我的汤到了。撒上奶酪，边缘有金色。服务员小心翼翼地将其放在我的面前，我用勺子折断了顶层，并用温暖的洋葱肉汤填充了它，捕捉到了一块浸泡面包。气味接管了桌子，变暖。而且由于环境很少匹配，一个下午可能是欢乐和恐怖的拼凑而成，所以汤的味道被我洗了。温暖，善良，专注，整体。毫无疑问，这很容易，这是我有史以来最好的汤，这是一个厨师在烹饪方面真正避难的厨师。
(My soup arrived. Crusted with cheese, golden at the edges. The waiter placed it carefully in front of me, and I broke through the top layer with my spoon and filled it with warm oniony broth, catching bits of soaking bread. The smell took over the table, a warmingness. And because circumstances rarely match, and one afternoon can be a patchwork of both joy and horror, the taste of the soup washed through me. Warm, kind, focused, whole. It was easily, without question, the best soup I had ever had, made by a chef who found true refuge in cooking.)
