With gruyere toasts on top and a little wine to finish, this is French onion soup done right

Sometimes it’s the classics, the dishes passed down through generations, that mean the most. They don’t scream for attention; they whisper to the part of you that is tired and human.

Lennox Hastie’s French onion soup. Photo: Nikki To / TWAM

The cold crept under my coat as I walked back from Rue Beethoven, shoulders hunched against rejection. I was young and hungry in more ways than one, feeling a constant craving for experience. That hunger had pulled me, almost inevitably, to Paris. Having worked in French restaurants, I wanted to come to the city where it all began. I had my heart set on a job at L’Astrance. Chef Pascal Barbot was doing things with precision and lightness that felt utterly new, so I decided to knock on his door.

I spoke with Barbot and proffered my resumé. But there was no space for me in that tiny kitchen, and I left the interview with the bitter taste of failure in my mouth. I walked until I was lost – it was winter, and night had stolen in, but the city still pulsed with energy.

I walked uphill through the 18th arrondissement, past boulangeries perfumed with butter and yeast, until I found myself in a small bistro just off Montmartre. It wasn’t the kind of place that made it into the guidebooks. There were lace curtains in the steamed-up windows and the tables were close-knit. The room was basic and candlelit, but it was warm and comforting. There was no menu – just a chalkboard – and I ordered without thinking. French onion soup and crème caramel. Simple, honest. The soup arrived, bubbling and burnished, in a heavy ­ceramic bowl. The top was blistered and golden, the Gruyère cheese stretching into stringy threads as I lifted my spoon. Beneath it, the broth was deep and dark, with the sort of flavour you only get from cooking onions down slowly until they’re almost nothing. Just good stock, browned onions, yesterday’s bread, and a cheese that knew how to comfort. I ate in ­silence until the waiter approached and poured a little house red into my near-empty bowl, uttering “pour ne rien perdre” (so you don’t lose anything), to ensure I could savour every last drop.

It reminded me why I cook: not to impress, but to nourish.

Dessert followed with no ­fanfare. Crème caramel. A deep pool of caramel sauce surrounding a trembling, barely set custard. The surface was as smooth as porcelain and just the right balance of rich and light. But it was the caramel, with its intrinsic darkness and slight edge of bitterness, that made it all come alive.

Sometimes it’s the classics, the dishes passed down through generations, that mean the most. They don’t scream for attention; they whisper to the part of you that is tired and human. I never got into L’Astrance. But I got something else that night: a quiet sense that the fire I was chasing wasn’t just in three-star kitchens.

Try too my creme caramel recipe.

Classic French fare. Photo: Nikki To / TWAM

Onions ready to go. Photo: Nikki To / TWAM

French onion soup

Ingredients

• 2kg brown onions, peeled and finely sliced
• 40g unsalted cultured butter
• 2 tablespoon olive oil
• 2 garlic cloves, finely sliced
• 20ml Cognac
• 140ml dry white wine
• 1.5 litres rich beef or veal stock
• 1 sprig of thyme
• 1 bay leaf
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper
• 1 small baguette, sliced into 1 cm rounds
• 150g Gruyère cheese, coarsely grated
• Handful of chives, finely chopped
• 100ml red wine, optional

Method

1. Place a wide, heavy-based pot over a medium high heat. Add the olive oil then the butter. When it begins to foam, add the onions and a good pinch of salt. Stir and let them settle. Once they start to turn golden, turn the heat down to low. Caramelising onions properly takes time – about an hour. Stir occasionally, but more often than not leave them alone. You want them deeply golden, collapsed, and almost jammy. Don’t rush this crucial step; the soup is nothing without it.
2. Add the garlic in the last 10 minutes so it softens, but ensure it does not burn. Once the onions are deeply coloured, add the cognac and light it to flambée slightly.
3. Deglaze the pan with the white wine, allowing it to reduce until almost dry. Add the stock, thyme and bay leaf.
4. Bring to a gentle simmer and cook for another 30-40 minutes, uncovered, so the flavours deepen and the broth concentrates. Taste and season well.
5. Meanwhile, toast the baguette slices lightly until golden. I like to rub them with a little raw garlic and olive oil. To serve, ladle the hot soup into heatproof bowls. Float the toast on top and scatter generously with Gruyère. Place under a hot grill until the cheese bubbles and blisters. Finish with a sprinkling of chopped chives.
6. If, like me, you like to savour every last drop, you can “Chabrot” – this is the rural French custom of adding a splash of red wine to the last of your soup, in roughly equal quantities, so you can swirl gently and slurp the last mouthful. Serves 4