I begrudgingly conceded to the autumnal equinox with a big bowl of shallot and onion soup at Brasserie Beck. One needs comfort food when faced with the end of summer…when we say goodbye to long days and hello to dead leaves, when we pack away our gelato spoons and bring on the braise. As the song goes: “To everything—turn, turn, turn/There is a season—turn, turn, turn/And a time for every purpose under heaven…”
Since it’s unlikely that my father’s family descended from birds, we’ve long acknowledged our agricultural roots (a Thrasher is a mechanical reaper used to gather grains—what Neil Young called “the aimless blade of science”), which is why I’m all the more surprised by my melancholy. Shouldn’t I be wired for this holiday o’ harvest? Why do I have more in common with a mocking thrush? Let’s just say, I get that from my mother.
[Speaking of Blanch...when I got my first apartment, Mother gave me a wonderful heirloom—the Beige Food Cookbook, since she was absolutely convinced that I grazed on nothing but ecru. The album is anything but beige; it is a homemade compilation of her favorite recipes (with a jab or two at my best malapropisms, like Lobster Nürnberg ), each one beautifully hand-illustrated by her (see lobster claw on the Bundes flag). Perhaps poking fun at my diet put me on the right path, perhaps that's why I dread Winter's larder? Freud, thoughts?]
Fall reminds me of beige food and the muted colors of roasting—onions, potatoes, rutabagas, carrots the size of baseball bats, pumpkin, cinnamon, flageolet, the browning flesh of eggplant sans its aubergine. But just when I thought I might double up on the Zyrtec, Chef Wiedmaier’s homage to the allium arrives and I know it’s going to be alright; I remember how much I love these earthy flavors. Let’s face it, more often than not French onion soup is a menu’s siren song sunk by its execution: a bowl of something that looks like it once clogged a street drain, barely any broth and a greasy puddle of melted cheese recongealed with a spotty crust. And speaking of clogged pipes…
But this is not the case at Brasserie Beck—the soup was…soup. It had a beautiful, earthy, meaty broth; five different types of onions added wonderful flavor and substance, but not so much as to remind me of bread pudding; there were wisps of cheese hanging from the spoon, but not the usual tentacles that take a relentless hold of your chin. I wish I could talk about this bowl of fall joy without describing what it is not, but the contrast defines it. For instance, a delicious pile of crispy shallots garnish the top of this soup and Wiedmaier’s version includes julienne strands of bright green scallions.
With my soup, I enjoyed a tasty draught of Bacchus Oud Bruin— a dark brown Flemish beer matured in oak casks, which gives the beer a wine-like taste with a bit of an acid finish (hence the tag line, “met wijnsmaak”…with wine taste). Thanks to the bartender, it paired beautifully.
If you’re craving onion soup, I’ve include a recipe based on those published in both Bouchon’s and Balthazar’s cookbooks.
UPDATE: In that typical DC way, yesterday’s gray equinox uniform is a distant memory. Today is eff-ing hot and humid. Will someone remind me again, why I was bitching about cool days? Bring on autumn already!
