Spied Out: The Best Soups

The Spy also likes to make soups, the more colourful the better (carrot&swede, pea and beetroot jostling for a close-up). The Spy also likes to make breads that do not deserve to be yelled at: behold the mighty Scottish griddle bread, soft, thick and perfect for dippage action.

There's an old saying that 'worries go down better with soup', and in this thin, sleety weather, few things could be more heartening than a ladleful straight from the pot, steaming away happily with wodges of bread nestling close to the bowl for warmth. Blended or chunky, meaty or veggie, swollen thickly with pearl barley or a salty thin consomme, when the Spy has grown tired of soups, the Spy will have grown tired of life. Of equal importance if the accompanying bread, for many a fine soup has been ruined by a dry baguette, a lacklustre bap, or even (horror!) a square of sliced white. Indeed, the Spy is only mildly ashamed to recall an occasion upon which he ordered soup in a mediocre Italian cafe (the honourable Spy mentions no names), and accompanied said order with the vociferous demand to "Show me your rolls. SHOW ME YOUR ROLLS!" The cowering proprietor duly extend a trembling hand, upon which skulked and squirmed the sorriest, limpest specimen of dough this side of Timbuktu. The meal that followed was little more than ashes in the Spy's mouth, for the bread had soaked up the joy infinitely more effectively than it was ever able to soak up the soup. So, partly in order to exorcise this ghoulish memory, the Spy is delighted to reveal four of the best places to quaff a merry bowlful, each accompanied by a fine hunk of le pain quotidien.

1. During the colder months, Le Gros Franck offers a smooth and sophisticated number, with a proper stock that shines through and an authentic length of chewy crusty baguette. The flavour of the day is chalked up on the little blackboard propped up by the pot, along with crunchy croutons for sprinkling. The flavours are inventive and sophisticated (vegetable, split pea and celeriac have been particularly fine), but apart from one nightmarish day when the chef got creative with a tomato and fish number (ever bit as revolting as it sounds, God help us all), the soups are always bowl-lickingly good. And the Spy is not just referring to his own bowl; he is also happy to attend to the bowls of other diners at no extra cost.

 

Little chalk board, big silver pot of joy. (NB this is clearly an authentic French dish, as caution has been thrown to the wind and the extra 'c' in 'broccoli' has been tossed aside with gay abandon. None of your dirty English spellings here, they might pollute the soup.)   

2. Continuing with our international theme, the German cafe Trockel Ulmann & Freunde is perhaps the best-known soup joint in town, with three changing flavours (one creamy, two plain) chalked up every day on the board outside. The portions are generous and served in cheery yellow bowls, with thick doorstops of gloriously chewy brown bread for dipping (the Spy has been known to pop in just to pick up a brown-paper-bagful of bread, a steal at 50p a portion). The occasional lunchtime queues are testament to its popularity, and at peak times, take-away is the only options (soup-and-sandwich deals available), but if you can, take a seat in this cosy, fairylight-adorned interior with classical music playing in the background and the option of a slice of German cake for afters. Just beware of the owner, who will try to round you up and herd you out if there are other customers waiting (even if you haven't quite finished your soup).

From left to right, three bubbling silver pots, the sign outside (complete with little window box and idyllic bicycle basket), and a close-up of the soup (cream of broccoli, this time catering to the English-speaking market). The Spy worships chastely at the altar of the blonde waitress in TU&F, who took the soup close-up shot, thereby winning the Cantabrigian Espionage Award for Thoroughly Good Egginess.  

3. The two branches of Benets cafe boast a range of often brightly coloured soups served in ceramic bowls with little handles, and with squishy sofas on hand upon which to enjoy them. With their little kitchen out the back of the Benet Street site, they have been known to get creative with the bread end of the soup-and-bread model, which changes over time. Right now, it's a rather uninspiring piece of ciabatta, but look out for the return of items such as their homemade cheesy scones. These knobbled and bobbled creations were scones but not as you know them, resembling lumpy little aliens from some rock-based planet, and much approved of by the Spy, a firm supporter of such enterprise and culinary innovations.

 

Lumpy alien-free soup, from the planet vegetable.

4. Finally, get yourself by hook or by crook to the cafe in the Botanic Gardens for a slurp of their lovely daily soup, complete with a chunky triangle of granary bread. Due to building work, the cafe is currently housed in a temporary building near the scented garden and opposite Cory Lodge. However, seek it out before snazzier premises are secured, because this is a lovely (if slightly ramshackle) place complete with fairy lights, a tree-leaf mural (in the summer, individual leaves are designed by local children, but due to botanical-correctness, the tree is bare during the winter) glass jars full of gingerbread men and garlands of greenery adorning the walls. And the soup's not half bad too. 

In the absence of a soup picture, the Spy presents the cafe's bare winter tree. An artistic masterpiece.