Soup

By Amy Kim

It was past 9:00 PM on a Tuesday, the first time she walked into my bistro. The corporate world had drained the color out of her face, leaving behind only a tired silhouette — her white blouse wrinkled, her eyes empty with exhaustion. She didn't even bother to look at the specials. She just looked around at the other customers, steam rising from their table, and whispered, “Something warm, please.”

I served her my onion soup. As the cheese pulled away from the spoon in golden threads, I saw her shoulders finally drop an inch. The rigid tension finally falling off. She didn’t say a word, but the way she gripped the bowl told me everything. That wasn't just food for her. It was her antidote.

Over the next few months, her visits became a silent calendar of her struggles. I began to recognize the patterns. If she arrived and sat in silence for about ten minutes before ordering, I knew that the world had just been too loud for her that day. If she placed the spoon halfway to her mouth and stared at the flickering candle on the table, I knew she was looking for peace that she couldn't quite find outside.

“Rough day?” I’d ask, setting the bread basket down. “The kind where everything feels like too much,” she replied, her voice barely audible over the soft music playing in the background. “But this soup is the only thing that feels like it’s made for me. The warmth. It’s the only thing I can give to me after a cold, long day”

We started talking more. With spoonfuls of caramelized onions and rich broth, she told me about the promotion she had missed, the loneliness of the commute, and the pressure of trying to keep her head just above the water. As she told me about her harsh day, I felt like I was helping her, feeling glad that I could do so. Since then, as I stood to prepare the onions, I found myself checking the clock every five minutes. Hoping the bell to chime again, waiting for her. If I was waiting for her, I was waiting for her to be miserable again. I was here, preparing the cure while hoping she'd stay sick enough to need it.

The bell above the door chimed to announce a familiar face. She was there, shoulders slumped, eyes bearing the weight of the long, exhausting day. Without looking at the menu, she ordered with the same words as always, “One onion soup, please.”

“I’m taking this off the menu tomorrow,” I said with a voice steady despite the nervousness. She froze. “What? Why?” It’s the only reason I made it through the subway ride today.”

“That’s exactly it. I find myself peeling these onions and waiting for you. Then I realize, if I’m waiting for you to walk in, it means I’m waiting for you to have a terrible day. I’m sitting here, hoping the world treats you poorly just so I can provide the soup.”

She remained silent for a moment. Her exhaustion slowly replaced with confusion, she asked, “Then where do I go tomorrow? What am I supposed to eat?”

 “Anything else. Come back tomorrow, but come because you’re hungry, not because you’re heavy-hearted. I’ll make something new. Something that you can enjoy for once.”