Paris on our Plates

“Paris was every bit the cliché I thought it would be. My husband, Mike, and I had never visited, and the romance swept us away. The sex was beautiful, as you might expect from young lovers, tinted with a glow of possibility. In a cafe overlooking the City of Love, we decided to start trying for a baby. 

But more than sex and romance and possibility, I remember the food.

Upon our arrival, we toured Paris by bike—gazing in wonder at Notre Dame, winding along the cobblestone paths of the Seine, entranced with the majestic Eiffel Tower. I was already in love with Paris. And then it started raining, and that sealed the deal. We ran for cover to a bustling corner cafe and plopped our dripping bodies into the nearest wicker seats. French onion soup seemed like the perfect order for my first meal in this city. 

A trail of steam followed the waiter as he delivered the soup. Gruyere on top of the buttery slice of baguette bubbled from its tanning under the broiler. I tapped the crust of the bread as the aroma of the soup underneath wafted out. The sweet fragrance of onions and butter permeated the air. Mike, his mouth already full of steak, grinned knowingly. We both recognized that smell. Back home in our newlywed apartment in Chicago, it was routine for him to walk in the door after work and say, "Mmmm, what smells so good?" I didn’t have to respond anymore, only smile. "Ahh. Butter and onions," he would say, and then lean in for a kiss. That smell was the aphrodisiac to our flirtatious dance. 

The rain outside pummeled the windows while we cocooned around each other and our meals. I broke up the crusty top and the bread slowly soaked up the broth as it bobbed in the soup. I want to soak up Paris this way, I thought as I let the soup warm me from within. I want this city to seep into the cracks of my body so I will always taste how I feel in this place—nourished and in love.”

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Read the rest of the essay over on Coffee + Crumbs.