pain in the Bourse” in Paris, and today’s national strike to draw attention to France’s part of worldwide international fiscal misery would support that, but in fact Le Pain de la Bourse is a darling little cafe just across the street, as you can see, from the Bourse–and its name means “The Bread of the Bourse” (and not the kind of “bread” that means money).

Do you love it? The heart of French financial markets is located in the Palais Brongniart, neoclassically built in the over-the-top 19th century by Emperor Napoleon’s architect Alexandre-Théodore Brongniart. Why did Napoleon commission Brongniart to build it? Because he loved how Brongniart had designed the layout for Père Lachaise Cemetery, now, of course, the revered home of (sigh) Jim Morrison of the Doors and zillions of other really more interesting people. Not that Jim isn’t interesting.

So Dominique (pictured) and I arranged to meet to discuss the state of things. Obama’s first days as President–she’d gone to the inauguration party at Hôtel de Ville, with lots of noise, interminable lines to get drinks, but high joy from beginning to end; I’d stayed home and watched first French TF1 then CNN with champagne and a friend. Then an embassy bookclub trip she is arranging to Orleans to follow in the footsteps of Joan of Arc, after reading Mark Twain’s fictionalized biography on same that he (wrongly) described as his “greatest work.” An Opera Comique performance that we couldn’t get tickets to. The upcoming national strike that would shut down metro, regional and neighborhood trains and flights across the country today. “Let’s try Le Pain de la Bourse,” she said. And so we did.

It was such a cute little place. Menu of the day on the chalkboard. 11,80 euros ($17) for soupe de potiron (pumpkin soup), open-face sandwiches of ham and gouda cheese on Poilâne-style bread, and salad.

We agreed the soup was terrific, but not for the reasons you’d suppose. It was so pure and simple…so French. Pumpkin cooked in seasoned water with a little mince of parsley, then pureed. That’s it. It’s not meant to bowl you over; not meant to challenge your palate with different flavors and textures and colors; not meant to fill you up. Soup in France, for the most part, is, in the words of Auguste Escoffier (that early 20th century “king of chefs and chef of kings”) designed to “put the heart at ease, calm down the violence of hunger, eliminate the tension of the day, and awaken and refine the appetite”

And it did. Markets are failing. Davos is dour. Strikes are pending. But Dominique and I sat in the shadow of the French Bourse (Per Bloomberg, “France’s CAC 40 retreated 2.2 percent” that day) and felt as if our hearts were at ease, the violence of hunger had been calmed, the tension of the day just evaporated, and our appetites were awakened and refined–which was too bad, when you look at the rest of the plate with its little cheese tartine, its little ham tartine, and a big mass of mesclun salad, not very well dressed. Oh well.

All things considered, it was a very enjoyable lunch indeed and we recommend the restaurant for its breakfast, brunch, and lunch:
Le Pain de la Bourse
33, rue Vivienne
75002 Paris
telephone: 01.42.36.76.02

And if you’re hankering after true French housewife pumpkin soup, please take a look at the original recipe of my marvelous Touraine professor of many years ago, Mme. Marie-Josie Diacre, at Soupsong’s Soupe au potiron. I cannot help be reminded, during this perilous fiscal time, that Jack Sprat also turned to pumpkins in times of trouble.

Le bar à soupes

What's on the menu today?

Friend Elizabeth found the reference on the first page of this week’s Figaro Scope, which tells you what’s hot hot hot in Paris for the coming week. And right on the first page, first item for restaurants, was Le Bar à soupes. Courez-y!, it said: “Run there!” So Christine and I did the very next day for lunch–jumping on metro line 1 and off at Bastille, closing our eyes to resist the temptations of the fabulous January sales on Faubourg St. Antoine, then hooking a left on Rue de Charonne in the 11th.

Whew, we were just about the first customers, and it was a good thing since the tiny place filled up to bursting in the next quarter hour. Who knew this was a Paris institution?

Anne-Catherine Bley (pictured) opened it 9 years ago with a single concept and hasn’t changed it one bit since then: Six freshly made, homemade soups every day but Sundays and holidays, 12 noon to 3, then 6:30 to 11pm. For 5 euros, you can sit down (or take out) a big bowl of soup, a fabulous seedy roll, and a sparkling carafe of water spiced with fresh lime. OR, for 9,90 euros you can settle down with the “formule.” This last means 1) a big bowl of soup with bread; 2) a choice of really delectable cheese, salad, or dessert; and 3) a glass of wine or coffee or tea. Carafe d’eau, of course, if you ask for it–it’s required by law for all French restaurants.

I got the pois chiche à l’orientale–a nice chunky little soup with chickpeas, tomatoes, a little pepper, and the surprise of plumped sultanas; Christine settled on the crème de carottes . We chose; we took a window seat; we were served; and we had the best time soaking it all in. Attractive and slim Anne-Catherine bustling over her soups like a mother hen (haven’t I always told you that the more soup you eat, the slenderer you’ll be?). Young, enthusiastic serveurs. Attractive setting with down lights; charcoal granite floor; blond, stainless, and glass counter crowned with dramatic flowers and revealing the soups of the day like an artist’s palette; and large oil portraits on white walls of a big fat turnip, a fennel, a tomato, and a beet. In the back room, racks of newspapers and magazines stood by to charm and stimulate the clientele. Because this wasn’t a snooty, stylish crowd at all. This was tweedy professors, and students in jeans and back packs, and young arty professionals with laptops. Possibly the 21st century de Beauvoir was in the back room arguing and slurping and writing.

The soups are very nice and very French and very much in season. This week, lots of creamy vegetable soups–carrot; red pepper; mushroom; broccoli; pumpkin; chestnuts; peas–sometimes spiced with a little mint or citrus, sometimes smooshed with the housewife’s favorite soup cheese, La vache qui rit. Lentil soups. Some surprises of borshch or celery with blue cheese.

Do I recommend this place? You know I do. Anne-Catherine delivers the goods: she says, Car une soupe c’est bon, c’est simple et c’est surtout pas triste ! , or “Because a soup is good, is simple, and above all never sad.”

Courez-y!
Le Bar à soupes
33 rue de Charonne
75011 Paris
01.43.57.53.79
www.lebarasoupes.com

The music is nice, but where's the soup?

Mmmm, fragrant with mint

My last day in Turkey, *sob*, and it’s off to the neighborhood resto for an Ottoman feast — the splendid Altinsis. We’re welcomed sequentially by some 8 smiling men into a large golden room, spangled with beams from the setting sun through its panoramic windows. The gal in charge of the children’s playroom is a little wide-eyed when she spots the Solley 4 trooping in her door, and we are immediately marched off to the table assigned to parents, where we can monitor kid shenanigans through the glass wall separating us. We kick back with a sigh and study the menu. It’s formidible and told in pictures–some 93 of them.

We can’t resist the stuffed grapeleaves, the pide, the kebaps, and a bunch of tasty meze–but take a look at the incredible pictured Eksili Ufak Köfte soup. It’s a fragrant and spicy broth thick with bits of tender lamb and tomatoes. But how about those exquisite and rich dumplings filling the bowl–and how about the fact that they’re punctuated by a large dark splash of heady mint oil? Quite spectacular in appearance and what an exciting combination of flavors. We’d love a recipe!

We felt as pampered as the women in Altinsis’ pictured artwork, and we highly recommend the soup and the restaurant:
ALTINSIS
Turan Günes Bulvari 19.Cadde 1/B MSB Lojmanlari karsisi
Oran Sehri - ANKARA
Tel: 0312 492 07 07