I love soup.
Sometimes I think that must make me a simpleton. Soup is sick-room food. Soup is just a bowl of wet flavors. Soup is so easy.
Well. I still love soup.
Cranky and I went for a meal at a nearby restaurant known for beef, mainly, but the acclaimed chef-owner (he's rarely on the premises, I suspect) also loves soup. He wrote a whole cookbook on soup.
I've flipped through the cookbook, unable to convince myself I need to buy it. For one thing, some of the recipes are so rarefied: complex, unnecessary, yadda yadda. For another thing, I know how to make soup.
But there I was at this meaty restaurant, and I ordered the soup. We both did.
God, it was beautiful, like the top of a chocolate cake. It was black bean "bisque," brightened with hot flavors and so silky smooth, it was surely passed though a chinoise.
See, now, that's probably something I wouldn't do at home. But this soup was So Silky Smooth... I might.