Sometimes, as a soup connoisseur, you must travel the seven seas for broth-related inspiration. Yes, when Columbus set out for the wonders of the New World, were his forebears not to discover a delicious pozole in the lands of the Mexica? When Zhung He and his glorious fleet sailed to lands unexplored, he must have been search of a mulligatawny or a delicious goat stew on the Swahili Coast. And, of course, Cabot searched for a passage to expedite the process to make birria.
Thus, I took a voyage in pursuit of that same soup as my connoisseur forebears. Yes, I, a Jewish soup expert, journeyed to a land inhabited by another wandering people: the Polynesians. Across the ocean I sailed upon the wings of an out-of-date jet plane from that server of awful service, and even worse, food, United Airlines. When in the clouds, when I saw those glorious volcanoes of the island spewing their soup of lava, I knew I was in for a wonderful culinary experience.
I have great respect for the Polynesian people. I anticipated wonderful soup because of their knowledge of soups, of sort. The ocean, the original soup. Yes, they crossed the wide salt stew of the Pacific Ocean from their homeland on the island formerly known as Formosa. Rowing (stirring) across the broth full of fish, plankton and whales (whose consumption I do not endorse), they reached islands untold. Some say this was mere luck, including perfidious UCLA professors who have no knowledge of soup. But I say, guided by the stars, it was fate that the Polynesians reached these lands. Wondrous soup was in the offing, and they wpuld not be denied of these liquids. Yes, these islands formed by the spewing, boiling hot liquids of lava were waiting to produce some of the finest stews known to mankind, and especially the Austronesian peoples.
I touched down in Honolulu town, eager to try what broths may await. I rented a car for a high sum, a small price to pay to access culinary delights. It was a motorized vehicle that would take me to soups and oceans alike, to snorkeling experiences to see delish fish, including an experience where I, a soup connoisseur with little skill in non-soup related matters, locked my keys in the car and was shamefully made to call upon the services of the American Automobile Association.
While I tried many a food, including many a delicious soup which I will likely wax poetic about on a later date, I focus on one experience in particular. That was at the food establishment known as Fête, one of Honolulu's most beloved restaurants.
Fête. I was taken aback by the name. It was French, the language of a country whose soups I generally dismiss, their snail-eating culture frankly repulsive. I was apprehensive, until I realized what word the restaurant's name reminded me of: fate.
What a word! I was immediately reminded of the beautiful musings of one of my favorite musical sensations, Robert Zimmerman. Known to some by the pseudonym "Bob Dylan", he wrote the song famous for being a campaign favorite by centrist politician Timothy Kaine, "Simple Twist of Fate".
This particular tune is one of my most cherished. It tells the story of a man who has fallen in love with a harlot, and is then doomed to confront his sadness. While this has no relation to soup, I do enjoy the song. My recollection of the pleasure this song gives me clouded my mind with happy thoughts: was this to be a fateful soup encounter?
Because I am a culinary insider, I was given an exclusive meal with a hefty discount. Yes, at this James Beard restaurant (whose name gives me a poor appetite, as all I can think of is hair), I am considered a guest of honor. Everyone knows my name, and I am duly honored for it.
Contrary to popular perception, I do eat non-soup foods, while it is generally discouraged. I first shared with my dining compatriots, whose are not as skilled in soup as I, a wonderful array of dips. Its muhammara, a mixture from the Mideast, tangoed on my tastebuds. Next, a creamy mixture of carrots, so lovely cooked that it made my stomach near-full before the star of the show: the soup.
I had ordered the pork shoulder ragout with pasta.
I know what many of you are thinking: this is blasphemous. Ragout is no soup! Nay, I say. Nay. Ragout has a most soup-like tendency, a stewy mixture of tomatoes and spices to delight the senses. This argument must be put to rest — I will take no dissent.
Next is a legitimate concern. The soup contains pork, a food forbidden by the laws of my people. My mother surely frowned in disappointment from afar as I ordered in blasphemy. However, a Talmudic scholar of soup myself, I offer a counter argument to this disdain. Did the Lord our G-d not want us to enjoy soup? Did He not cleanse the Earth of evil by dowsing it in a soup-like flood? The only food He ever outwardly forbid was a solid one: fruit. Yes, all soup is holy. With my liturgical expertise in mind, I was able to make this important ruling with audience of the entire restaurant.
So the ragout was served.
Immediately, I entered a soup-related ecstasy. This tomatoes: perfection, a nice subtle flavor to compliment the most tender pork I had ever touch my lips. Pasta, of the superior rigatoni variety, gripped the pork with such beauty I forgot the price of this illustrious dish. And for a high price, I was given a large portion, fulfilling an important rule of my groundbreaking principle of price to quantity. Even the kale in this dish played perfectly upon the meat, providing a texture missing from the miraculous meat and outstanding noodles. And the viscosity! Perfect, a perfection rarely encountered in my connoisseur career. I was overwhelmed with soupy satisfaction and pureed pleasure.
And this meal was not over. I was then served a most strange combination: strawberry and fennel in sorbet form. Fennel does not belong in dessert. However, my first taste made my mind melt like cheese in a French onion soup. This was likely one of the best meals I had ever come across in my life.
Fête. Fate, yes, I finally understood. I had come across this restaurant by fate, just as Robert Zimmerman's protagonist had come across the harlot, just as the Polynesian peoples had found the Hawaiian Islands, in the view of that duplicitous University of California, Los Angeles professor. While soup is generally constructed from the liquid depths of free will, I had been led to this ragout by destiny itself.
Soup score: 10/10 good
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