French Onion Soup - Famous-Barr

Authentic

I have been looking for this recipe since I got good at cooking. That was sometime in the early 1980s. I had been a fair hand at cooking before that, but I met some people are superb cooks and got inspired by them.

I first at this soup during lunch while working at the department store which you see in the image, above. So good tasting was it that I have yearned to make it ever since. I tried following the recipe printed in The Gourmet Cookbook to no avail. That cookbook should have been an authoritative source.

I have read about how this simple recipe was developed at Les Halles the Parisian 'Grand' Central Market. Most cities have a Central Market or sometimes called a Grand Central Market. It is the wholesalers market where the restauranteurs come to buy their ingredients, daily. Typically, these markets open before dawn and close by Noon. The story of the French Onion Soup, as I have learned it is: after the frenzy of buying, the buyers repaired to a restaurant located within Les Halles and had this soup to warm themselves up. Paris winter mornings would be a good time for that. Some excellent 19th century images can be seen here.

The soup I had had a peculiar tang. I have come to believe that either sherry and/or sherry vinegar is involved in this. Yet, the recipe above calls for white wine. Was the author of this recipe trying to hide something? Maybe, but I've discovered the Secret Ingredient none-the-less.

French Onion Soup - Famous-Barr's Recipe

Yield: 4 Servings

Cooking Time: 3 1/2 hours

Preparation Time: 1/2 hour

Category: Soup

Cuisine: French - Paris

Rating: 5/5 stars

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Ingredients

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5 pounds onions

3 quarts beef bouillon

4 ozs. butter

3/4 cup flour, all-purpose

1 cup white wine (optional)

1 1/2 tsp. pepper

2 tbs. paprika

2 tsp salt

1 bay leaf

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Instructions

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1 - Slice onions — 1/8" thick.

2 - Melt butter, place onions in it, sauté slowly for 1 ½ hours in a

large soup pot.

3 - Add all other ingredients, except bouillon, sauté over low heat

10 minutes more.

4 - Add bouillon and simmer for 2 hours.

5 - Adjust color to a rich brown with caramel coloring or Kitchen

Bouquet.

6 - Season with salt to taste.

7 - Put in icebox overnight.

This recipe yields 2 quarts finished soup.

Proper serving:

Heat soup. Fill fireproof casserole or individual fireproof bowls with

8 ozs. of soup, top with 3 1½" slices of Famous-Barr bread and top

with 1½ ounces of imported Swiss cheese, place under broiler until

brown, approx. 5 minutes at 550°.

The frozen soup, grated cheese and French bread are also available

through Famous-Barr's Gourmet Food Shops.

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Notes

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From the recipe collection of my Mom, Thelma Hughes.

Waiters in Paris France

I first saw Paris in 1995. I stayed in Montmarte at Le Hôtel de Fleur de Bouquet de Montmartre (18th. arr., now sadly closed). In back of the hôtel, is Le Vrai Paris café, on the Rue des Abbesses. Every morning I ate a croissant and coffee there. And sometimes I would have an espresso in the afternoon. The same waiter was always there. He was the most distinguished waiter I have ever seen. With his small white mustache and full head of all white hair. His white apron, and punctilious manner, he was the very model of the Parisian waiter.


I don't speak French. Not even enough to order quickly. So I would say to this waiter, in my best English accented French: "croissant et café, beurre et confiture". I came to realize that he had other customers to serve and my lack of proficiency in speaking his language did not give me a privilege to take more of his time than another customer. He would bring the food, serve it and leave. The fewer words he spoke to me, and everyone else in the cafe, the better. He was not rude, ever. But he was almost officious, and with everybody in the cafe! The French and the other nationalities had to endure his office.


Then, one afternoon, the butchers from across the Rue came into the cafe. My waiter lit up like a Christmas tree! I still hear him say: "Monsieurs!" (with spoken emphasis on MON) and all the appropriate male-to-male endearments allowed in Parisian culture. They got the good service, the extra attention, the patience of Job, his care and concern. And as I reflected on this, I realized that those fellows were likely the sons of the butchers who had first patronized Le Vrai Paris when the waiter was new there, before his hair turned white. He had an almost intimate relationship with the boys. Probably meeting them when they were first taken to work with their fathers.


So, it occurs to me that this waiter was short with almost all other customers. That, as those fellows he knew came in everyday and that the waiter saw their custom (and tips) as his bread and butter. Everyone else merely another customer.


Repeat business. That's what makes all waiters glad to see their customers. But, in Paris, that can take some time.

The Left Bank Sandwich - Paris France

I got lost. I arrived in Paris France. I couldn't find my way to my hotel: Hotel Familia on the Left Bank. I had a map. I can read a map. I couldn't find my way from Metro Maubert-Mutualité to Number 11 rue des Ecoles (about 4 blocks). So there I was at the corner of Boulevard St. Germain and Rue St. Victor when I had to ask two fellows standing on my right for directions.
"Perdonnez-moi, je suis perdeu" I said, forgetting that perdeu is closer to lost soul than lost on the street. "What are you looking for" came the response in English. "The Hotel Familia on the Rue des Ecloles" I answered.

I was then pointed towards the Rue des Ecoles. Which even once I was sure I was on it, couldn't locate Number 11 for quite a few pass-bys. Oh-Well, they had the most recent Seinfeld and it wasn't dubbed, they had French sub-titles. That's how hot Seinfeld was in Paris. And it is a lovely hotel.

I had nothing but trouble finding the foods I wanted to eat in Paris. I'll save the bulk of that for another post. Lunch time, I couldn't find a thing to eat. Dejected at my inability to find a Parisian lunch I went back to my hotel. Was I surprised. When I had left early that morning to explore Paris for the first time, the shop holding my Special French Sandwich hadn't been open. When I arrived at Hotel Familia near lunch-time, it had opened and was doing a good business for a true 'hole in the wall'. The place had only a cold case, a small table to assemble the sandwiches and a basket of baguettes. No tables, no chairs, take-out only. Patiently I waited, hungry as I was for some food. At last, I ordered. And received: about 4" of baguette; on which was placed: soft brie cheese, egg fritata and wafer thin slices of prociutto ham or maybe Bayonne ham. Nothing else. I've never eaten a better sandwich. He gave new meaning to the expression: submarine sandwich.

A few days later, while on the MontmartroBus I chanced by the Lapin Agile. It was well known to me as the haunt of the Impressionists and Pablo Picasso. My heart thrilled to see this, as I had not remembered it when I was planning my trip to Europe. As the bus wended it's way around Montmarte I arrived back at my hotel: Le Bouquet de la Fleur de Montmarte. What I did with the rest of the day, I can't recall, but that night, after eating, I rushed to the bus stop and hopped on the bus for the Lapin Agile.

The interesting thing about this place is that is has the semblance of a London or English pub. The rest of Paris has cafés. They have wine, liquor, food. But the Lapin Agile was different, special. It ooozzzed charm. So, as the twilight gathered, I arrived at the hang out of my artist-heroes. The lights were off, the door locked! Nuts! I thought I was too early or there on the shuttered-day. Near the front door, across a walkway was a park bench. I sat. And sat. And stood and saw a flight of stairs off the Mont-marte butte down to regular Paris below. I walked down that long stairway. The street below showed crowds of people thinning rapidly. The merchants were closing their shops. The store fronts that were lit, were not exciting; but I knew I had to kill time. So I walked. Finally my feet grew tired of waiting I climbed back up to the top of the butte. The park bench was still there, the lights on the cabaret still dark and the door still locked. So I sat. In a few minutes to very tall Teutonic girls showed up. They looked at the Lapin Agile and saw that it was dark, but unlike me, an American, they knocked on the door. As though they were begging to be let in to the place. Much to my surprise, a light appeared behind the glass window in the door, the sound of a key turning was heard and a moment later the door opened and they were let in. And before I could stand up and get the to door, it closed. And I had to knock and wait to be allowed inside as well. 


As you come into the Lapin Agile, in front of you is a bar. Not well stocked, but adequate. The room is somewhat oblong, maybe a kitchen off to the far left. And immediately to the left of the bar an opening or doorway to another room. The proprietor directed me into this second room. It was very dimly lit. The tables and chairs were black with age. And picnic tables at that. I took a seat at the west end of the room and the Teutonic maidens sat clear across the room at the east end. Nothing happened. I looked around. The tabletop had many carvings in it. But I didn't see Picasso's name. A few more people came in, took seats and waited. For what? At last the proprietor sat at a piano and played a few notes. More people came in and the piano playing stopped while they were seated. The proprietor went into the barroom and a few minutes later returned and started taking drink orders. I heard him speak German to the Teutonic gals, and when he got to me, he spoke French, I answered in French saying I couldn't speak his language and he judged my American by my accent and told me in English that there as a two drink minimum. I asked him if what they had to drink, and he said what he had and that the house had a cherry wine. I asked him to give me a minute. He took other drink orders. And as I sat there, I realized that this place was not where artists went anymore. It was strictly for tourists. But I thought there might be music and that would be worth the hearing, and I was, after all is said and done, a tourist. The proprietor retuned and asked me what I wanted. I had considered his house wine, but I thought to myself, "I'm sitting were Utrillo and Picasso had been inspired, where countless conversations about art and life had taken place and it dawned on me as to what I would drink."
"Champagne" I ordered.
"We have none", he replied.
That did it. He was insulting in closing the door before I could walk up to the Teutonic twins, and too brusque for a waiter. I stood, declined his hospitality and as I exited, I left his door open so others could walk in without having to be made to wait.
I walked the block back to the Montmartrobus stop and waited. And waited. And waited some more. Then I decided the bus didn't run after dark. So I tried to recall the path the bus took to the cabaret. There wasn't a soul on the street. Anywhere. I walked and turned and walked and never saw one person. Who says Paris doesn't roll the sidewalks up at night? I know better. Finally I came to an intersection and knew I had to turn left or right, but I had no idea as to where I was. I guessed to-the-right and after a long walk, I arrived on Rue des Abbesses. That is where my hotel is, so relieved I continued to walk along. I had been feeling very apprehensive since I left the Lapin Agile and still I didn't see the familiar sight of the subway stop, or other buildings I could easily recognize, even though I had been in Paris only two or three days. Walking, walking, walking. At last I came upon the little intersection I recognized. I was tired, but finally felt safe. And I walked into the first café I came across, the Café Houdin (corner of Rue Houdin and Rue des Abesses, 18th). I sat at the bar, ordered a beer and a moment later, the musicians started playing jazz. I was so happy to have a Special Parisian Moment, after the let down of the Lapin Agile, that I told the bartender to buy the musicians a drink. They thanked me for the drinks, the jazz played on and I had another beer: a Kriek St. Louis, which I have described elsewhere in Danger! Men Cooking! I had as good a time as Picasso, after all.