Doesn't He Need Tortillas?

We've just returned, moments ago, from a lovely dinner at our friend C's house. During our trip back, H. mused that the house's exquisitely coordinated decor makes her want to throw away everything we own and start anew. I know what she means. My fantasy goes one step further, however: I'm compelled to buy a whole new house. That way there's no need for the tedium of disposal. We can start developing our new design sensibility right away, on a fresh canvas.

The meal C. prepared began with a tortilla soup that was both delicious and storied. I plan to blackmail him for the recipe; if this proves successful I will subsequently add it to this post.

We've had the pleasure of enjoying many notable soups in recent months, from Alex's top-notch Slovenian consommé to P1's now-legendary truffled oxtail soup. My enthusiasm for C's tortilla soup is not intended to slight these--or any other-- soups of the recent past. What excites me most about the tortilla soup is that it is designed to be supplemented, and C's version seems destined to accumulate countless anecdotal and culinary extras in the future. Especially once I get my hands on the recipe.

The soup came out in a large terrine with a gorgeous, rough-hewn wooden serving spoon. I helped C. bring in the various accoutrements, which were to comprise a bowl of diced avocado and some shredded cheese. C. couldn't find the cheese, though, so we abandoned this. Striving to be helpful, and having noticed that the tortilla soup was smooth in texture, I asked if I could bring in the tortillas.

Evidently-- or so I presumed-- C. had forgotten to add tortillas to the soup. My helpfulness was thus one step shy of meddlesome, and one step beyond pedantic: "Where are the tortillas?" I thought, fortunately, to myself. "Doesn't he need tortillas? Surely one needs tortillas to make tortilla soup." I suppose I'd been expecting to see a flotilla of Doritos bobbing in the soup.

I later discovered my error. The tortillas, see, were already in the soup. Once roasted and shredded, they had been blended into the very essence of the broth itself. The result is remarkable: a thick vélouté that isn't the least bit starchy, but which possesses a complexity of flavor made possible by the (now invisible) fried tortillas.

The recipe came to C. via his Aunt Barbara, who used to travel to Cancun just for the tortilla soup. The possibilities for embellishment are legion. But in short, it seems she wrote to the restaurant which served her favorite version, and this is the recipe that she passed along to C. I've noticed that several of C's dishes have been attributed to his Aunt Barbara-- I even joked that "Aunt Barbara" might in fact be an invented personae, the name C. uses for that part of himself that cooks so well. Either way, she sounds like a remarkable person. So here's to Aunt Barbara, and her soup research.

And, thanks to C., here's the recipe; which I cite verbatim from his email:

As to Aunt Barbara's recipe, it's totally easy. You cut corn tortillas into strips and fry them in olive oil in the soup pot. Once they're slightly crispy, remove them. Then put a jalapeño pepper, a medium sized onion, and a clove of garlic in a food processor and blend, and then add that to the soup pot, simmer for 5 minutes, then add the tortilla strips, simmer another 5 minutes. Then add 16 oz plum tomatoes (although I like my soup tomatoey, so I usually put a bit more), 3 tsp of cumin into the pot and let simmer another 15 minutes. Add 2 1/2- 3 quarts of chicken stock and cook until it reduces by about a third. Then blend it all until its smooth. The recipe recommends garnishing with cheddar cheese, cilantro, and avocado, and that's the part I screwed up tonight. Easy breezy.

Thank you, Aunt Barbara! And thank you C.!