Moro

It's the only soup that's ever made me swoon. It was my first night in London -- the first of the trip, and the first in about a year and a half, and I was proudly, happily sitting in a back table at Moro.

When I told M. I was coming to town most unexpectedly, he had invited me to spend a day with him in London, followed by dinner that night. "Any chance we can go to Moro?" I volleyed back. (Who me, shy?)

Between the jet lag, the Xanax that makes flying a manageable exercise for me, and the oodles of champagne M. and the original Sauvignon Blonde had poured before dinner, I can't claim to remember every detail of the night. What I do remember? Feeding everyone at the table spoonfuls of my soup (well, maybe skimpy spoonfuls). The silky sunchokes were nutty, and there must have been a bowl full of cream if there was an ounce. The spicy nuggets of chorizo sausage hiding here and yon were definitely the treasure at the end of the rainbow.  S. had a lovely piece of grilled calamari with Aztec orange harissa paste, and M.'s calves liver turned to liquid gold in my mouth.

I recall being too full to eat dessert -- my tummy takes me hostage when I travel and refuses to allow me much to eat, though I do usually fare better than bread and water -- and the entrées are nothing but a haze of wine and delicate fish, but I know enough to know I'd go back. The mix of Moorish inspiration from Spain and Turkey, the lack of pretention and the atmosphere that buzzed pleasantly without ever intruding on conversation provided just the sort of comfort someone from faraway needs at the end of a long journey. That, and good friends to share it with.

pssst...if, in the course of making your point in a conversation you are overcome by the urge to dramatically light on fire a scrap of paper, resist. It is not looked kindly upon, though apologies are enthusiastically accepted.  Also, if you care about getting your cookbook signed, don't go on a Sunday evening; the chefs are usually at home with the family that night. Not that I would risk cracking my thin shellac of cool by asking, but, you know, others might.

Comments

[Kalyn]

"My tummy takes me hostage when I travel and refuses to allow me much to eat". Very funny. You're a good writer.

[Rorie]

Beautifully written --- I want some of that luscious soup!

[Catherine]

Kalyn -- It's really true, alas. My jet lag appears not so much in interrupted sleep patterns -- there are drugs for that -- but in a pathetic lack of appetite. Always such a disappointment...

Rorie -- oooh, it was so good...Unfortunately the Moro cookbook I have doesn't have it in there, but I bet I can approximate it. Soups are pretty easy to figure out.