Mushrooms Magic in the Mushroom Kingdom
Mushrooms and magic really shouldn’t be in the same sentence.
Unless we’re talking about Super Mario Bros. best game ever made if you ask me.
But outside of 16-bit worlds, mushrooms and I have a very real, very earthly history.
I was sixteen, desperate to earn enough money for my first moped, when I landed a summer job in a local lunchroom. “Lunchroom” makes it sound tame; this place was absolutely wild. A chaotic symphony of sizzling grills, clattering plates, ringing service bells, and the occasional shouted “Nummer 7 al klaar?!”
But it was my first real job in a kitchen, and to me it felt like stepping backstage at the greatest show on earth.
I baked. I grilled. I deep-fried. I plated dishes with the kind of pride only a teenager in his first apron can feel, from cordon bleu to saté to perfect medium-rare steaks that made me feel like a tiny Dutch Anthony Bourdain. It was messy and hot and loud. And I savoured every single second of it.
But the mushroom story… that one really stands out.
To get the job, I had to pass a small test.
Not a culinary exam, mind you.
A mushroom-cutting speed trial, as if I was hurdling down the Rainbow road chased by Bowser.
The head cook placed a tub of button mushrooms in front of me.
“The goal is ten mushrooms per minute,” he said. “Not too thick, not too thin. Go.”
Adrenaline pumping, my pride on the line, moped dreams in full colour, I sliced twenty. Neat enough, quick enough. I got the job. I floated home that day.
I probably shouldn’t have floated, though.
Because the first task of my very first shift was making… mushroom soup.
Now, if you love mushroom soup, stop reading here. Seriously. Go make a sandwich or read another recipe like my Greatest of all time Mushroom soup. Because what I learned that morning ruined mushroom soup for me for twenty years.
We didn’t start with a broth or stock or lovingly sautéed mushrooms.
No.
We started with a pure white, gelatinous block, a giant industrial soup base with an ingredient list long enough to circumnavigate the globe. Into the kettle it went. Then a frozen block of yesterday’s leftover soup, twenty litres of water, a lonely maybe kilo of sliced mushrooms, and a handful of parsley for colour. Heated to exactly 80°C. And there it stayed from 8 a.m. until the first customers wandered in for lunch.
That mushroom soup was the only thing I refused to eat in that place.
And honestly? I still feel vindicated.
The other soups didn’t fare much better. The tomato soup had barely seen an actual tomato. The chicken soup? Let’s just say the chicken only participated spiritually.
But everything else, the grilled meats, the sandwiches, the sates they were all made fresh. The chaos had heart. And that little lunchroom gave me something far better than a moped: my first taste of real kitchen life. Hot, frantic, imperfect and exactly the kind of magic that stays with you.
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