TGIFOOD

COMFORT IN A BOWL

Don’t fret, make soup

Don’t fret, make soup
Moscow Soup. (Photo: Mila Newby)

When the world around you looks like it’s going pear-shaped and the light at the end of the tunnel dims, one of the most sensible things you can do is haul out the stock pot and make soup.

Round-the-world motorcycle adventurer and travel writer Ted Simon finds soup a panacea for most problems. Now 88, the Briton is something of a legend in overland adventurer circles; he first circumnavigated the globe when he was 42 on a Triumph Tiger. Then nearly 30 years later and almost 70, Simon retraced the route of his original adventure on a BMW to establish how much the world had changed.

It had indeed changed and for the most part not kindly.

However, what had stayed the same were its soups along with his fondness for sampling them. In his book Dreaming of Jupiter he describes not only how not only did they lift his spirits when he was feeling down, but they also reflected the assorted cultures of the places he was passing through.

“There was an abundant self-service buffet,” he wrote of a Tripoli restaurant on his second trip. “But in the end the only thing that I really liked was the soup. I developed a passion for Libyan soup, a fragrant spicy combination of meat and vegetable juices.”

But Simon was not the first and certainly won’t be the last to praise the intrinsic virtues of soup. “Soup puts the heart at ease, calms down the violence of hunger, eliminates the tension of the day, and awakens and refines the appetite,” wrote Auguste Escoffier, the man largely credited with restructuring French cooking and menus into the cuisine that we recognise today.

Auguste added sagely: “Of all the items on the menu, soup is that which exacts the most delicate perfection and the strictest attention.”

So what is it with soup? You don’t have to be Jewish to know about chicken soup: it’s supposed to heal both the psyche and the common cold (although I wouldn’t go so far as to include Covid-19 symptoms). If your partner is ailing and bedridden, you probably wouldn’t dream of serving up a Chateaubriand with Béarnaise sauce and Duchess Potatoes – more likely you’ll opt for a bowl of his or her favourite soup with a soft buttered bread roll on the side.

Apart from being an acceptable first course to a good meal; from being the ultimate comfort food; from being warming, tasty and nutritious – there’s something deeply fundamental about soup. Something that’s universally visceral but difficult to articulate. Associated with soup is an inexplicable satisfaction in eating something that’s so simple to ingest. I mean you just spoon it into your mouth, revel in its indulgent tastes and flavours, and then down it goes with a minimum of chewing. Eating soup approaches being a hedonistic activity. But in these times hedonism carries overtones of sin and nobody would argue that consuming soup is in any way sinful.

I suspect, and this is only my theory, that soup’s ubiquitous appeal stems from our origins. We are from soup – Primordial Soup. Hasn’t that got something to do with a puddle that long ago had some squiggly things wiggling around on its bottom? What’s pond water infested with all manner of goggas got to do with us?

Now this is where the association gets contentious. If you have Creationist leanings then read no more and concentrate on that bowl of soup in front of you to rate its immediate merits. But if you’re still curious about the compelling and deep-rooted appeal that soup might hold for you, then listen up.

Almost a century back an English biological scientist, JBS Haldane, began working on the origins of all life on this planet. Don’t confuse him with his father John Scott Haldane who’s best remembered for his pioneering work on diving decompression theory and compiling the Royal Navy’s first dive tables. By 1929 the younger Haldane published a paper that gave rise to the phenomenologically loaded term “primordial soup” which postulated that billions of years ago, life was kick-started by energy generated by lightning striking early Earth’s oceans. These massive and sustained energy strikes led to the manufacture of organic compounds from elements and molecules such as carbon, hydrogen and ammonia that happened to be present at the time. According to Haldane, the resulting organic compounds included amino acids which formed the basis of all future life.

It was a watershed theory that’s ebbed and flowed in popularity over the ensuing decades. As we stand today, it’s been modified somewhat as fresh scientific knowledge was unearthed in the ensuing years. But however much detractors have disputed Haldane’s theory, his primordial soup hypotheses indicated that organic molecules – the building blocks of life – can be made from inorganic materials. This was a hugely important step in figuring out how life began on Earth. From the amino acids followed proteins, DNA, blue-green algae, all manner of wiggly things, invertebrates, vertebrates and eventually, after several billion more years, us – hungry humans scratching around looking for ingredients to turn into food.

I rather like the idea that I come from soup. I stare into my antique soup bowl, one of a set that I inherited from my grandmother, with its delicate gilding around the inner rim, and ponder over just what kind of soup it might have been. Could it have tasted a bit like pea soup infused with the flavour of smoked pork hock? Perhaps something like minestrone? My imagination soars as I equate tasty primal seaweed with the actual leafy greens floating before me. No, it would have been more umami with mineral overtones because of all those recently fused amino thingies jostling around, yet to become soy beans and skipjack tunas. Maybe a miso-type soup. What forgotten aroma of primordial me might there be lurking down there in my soup bowl just waiting to be slurped up?

Before I start getting really silly, let’s agree that because soup is the stuff that’s under consideration and because everyone’s imagination varies enormously, it could be anything that takes your fancy: a spicy south Indian mulligatawny, cream of tomato soup, which (almost) everyone likes, clam chowder, chilled gazpacho, a subtle vichyssoise, a meal-in-a-bowl Russian borscht, that wonderful Chinese concoction of  hot and sour soup, a skilfully prepared beef consommé, stomach-lining double bean soup, a French onion soup constructed out of caramelised onions and topped with a bubbling layer of melted cheese… the list can be as long as the limits of your imagination allow. It doesn’t even have to own a culinary moniker to classify it formally as a recognised dish – it can be thrown together from anything appropriate that you might be able to rustle up out of your pantry or ferret from your fridge when times are tough. Like now.

Invariably soup rises to the top of most folk’s go-to food list when the going gets difficult. Heidi often relates her experience in Moscow’s winter of early ’92. We were not yet married – in fact we hadn’t even met. The Soviet Union had just collapsed; Boris Yeltsin had grabbed power in the Kremlin and was recklessly transforming a command economy into a free market system. She’d travelled to Russia to visit a Marxist Peruvian friend whom she’d met in Spain. On arrival in Moscow she was shocked to see that the shops were all but empty and that even if a person did have money, there was nothing to spend it on. The consequence of Yeltsin’s economic shock policy was a starving city. The Peruvian took her around to meet a group of his Russian friends and she was invited to share their main meal of the day.

“It was a large pot of watery soup that had been boiled for ages on a tiny hot plate,” she recalls. On inspection she recognised a biggish chunk of fat and some green leaves swirling around. “It didn’t look very appetising, but it was all that they had and I was being honoured by being asked to share it with them. So I accepted and my bowl contained the biggest piece of fat.”

To her utter surprise the soup was delicious. “I don’t know exactly what those green leaves were, what animal the fat had belonged to or whatever else was in that pot. But the Ukrainian lady who was cooking knew exactly what she was doing because circumstances had forced her to come up with something from hardly anything and it sustained them.”

The experience inspired her to replicate what was in that pot and we now refer to it as “Moscow Soup”. Her version incorporates a fatty piece of meat cut up into small pieces (not an irregular hunk of fat), mustard, chard and pumpkin leaves as greens, a chopped onion, a diced potato and white pepper and salt. The secret is to boil the bejesus out of the whole caboodle and after a long while the various tastes amalgamate and a unique flavour emerges.

Every family has its household favourites and in the soup department we have at least two. The first is the consequence of a visit to Almonte, a small town in southern Spain. We were staying with our friend Jorge Valladolid, an ebullient tattoo artist, and his Ukrainian partner Tatiana, who was making supper that night. Jorge is particularly proud of Tatiana’s culinary prowess.

“Cooks just like a Spaniard. Maybe better,” he promised, cracking open a beer. “You will see.”

Now Spain can turn out some damn fine food. Its culinary tradition is long and its ingredients are invariably fresh. The Spaniards know how to cook – no doubt about that. That night Tatiana could hold her head high amongst the best of them because the Salmorejo that she served up was the best that I’ve ever tasted.

Salmorejo is a chilled tomato soup that is a speciality of the southern Huelva province where Almonte is situated. Normally if you utter the words “Spain and soup” the knee-jerk response is “gazpacho”. Here in South Africa with our hot summers, gazpacho was once quite a voguish item on lunchtime menus. But in my experience gazpacho can throw up a few nasty surprises. If you don’t get the balance of all those ingredients right; if you allow a miffish tomato into the mix; or if you serve it up at anything approaching room temperature, you could have an embarrassing failure on your hands.

Besides, American writer and occasional actress Fran Lebowitz gives us this sardonic warning: “Cold soup is a very tricky thing and it is the rare hostess who can carry it off. More often than not the dinner guest is left with the impression that had he only come a little earlier he could have gotten it while it was still hot.”

In my book Salmorejo is Spain’s best soup and here is Tatiana’s recipe (or at least the best I could glean from her. But this one does work.)

Salmorejo chilled tomato soup

Salmorejo chilled tomato soup. (Photo: Mila Newby)

4-5 medium size ripe tomatoes

1/3 stale baguette, cut up small. Stale white bread will also do.

1  cup olive oil

1/3 small onion, chopped fine

1 clove garlic, chopped fine

1 Tbsp vinegar. Wine is best but spirit will do.

Small glass sherry (optional)

1 hard-boiled egg, chopped.

2 tsp sugar

1 tsp salt

½ tsp pepper (white is best)

Place the chopped onion, chopped garlic, salt, pepper, sugar and vinegar in a small bowl and set aside.

Blanch the tomatoes in boiling water. Remove their skins and consign them to the compost waste bin (you do have one, don’t you?). Cut them up small and place in a mixing bowl. Add the bread to the tomato, push it in and allow it to soften by soaking up the liquid from the tomatoes. Add the onion/garlic/vinegar mixture. Add the sherry if desired.

Using a stick blender (a liquidiser also works well) begin slowly to combine the tomato and bread. Once homogenised, speed up and add the olive oil slowly until the mix has emulsified – rather like making mayonnaise. Cover and place in the fridge for at least an hour to cool. Check the salt and pepper seasoning first and adjust if necessary.

Garnish with chopped ham (it’s unlikely that you’ll find Spanish jamón so any gammon-type ham will have to do) and/or more chopped egg and/or chopped parsley. Or serve without any garnish at all but make sure that you serve it chilled, with a bread of your choice.

But that’s a COLD soup you’re probably saying somewhat peevishly. What about a HOT soup that warms the cockles of my heart – more in line with all of that fundamental, visceral stuff you were talking about earlier? Okay, here’s the other family favourite and it can be served piping hot with Portuguese rolls.

Yes, it’s a Portuguese-inspired soup. If you visit Portugal there are an inordinate number of caldo verde (green soup) versions on offer in just about every eating place across the length and breadth of the land. You could say that it’s the country’s national soup and more often than not, chorizo sausage is included somewhere along the way. My version is different in that I do not include chorizo and I use a stick blender to ensure that the soup acquires an unctuous smoothness (because my daughter demands it that way). Most of the recipes feature the green stuff floating in the centre of the bowl in the form of finely-cut strips. Here’s my recipe.

Caldo Verde

Caldo Verde. (Photo: Mila Newby)

A large bowl of chopped green leafy veggies such as chard, spinach, kale, mustard or pumpkin leaves. The quantity depends on how green you want your soup to be. I cannot over-emphasise the need to clean and rinse several times to eliminate sand. If possible use a mixture of these greens rather than just one variety, for extra taste.

3 cups of chopped cabbage

3 medium potatoes, boiled soft, skinned and diced.

1 large onion, chopped

2 large cloves of garlic chopped

1 ½ cups of olive oil (yes, I know it’s a lot but this recipe needs that much. You may even want to add more at the end)

2 cups chicken or vegetable stock. If homemade is not available, two Knorr-type stock cubes will do – but watch the salt balance.

2 cups water (or more – depending on how thick or thin you want this soup to be)

Salt and white pepper to taste.

Pour the olive oil into a saucepan sufficiently large to accommodate more than your final volume of soup. Add the onions and sauté on a medium flame until translucent. Add the garlic; sauté for a further minute or so then add the diced potatoes. Add the pepper, stir until it’s all mixed up and cook for another minute or two.

Add the washed, chopped greens along with the chopped cabbage and turn the flame down to low before putting a lid on the saucepan. Allow the leafy mixture to cook and wilt which it will do fairly quickly with the lid on. Cook for about 10 minutes then stir the mix to ensure that the olive oil has covered everything.

Add the stock and water. If you are using stock cubes (chicken or vegetable), dissolve them in two cups of hot water before adding to the saucepan. Now you will have something that is approaching being a soup. Simmer on low for about 20 minutes or until everything is cooked through. Add another cup or three of water if the contents look as if they are getting too thick for your liking or if there’s a danger of catching.

Now it’s time to blend; so remove from the stovetop and use the stick blender to transform the chunky contents to a smooth, almost emulsified consistency. Use your judgement and taste buds when adding salt, more olive oil (for taste) or more water until the soup texture, consistency and flavour is to your liking.

Return to the stovetop for further heating before serving in warmed bowls with Portuguese rolls. Your garnish is your choice. I can suggest: cream, yoghurt, fresh coriander leaves or chopped parsley.

What else can I say about soup? Probably quite a lot because the subject of soup covers a spectrum of food topics and traditions that’s as wide as the Atlantic Ocean is long. I once ran a pop-up cooking school that qualified people mainly from disadvantaged communities in the culinary arts. I was busy with a group of learners mostly from the Mtubatuba district in northern KZN who aspired to benefit from the hospitality options being generated at the time by the formation of the iSimangaliso Wetland Park, a World Heritage Site.

The unit standards that would qualify them for a sort of commis chef-type position required that, among many other things, they be able to classify soups. I lectured at length on: Clear Soups, about the difference between Consommés and Broths; on Thick Soups and the various distinguishing characteristics of Purees, Veloutés, Cream Soups, Bisques and Chowders; on Cold Soups and on the so-called International Soups.

As I droned on I became aware of the rows of blank faces in front of me. I realised that these were people from desperately impoverished rural communities whose exposure to the niceties of soup had been limited to occasionally adding the contents of a Cup-A-Soup packet to enrich the gravy or sauce that would liven up their mielie pap meal. And here I was trying to explain how lobster bisque was prepared. My lesson reached an impasse and all of a sudden I was without words.

Then my top learner, a man called Sifiso, put up his hand. He was a person with an easy smile and unflappable demeanour who’d demonstrated that he was a kitchen natural: his work flow was economical and efficient; his mise en place always tidy and functional and his grasp of food costs was way beyond that of a basic learner.

“Boss, I want to say something,” he said.

“Well say it,” I replied, relieved that somebody else was offering to do the talking.

“I just want to say that it doesn’t matter what we call all these soups. Just as long as when we make the soup – it tastes good and the customer is happy.” I nodded, unable to escape that logic.

“And mostly the kind of soup we decide to make will depend on what was left over from the last meal and what’s still in the cold-room. Because wasting food is bad.”

I’ve never forgotten that moment because for many of us, especially in these trying times, that’s what soup is mostly about. So stop fretting and make soup! DM

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