The Magic French Onion Soup I Moved to Paris For

I plunge my spoon through the melted cheese, starting near the edge to try to get a neat spoonful. I dig deeper, through the next layer of spongy bread, and sweep across the bottom of the bowl.

The aroma of stewed onions hits. I’m brought back to my childhood, to a steakhouse in upstate New York where my parents went for the ribeye and I tagged along for the soup.

I pull back a spoonful, followed by a trail of molten cheese. Maybe I should be thinking about a neater way to do this—I’m in Paris, after all—but there’s no going back now. I’m all in. For a moment, the bustling brasserie around me disappears. It’s just me and my soup l'oignon gratinee.

Suddenly, the girl at the table next to us starts sobbing over a flute of champagne. I pause and blow lightly on my steaming spoon, trying not to stare. I want to comfort her, but I’m too shy to reach across the inches between our tables. Instead, I just wonder: What could possibly be so disappointing?

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She buries her face in her hands and I take a bite. It’s even better than the French onion soup I remember.

It was my senior year of college, my first time visiting Paris and my second time overseas.

I don’t think I said a single word during the taxi ride from Charles de Gaulle airport. Instead, I scooted over to the window and kept my eyes glued to the world whizzing by outside. I saw every last detail through rosé-colored glasses.

This is Paris, I thought to myself, though it was actually just the suburbs.

As we drove further, my excitement grew. I had dreamed of visiting Paris for years. Like a wary sailor finally setting foot on dry land, I took it all in, voraciously: the creamy Haussmannian buildings with iron terraces and charcoal blue roofs; the corner brasseries with big red awnings and rows of wicker chairs; the flower shops lining the streets with their colorful bouquets.

By the time we were nearing our final destination, just around the corner from the Eiffel Tour, it was a done deal. I was in love—or at least very infatuated.

The grand roundabouts swarmed by small cars with skinny license plates, the navy blue street signs, the language: All of it was beautiful.

“A gauche,” my then-boyfriend told the taxi driver. A gauche, I repeated silently.

Though I had only been there a couple of hours, I knew we were beginning what would become a much more substantial relationship. I decided then and there that someday, I would return. By then, the city would hardly recognize me: I would speak the language and know the neighborhoods and walk among the locals as though I belonged.

But for now, I knew nothing except bonjour and merci. And that I was happy, a little tired and hungry. I was ready to eat something in Paris.

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A couple hours later, after a stroll across the Seine, we found ourselves at Bofinger, a mythical Alsatian brasserie in the Bastille neighborhood.

In retrospect, it was the perfect place for my first meal—traditional cuisine and more quintessentially French-looking than I could have imagined. It had the impressive, Belle Époque dining room; the aged mirrors covering the walls; the white table cloths; the tufted black banquettes; the high, stained glass ceiling; the bow-tied waiters.

Next to us sat a very chic French girl. (I suppose all French girls were chic to me at the time.) She was alone, scrolling around on her cell phone, drinking a demi-bouteille of Veuve Clicquot champagne. What a diva, I thought to myself, envious of her cool confidence.

The moment we looked up from our menus, a neatly groomed waiter was there to take our order. We chose one of the house specialties—a platter of fresh seafood served on ice—plus a half-dozen oysters for him and a bowl of French onion soup for me.

“And what will you have as an apero? Perhaps champagne?” the waiter asked.

Why yes, of course we would.

Minutes later, I took a sip of the sparkling wine, trying to savor every bubble, and settled back into the banquet to watch the ballet around me—the waiters gliding from table to table, noting new orders, removing empty plates, and scraping crumbs from table tops. Their performance was seamless.

Our first courses arrived, the diva started crying, and I slowly continued with my soup. The Gruyère cheese was browned on top but still melted underneath, the bread crispy on the edges, the broth and onions deeply flavorful.

It was a rare moment when everything was just as it should be. I felt lucky to be exactly where I was—and at the same time, sorry for my sobbing neighbor.

I wondered how the situation would resolve itself. My boyfriend also cast sympathetic glances her way, as he slurped back an oyster and generously buttered another piece of bread.

“I think she was stood up,” he whispered, leaning across the table. Of course, I realized. That bottle of champagne was meant to be shared.

Then an older woman, seated on the other side of our distressed diva, reached over and placed a hand on the girl’s forearm. She wore a silver-white coif and a smart, silk neck scarf—the kind of woman who emits the confidence gained through years of life experience.

I kept on with my soup, balancing each bite with cheese, bread, and onion, and occasionally glanced to my right. I couldn’t make out what the older woman was saying, but I understood how she was saying it. She was comforting her, making her feel less alone. The diva nodded and sniffed back tears. Soon she let herself laugh a little, and quietly thanked her new friend.

“Courage” said the older woman—loosely, be strong—as she collected her things to leave.

I took my last bite of soup, scraping the bottom of the bowl for any remnants of stewy onions.

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On the walk home, buzzed from wine, good food, and my lingering excitement, I was still thinking about what happened at the restaurant.

That small gesture, momentary but so poignant, would stay with me. As would the soup—the best French onion soup I’d ever had. But I guess your first French onion soup in Paris is always the best.

Now I live in Paris. I’m still learning the language and trying to walk among the locals as though I belong. Sometimes it’s frustrating, and I struggle to remember what all the fuss is about—after all, it’s a city just like any other. Its people still get up and go to work every morning. Not every meal is memorable. And nice girls and boys still get their hearts broken.

But every once in a while, I go to a brasserie and order a French onion soup—or, if I’m feeling brave, I’ll make it myself. And I remember the three of us girls a decade ago: one filled with excitement, one with sadness, and another with confidence. I think about the brief moment we shared and how it touched me.

Things don’t always turn out as we expect them. And some things are beautiful at first, but lose their splendor with time. But then a simple bowl of soup can remind us of the magic of that first time. And the lasting power of even the smallest act of kindness.

Best French Onion Soup

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Ingredients

6	large yellow onions, sliced thinly
1	cup heavy cream
2	tablespoons unsalted butter
1	teaspoon kosher salt
2	cups dry white wine
2	quarts chicken stock
5	ounces Gruyere cheese, grated (a cheddar would work, too)
4	slices of hole-y, country bread

6	large yellow onions, sliced thinly
1	cup heavy cream
2	tablespoons unsalted butter
1	teaspoon kosher salt

2	cups dry white wine
2	quarts chicken stock
5	ounces Gruyere cheese, grated (a cheddar would work, too)
4	slices of hole-y, country bread