week eight: good soup is an art

February 24, 2009

“it’s an art, making a good soup. it’s like making a good egg,” Chef said during lecture on our first day of soup-making. he divided the class into two sections, giving each side two soups to make. pete and i were instructed to make cream of broccoli soup and lentil soup. making soup in class that day demonstrated that it doesn’t always pay to follow the recipe. recipes, particularly for soups, are the beacons that guide us until we become surefooted in the ways of determining the right flavor and consistency. despite my years of experience as a home soup cook, i learned this the hard way, since it was the first time Chef scolded me for following a recipe.

Chef had demonstrated broccoli soup that day, first sweating onion, celery and leek in a few ounces of butter before adding an equal amount of flour and cooking it for a few minutes (in place of making a separate roux to thicken the soup). he added broccoli stems, letting them cook for several minutes before adding about a quart of chicken stock to the pot.

he set his pot on one of the ranges to finish cooking and sent us to our stations to make our soups. we scrambled to gather the staple soup ingredients that overlapped with the students on the other side of the kitchen who were making cream of mushroom soup–we ladled cold, gelatinized stock into tubs and grabbed for seran-wrapped blocks of butter and half-empty cartons of cream. i noticed the growing realization among us that we needed to portion out our recipes properly, so as to avoid leaving someone in the kitchen empty-handed.

pete left in search of smoked ham hocks for the lentil soup, which we hoped to start first, and i began prepping the vegetables. in addition to the ham hocks, the flavoring agents for the lentil soup would range from homemade chicken stock to slab bacon, mirepoix and fresh thyme. pete returned with the hocks, and i could barely contain my excitement at the thought of adding a whole new layer of flavor to a soup that had been a staple in my diet since college.

we added each ingredient and brought the soup up to temperature, adding some salt and pepper as it began to bubble. i turned the heat down and left it to simmer, and we started the broccoli soup. after sweating the onion, leek and celery in butter for a few minutes, i added the chunks of broccoli stem. a few minutes later, Chef approached our station, holding the pot from his demonstration to finish cooking on our range. “why didn’t you add your flour?” he demanded, peering into my pot. “the recipe says to add the roux after i put the broccoli in,” i replied, instantly regretting my answer.

“were you watching the demo?” he asked, wryly. “you should do what i do in demo instead of what the recipe says. i like to add the flour at the beginning and make the roux–it gives it a better taste.”

“sorry, Chef,” i replied, sheepishly. as he strolled away, his hands still in loose fists from making his point, i quickly dumped in the flour, hoping it wasn’t too late to redeem myself and my soup. i added the warm stock and turned up the heat to bring the soup to a quick simmer. fifteen minutes later, we added a little cream and made our way over to the middle table, where an immersion blender the size of a jackhammer sat waiting to purée the soup for service.

much like the giant’s steam kettle we used for stock, i marveled at the size of the equipment of the professional kitchen. this immersion blender could easily have eaten my little cuisinart blender at home.

“you can blend your soup on the table or on the floor–whatever is most comfortable. and be careful, eh? this is a big machine,” Chef said, as he lowered the long steel blade into the bucket of broccoli soup. “myself i like to add a leettle puréed spinach or watercress to the soup at the very last minute. it gives it a nice green color when you serve it.” (yet another little trick of the trade to tuck away. it is difficult to achieve a grassy green color from simmered broccoli stems, leek, onion and celery, despite the small shock of green from the garnish of blanched broccoli florets in the center of the bowl.)

there is a small black button on the top of the immersion blender that you hold down to activate the rotating blades at the bottom, which churn and purée the contents into a velvety blend. the gurgling hum is eerily reminiscent of the sounds one hears in the dentist’s office.

pete opted to puree his soup on the floor… “it makes you look taller!” i called, earning a raised eyebrow in return.

Chef then showed us how to properly strain the soup with a chinois before adding the extra punch of green from the puréed spinach.

back at station, the lentil soup had been bubbling away for nearly an hour. pete took his stance at the stove, leaning slightly over the pot with his tasting spoon ready. we tasted it, looked at each other, added salt and pepper, grabbed another spoon and tasted again. “it’s bland,” pete said, as we looked at each other, nonplussed. “it needs something besides salt and pepper. what is it?” i asked. i was disappointed in myself for feeling lost. i had made lentil soup countless times without so much as glancing at a cookbook. at home, i had perfected a simple curried lentil soup all on my own, using my instinct and a few simple ingredients. now as a student in my chef whites and blue neckerchief symbolizing my novice, i had lost my self-assurance as a fantastic home potager, instead following the recipe so closely that i had forgotten to enjoy myself.

“i’ll be right back,” pete said.” he returned holding the economy-sized jug of red wine vinegar. if you learn one thing from a french chef, you will learn that vinegar–particularly reduced vinegar–can improve the taste of almost anything. he poured in about a half cup and we let it cook for another 15 or 20 minutes before tasting again. we smiled at each other, proud of our instinctive dismissal of the soup-stained recipe that sat before us. now that was a damn good egg.