PASSIONATE RATIONS

Once upon a time, there was a tiny little sandwich shop on Worthington Street in downtown Springfield, Massachusetts, known to local folk as Simpson’s Gourmet.

I don’t like sandwiches. Too often they are boring concoctions made with less than inspired ingredients. Dry. Tasteless. So, imagine my pleasure at finding a place whose sandwiches I would never refuse to eat because they were always worth it. I’m not sure what it was, since they didn’t do anything particularly fancy with their fare, but it was always tasty and delicious.

But it was the butternut squash soup that really hooked me. Perfectly sweet-savory, it was so rich and thick you could eat it with a fork. They left it slightly textured, instead of pureed smooth, to great effect. Its color was always the essence of autumn, bright with golden warmth. I told them once they should put out a cookbook. When I asked for the recipe, they just smiled, its secrets closely held. This soup made such an impression on me that, as you may recall, I included it as part of my perfect meal.

For those of you who don’t know it, Springfield is the poorest city in Massachusetts. Its culinary offerings, while there for those who are willing to look, are somewhat slim, especially near the section I frequent for work, which is kitty-corner to a strip club and an underpass so inhabited with pigeons you have to carry an umbrella to go underneath it.

So, Simpson’s–within an easy block of my building–was an epicure’s delight, nevermind the boarded up windows and vacant storefronts so nearby. But, alas, the vacancies speak of the problems of sustaining a business in a troubled urban setting.

The day Simpson’s shut its doors, I almost cried, feeling responsible because I hadn’t been there to eat in months, despite the fabulous fare (Hey. I work for government. I can’t afford to eat out all the time. And getting out for lunch is hard for a workaholic).

Anyway, that last day, they had the soup. That wonderful soup. Unprepared, I hastily ordered two servings to bring with me. Still, they wouldn’t give me the recipe. I left with a heavy heart and sad stomach. That was three+ years ago. I’ve been searching for something to rival that soup ever since. Many places in New England offer squash soups in autumn, but–although squash soups are always good because squash is yummy–they’re not always as good as Simpson’s.

I had given up hope until a week ago.

As an occasional fundraiser, my co-workers will pitch in and make stuff and then others will pay to partake, all proceeds to go to charity. This time it was soup and pies. A dizzying array of them decked out two long tables in the kitchenette. While the soups were all good, one stood out far above the others: a particular “autumn potage.” Although pureed to silky smoothness, it tasted like memory. Simpson’s reborn. Or pretty close.

This time, I got the recipe.