French onion

Reason #54 why I want to marry Eleanor: she makes a fantastic French onion soup. It’s phenomenal, hands-down the best I’ve had, and I’ve had onion soup in Paris.

The recipe she followed was from Thomas Keller’s Bouchon cookbook, making slight alterations. She used lamb stock instead of beef (she made her own from freshly butchered lamb bones). She omitted the vinegar. She piled on the crostini.

As Colin and I were watching her cook and helping out where we could, we all agreed that a good French onion soup is hard to come by. There can sometimes be too much cheese, which then melts into the soup making it too heavy or turning into a goupy glob if not eaten quickly enough. The broth can be too salty. The onions can be not sweet enough. There are so many elements that can be done poorly, so that what should be a wonderfully sweet, rich soup with interesting textures melding together into a tureen of tastiness turns into a brown liquid of lukewarm brine with onion chunks and a spongey piece of bread.

But Eleanor’s soup was none of that. We waited and watched in anticipation as the little pots of soup topped with crostini topped with cheese were browning their cheesy lids. When they were done, I stuck my nose as close as I could to my steamy pot and closed my eyes to inhale the fragrance of melting cheese and sweet onion.

I had my own little pale blue pot, as Eleanor and Colin shared a larger black one. We dug in and mmm’ed our way through those first bites. The broth was rich and sweet, while not being too heavy. It was clean while being able to hold up the intense flavors of slowly sautéed onions and lamb stock that had undoubtedly simmered on the stovetop for hours. The onions no longer looked nor tasted like customary onions; they were a deep brown color with a consistency of being almost pureed and an unbelievably sweet taste. There was the right amount of cheese as well. Those first bites of cheesy crouton strung cheese from the bowl to my mouth. And, as I worked my way to the bottom of the bowl, making sure to portion out cheese, bread, and soup as to not have too much of any one at the end, the cheese started to thicken and turn into globs, but they were manageable globs that didn’t need to pushed to the side of the bowl to be left uneaten.

After eating spoonful after spoonful of soup, we were slowly winding our way to the end. It was a lot of soup and crostini and cheese, but I was determined to finish. Colin started to look as if he was going to give up but Eleanor urged him on, “Don’t let the soup defeat you!” We chugged through, and I hit bottom, seeing the white of the pot. That soup was my Everest and that white bottom my summit. I did it. I finished that little pot full of glorious French onion soup, leaned back in my chair with my hand on my belly, and was happily stuffed with onion soup.