No Boundaries Lentil Soup

Prep Time: 10 – 15 minutes
Cook Time: 35 – 45 minutes
Yield: about 6 servings

 I altered this slightly from the “original”, in that I added more spices, used fresh instead of dried mint, and used two kinds of lentils (the red lentils will fade into the background, while the yellow will remain just slightly al dente). You could certainly opt to ignore any of these alterations.

While adding a roux to a lentil soup is pretty uncommon, I included it to keep with No Boundaries tradition. The outcome is a richer, more porridge-ier stew. If you’d like to cut down on time or keep the soup vegan and gluten free, by all means skip this step.

(Musically) pairs well with: Devendra Banhart, Rejoicing in the Hands
Not only is this album one I listened to extensively in my Pike Place Market days, but the moody, mellow and folky texture of this record couples well with the earthy aroma of lentils cooking on a cold winter day.  Plus, the opening line is – this is the soup that I believe in.

1 tablespoon neutral-flavored high heat oil
1 yellow onion, medium diced
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
1 large carrot, medium diced
2 stalks celery, medium diced
1 teaspoon each smoked paprika, coriander, and cumin
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 medium sized Yukon Gold potatoes
3/4 cup dried red lentils
1/2 cup dried yellow lentils
4 1/2 cups vegetable or chicken broth
3 heaping tablespoons tomato paste
1 tablespoon butter (optional)
Scant 1/4 cup flour (optional)
1/4 cup half & half or heavy cream (optional)
Kosher salt, anywhere between a godly and ungodly amount
Black pepper to taste
Fresh mint, for garnish
Pomegranate molasses, for garnish (optional)

Heat a medium large stockpot over medium high heat. Add the oil and when hot, toss in the onions and salt. Give a stir and sweat for 3 – 4 minutes. Throw in the carrots and celery and cook an additional few minutes, until just tender. Ideally you want the veggies to retain just a touch of a bite. Toss in the spices and garlic, and stir a minute or two, until fragrant. Add the potatoes and lentils, give a stir, and then pour in the broth and fold in the tomato paste. Bring to a boil, then cover and simmer until all veggies and yellow lentils are tender but not mushy, about 20-30 minutes.

If you’re not making a roux, season with salt and pepper to taste. (For the record, I erred towards the “ungodly” end of salt uses – 6 to 7 three finger pinches of it. This will depend on the type of broth you use, the type of salt you use, and how much you like your food to taste good.)

If you’re making the roux, heat up a small saucepan and add the butter. When it’s fully melted, add the flour and stir until the mixture becomes a paste and ever so slightly darker in color. Slowly pour in the half and half and incorporate it into the paste – you should have an ever so slightly thinner paste. From here, add the lentil soup and stir vigorously, one ladle at a time, to the roux pan until it is more soup than paste. Then stir this mixture back into the stockpot to thicken the whole soup. (I’ve found it’s much easier to prevent lumps adding soup to roux than roux to soup.)

For a thinner soup, add a little more stock. Taste for salt. Serve hot, and garnish with fresh mint and a drizzle of pomegranate molasses.  Afiyet Olsun!

Whenever asked about the five years I worked in the Pike Place Market, I’ll quickly summarize a list of establishments; I’ll speak fondly of my two years at Cinnamon Works Bakery, describe the delectable food we served at Michou, reminisce about my terrible boss at the flower shop, and even include my month long stint at Taxi Dogs. Rarely, however, do I mention No Boundaries Café. Perhaps deliberately, my mind glosses over this place, dismissing it as an unworthy sojourn for memory. Though my time there wasn’t especially long lasting, I realize it should not be disregarded like a stack of unflattering pictures; this experience introduced me to exotic flavors and lovely people while providing me with my first taste of responsibility in Seattle’s renowned food service industry.

I had been working as a florist for about six months when a co-worker mentioned a job opening at a quaint Turkish café in the Market.   Eighteen years old and eager to escape the watchful eye of my temperamental boss, I jumped at the offer. At the time, the kitchen of a retirement community in Minnesota was the only employment listed on my resume, and I’d been anxious to flex the puny muscle of my restaurant experience in my new hometown of the Emerald City.

Nestled in a crook of the Markets south wing, between Tenzing Momo and the Daily Dozen Doughnut Company, sat the modest eatery called No Boundaries Café. It boasted a small menu of made-to-order sandwiches on foccacia bread, traditional Middle Eastern dishes like tabbouli and hummus, and the delightfully murky sludge that is Turkish coffee. Out of all of the items on the menu, nothing roused the pride of the owner quite like the Café’s two soups: Red Lentil and Clam Chowder. Ramazan would post up just beyond the entrance and with a bellman’s cry, proclaim, “The best clam chowder in the Market, folks!” Salt and pepper hair neatly framed his face, his skin leathered by years of exaggeration. His emotions were nothing if not extreme; one moment he would be grinning like a hyena, the next his temper raging like a hippo. Initially, I found this unbridled intensity rather charming and after a quick exchange I was hired on the spot. For my training, he said, I would be paid three dollars an hour. He circled the amount on a piece of paper, exclaiming, “This makes sense, no?”. I was young, still naïve, and agreed to the wage. Whether or not I actually believed this to be fair, or if I was just too timid to protest, I cannot recall.

My first shift proceeded typically – I learned the mechanics of the register, familiarized myself with our small menu, and became acquainted with Turkish cuisine. I worked alongside two women, both relatives of Ramazan, who had moved to the country to pursue a promise of work at the Cafe. Bedrunnisa* was an older woman with a gentle smile and tired eyes. Since she didn’t speak English, we communicated primarily through gestures and animated facial expressions. Saran, on the other hand, was just five years my senior. With her I felt both instant rapport and slight intimidation; she towered over me, her smooth dark hair falling to the small of her back, an irrepressible fire behind her eyes. Over cigarettes she would spit words out like popcorn kernels, furiously ranting about Ramazan’s overworking and underpaying the staff, and the staffs’ inability to take action due to their illegal status.

A week after being hired, Ramazan told me that the following morning, I was to open the café by myself; this entailed preparing both soups for the day. At the time, my culinary skills were limited to doctoredup boxes of Pasta-Roni. For training, I shadowed Bedrunnisa for the day, notebook in hand, scribbling directions in my journal. Instead of using measuring spoons or cups, she used an arbitrary collection of utensils that prompted my notes to read as the following: 3 big cups water, 2 ½ handful onion, soup spoon thyme, 3 wooden spoons margarine, 1 ½ soup bowls flour, half lid full dry mint, etc. To add to the confusion, Bedrunnisa did not follow a linear path of “recipe” making; this resulted in my notes meandering through a labyrinth of clam chowder, spanakopita, lentil soup, Greek salad and hummus. Occasionally Bedrunnisa would gesture to me with a spoon to which I would nod, feigning comprehension. After a bewildering training session, Ramazan rewarded me with a key.

I don’t recall my fate at No Boundaries Café – whether I left on good terms, how many months I worked there, or if I ever even received a paycheck. The morning that I opened was the only day that Bedrunnisa was allowed to take off from work, the only day I was ever asked to make the soup. Occasionally in the years that followed I would see her painting names on grains of rice for pendant jewelry at the Seattle center, and I’d offer a smile hello. Ramazan ended up chaining himself to the Café when the Market threatened to expel him for repeated lapsing on rent. (I’ve heard he’s now a proud owner of a hot dog stand in downtown Seattle – “The best hot dogs in town, folks!!”.) Despite being an avid journal writer during those years, the only mention of the Café in my journals can be found in the opening line on April 27th 2004: “Yesterday I worked with Saran and made the soups all by myself.”

No Boundaries Café had piqued a pride in me that I hadn’t previously experienced – pride in creating a dish from scratch, pride in the independence of opening the doors of a restaurant, and pride in myself for accomplishing a task, albeit menial, that I wasn’t certain I could execute. I learned the important lesson that confidence can materialize simply from trudging through and faking it. Though I don’t consider my time at No Boundaries to be terribly significant otherwise, every time I venture to prepare clam chowder or lentil soup, I’ll pull out my old journal and attempt to follow along.

* My memory doesn’t have access to her real name, aside from recalling that it was Turkish and began with the letter B. I see it fit to call her Bedrunnisa, which means face of the bright side of the moon.

Any nerves I ever have regarding the contents of tomorrow have always manifested in my dreams. My fears amalgamate, forming grossly sensationalized nightmares depicting worst-case scenarios; the night before opening for the first time at No Boundaries was no exception. Scattered imagery of distorted soup pots, missing ingredients, and blinding lights set the scene for a fanatical Ramazan chiding me for my wrongdoings. In short, I was terrified.

Upon reaching Pike Place in my waking life, I restlessly made my way through the buzz of vendors hurriedly pushing their carts towards the ribcage of The Market, finding some solace in our shared anticipation of day. I’d arrived especially early, ensuring ample time to account for any missteps. The unlit Café loomed ominously in its corner, and the turning of the key into the doors lock acted to rev the ignition of my trepidation. Scarred from the incessant rebuking of my flower shop boss, along with the dread instilled from the previous night’s dreams, I was petrified to disappoint. The latch clicked. The door swung open. I took a deep breath and entered the restaurant.

I switched on the lights, checked the contents of the line, turned on the dishwasher, and opened my notebook for further direction. It was then that I realized just how disorganized my notes were, each scrawled ingredient an ambiguous constituent to any one of five recipes. I fumbled around for ingredients, tried to recall the meaning of “big spoon,” and hesitantly measured “little carrots, (1 ½ handful) celery, onion (more onion),” adding these vegetables to the pot. Piecing together the directions, I eventually constructed two dishes that quite closely resembled soup, and opened the restaurant for business. Though the clam chowder maybe didn’t taste like ‘The Best in the Market!’, and the color of the lentil soup was not quite as vibrant as it had been the day before, I was pleased with my accomplishment. Still frazzled as the first customer entered the Cafe, I nervously watched as she took a spoonful of the lentil soup into her mouth. Neither scowl nor scorn washed over her face, and I breathed a sigh of relief. When Ramazan arrived a few hours later he lifted the lids off each hot-held soup, breathed in their steamy aromas, and, partly to himself and partly to me, simply said, “Good.”