French onion soup

Jesse was just finishing up a day at Le Cordon Bleu. He clapped his hands like chalkboard erasers to get all the flour off, smudging his cheek in the process. He carefully hung up his apron upon the hook with his name masking-taped above it. Then he headed back to his dormitory for the afternoon. Jesse’s flat-mate didn’t get out of class yet, so he decided to take a quick cat nap before completing his homework assignment for the night. His alarm clock abruptly sounded, and the shock caused him to spring onto his feet and was determined to be proactive on acing this homework assignment.

On the menu for homework was to take a unique twist on the classic French onion soup. Jesse had tried this dish multiple times before and had a niche for onion-centric cuisine. This was such a comfort food dish, and there was no way that Jesse could afford to cook something that wasn’t up to par. He studied recipe after recipe, flipping through a rotary recipe card file, and shaking his head at each one.

Jesse’s Keurig brewed a dark roast and it beckoned for him to take a sip. It had a bitter flavor note to it that shouted for him to use bouillon cubes to flavor the soup, but that was too dark of a thought for Jesse. He knew that soups had to be naturally flavored to feel the wholesome sense of completion as an accomplished chef.

[There was an old French saying, “c’est la fin des haricots,” that meant the end of beans, if the beans were gone, that meant there was the inevitable end. Chef Boucher altered the proverb, and said “c’est la fin des bouillon,” and defined it as the end of the world if you run out of bouillon cubes, because you shouldn’t even be using them in the first place]

He added a splash of French Vanilla cream to the coffee, and this time it had a more distinct flavor, calling for an all-natural herb flavoring instead, to compliment the stock. He watched the cream diffuse into the dark caffeine-concentrated abyss, and watched it go from a tiramisu to a caramel pudding.

For an original take, he was thinking of covering the bowl in a thin layer of pizza crust, and letting the dough rest a little over the lip of the bowl like plastic wrap, instead of having a piece of bread float like a boat atop the soup. Then for the inside, he was thinking instead of generic beef broth, he was going to make his own stock with a combination of chicken and beef bones. In addition, he was planning on making a bundle of herbs including thyme, rosemary, and scallion.

He nervously ran his fingers through his floppy black hair and sat crouched over his kitchen countertop penning the perfect recipe. He was tearing the rebellious paper from its pad, tossing the pen to the counter. Then Jesse began heading out to the supermarket to go on an egg hunt for these secret ingredients. He stepped out onto the cobblestone steps outside of his flat, and quickly turned around and trotted back into his room to fetch his wallet. His steps marched with a certain gusto, and fervor, beating a steady tempo, remaining steadfast until he arrived at good ol’ Trebes. It was a family run supermarket, famous for its knack for customer service. Regulars went on pilgrimages across towns and cities just for their homemade dough each morning, pleading at the door like hungry dogs with wide eyes, forming a mile-long bee line from the door hours before the store would even open.

He opened the door, the greeting bells chimed loudly, and twinkled in the store light as he continued through the aisle. Jesse was amidst a pursuit of creating the best French onion soup his professor had ever tasted. He cunningly grabbed a shopping maroon basket without anyone noticing, and stealthily placed each ingredient in it, shielding each box and item under the wing of his windbreaker. In went the Kerry Gold butter, garlic and herbs, red onions, the fresh scallions, and pizza dough ingredients. He trudged on through a few more aisles, and all he needed was a small package of chicken bones.

Jesse rounded the corner to the chicken aisle. From the corner of his eye he saw a masked man holding a gun in the air with his left hand. The basket alighted towards the ground, and Jesse jogged towards the exit. An agile accomplice was gestured in Jesse’s direction, and put a dark gloved hand over his mouth. The masked man revealed himself, and it was Jesse’s professor, Chef Boucher. He was such a braggard about being the best butcher when he worked behind a deli counter at La Charcuterie all those years ago.

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