Soup for Two – Part 1: The Broken Stove

The stove died at ten o'clock on the coldest night of the year. Léa stood in her Plateau kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand and a pot of half-cooked onions in the other, and watched the last blue flame sputter out with a sad little hiss.

Outside the window, the snow was piling against the glass. The radiator knocked, and then gave up as well.

"Non," she said, to the stove. "Non, non, non."

The stove did not reply.

She had come to Montreal for a job as a sous chef in a restaurant on Saint-Denis, and she had spent six months learning to cook for people who expected perfection. Tonight she had planned a simple soup, the kind her mother used to make in winter, and now she had nothing but a cold pot, a bag of lentils and a very great deal of self-pity.

There was a knock at the door.

She opened it. The man on the step was tall and lean, with dark hair cropped close to his head and a scarf wound three times around his neck. He held a covered pot in both hands, and he looked as surprised as she felt.

"Bonsoir," he said, in careful French with an accent she couldn't place. "I'm Samir. I live downstairs. I heard you swearing at the stove."

"I wasn't swearing."

"You said non eleven times. In my language, that's a swear word."

Léa laughed, a short, helpless sound. "I'm Léa. My stove is dead."

"I'm sorry. I brought soup," said Samir, lifting the pot slightly. "Lentils and cumin. It's from my kitchen, which has a very good stove and a very bad oven. You can have it, or you can come downstairs and I'll make you a second bowl that's warmer."

She looked at the pot, and then at him. His face was calm and kind, and there was snow melting on his shoulders.

"Why?" she asked. "We've never spoken."

"Because you hum when you cook," said Samir simply. "Every evening, through the floor. It's very loud, and very off-key, and I've been listening to it for four months. I thought someone should feed you back."

Léa's cheeks went hot. "You've been listening to me hum?"

"Every night. It's my favourite part of the building."

She stepped aside, slowly. "Come in," she said. "But you have to stay and eat the soup, and tell me what you do that makes you so observant."

"I'm a music teacher," said Samir, stepping into her cold kitchen and setting down the pot on the counter. "I'm observant for a living."

They ate at her small kitchen table, with the snow falling outside and a candle burning in a jar. The soup was thick and golden, spiced with cumin and warm with lemon, and Léa ate two bowls without stopping.

"This is perfect," she said.

"It's fine," said Samir. "It's very easy to make perfect soup when you have a good stove."

"Then you're going to tell me your secret."

"I cook with love," said Samir, very seriously. Then he laughed at himself, and his whole face softened. "And I burn the onions every time. Like a tragic opera."

Léa laughed so hard she nearly knocked over the candle.

Later, when the bowls were empty and the snow had turned the windows silver, Samir looked at her across the table.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"Would you like to come downstairs tomorrow, when the snow stops, and cook with me? Not because your stove is dead. Because I'd like to see what you hum when you're trying something new."

Léa's heart gave a quick, happy jump. "Yes," she said. "But only if you promise not to laugh at my onions."

"I promise," said Samir. "I'll laugh at my own."

"Green?" he asked, half teasing.

"Green," said Léa. "Very green. And thank you for the soup, Samir. Even if it was from your very good stove."