I recently went on a mission to find the best soup in town. An ambitious claim, to be sure–for a food critic perhaps. Fortunately I am no such thing (no offense, food critics). I am a simple gastrophile, and so the needles on my gastronomic compass turn on more subjective criteria.
I did know, however, that while I made no pretense to a gourmet’s judgment, and certainly did not wish to offend the serious soup eater, I had to have some criteria on which to base my judgment! And here they are in all their presumptive glory: the soup had to (a) be served at a reasonable temperature, (b) have an appealing consistency, (c) be reasonably healthy, (d) pack a delicious punch of flavor, and (e) be less than $8 per individual serving. Anyway, it’s a rough measuring rod.
One more preliminary: I couldn’t very well taste every soup in Augusta, which means I had to ignore some soup providers. Okay, I suppose I could have tasted them all, but again, I’m not aiming to impress anyone who reads, say, Food & Wine or who claims that sea salt tastes different from table salt. Besides, I’m not interested in tasting every soup in Augusta just in order to say “This one is the best!” It’s easy to admit: I could be wrong. So, I totally arbitrarily narrowed this huge field of competitors to three soup providers with which I am familiar: Panera, Boll Weevil, and Sunshine Bakery.
And since by now you’ve waited (maybe) long enough for my judgment, I’ll give it first, before giving the explanation. Although Boll Weevil’s corn chowder certainly gave a fine run, I have found Sunshine Bakery’s split-pea soup to be the best.
Walking up to the storefront, I chuckled to see a sandwich board announcing in bold letters “Voted Best Soup In Augusta,” a declaration that seemed to have rendered my mission over before it had begun. But since the announcement was from Augusta Magazine’s 2005 Best Of issue, I thought the 14-year-old judgment could have outlived its accuracy. And anyway, I was hungry. I told my competent server that I’d have water to drink, foregoing the pleasure of Sunshine Tea so as not to taint my palette with any flavor that might compete with those of the soup. I waited for only a couple minutes.
When the gastronomic delight was brought, I paused to notice the simplicity of the moment. I sat under the broad viewing window opening onto sunshiny Broad Street, at a small Formica-topped table outfitted with a retro napkin dispenser, basic salt and pepper shakers and two standard squeeze bottles–a red one (hot mustard) and a yellow one (spicy brown mustard). Before me sat a universally recognizable polycarbonate soup mug–token of durability and economy–filled to the brim with a full 12 ounces of steaming green salvation. I’ve heard it said that green is, perhaps because of its association with earthiness and “naturalness,” soothing to the eye. Peas are of course green, but the soup is not a Kelly green; neither is it a dark seaweed green, nor a light mint green. Gross. The best I can do is to put it somewhere between olive and pear green. That’s about all I noticed before giving it four strong dashes of pepper and taking the nondescript cafeteria soup spoon and setting to.
It was hot, but not scalding; anyway, my throat did not have to be extinguished by my water after the first slurp. Criterion (a), check. After the second spoonful, I did have to season it a bit with salt. I learned later that the master soup-maker and owner of the bakery, Gene Gurley, in an effort to make the soups a little healthier–and despite the risk that doing so would render them bland–decided to use half the amount of salt the inherited recipes called for. This was not a strike to me; patrons could simply salt to their taste. I added two dashes. Perfect!
The peas were of course predominant, but Gurley’s masterstroke is that he’s found the right proportion of tasty complementary ingredients and seasonings–the earthiness of carrot and celery, the zesty bite of onion, the ginger heat of turmeric (among other spices). So, criterion (d), check.
As for criterion (c), who can honestly say that a soup of peas, carrots, celery, and onions is unhealthy? There should be no doubt about that. In fact, all of Sunshine’s soups are either gluten-free or vegan. Check. Big check!
When it comes to cost, all competitors meet criterion (e), but Sunshine Bakery shines a little brighter. For a 12-oz. serving, Panera charges $5.29 and Boll Weevil $5.59; Sunshine bests that by a bit, charging only $4.95 for the same amount (not including the chili). Or, if you’re planning on a soup marathon, you can buy a quart of any of Sunshine’s soups for $6.95.
That leaves criterion (b)–appealing consistency. Although the split-pea soup is vegan, it does not look like a broth with vegetables added. But it shouldn’t. The texture of the soup is roux-like without actually being a roux, as Gurley uses no flour or fat to thicken any of his soups. The thickness comes from the normal process of cooking, which breaks the peas down, and from the pureed celery and caramelized onions. It is slightly lumpier than, say, Gerber’s baby food. And after you savor it, I think you’ll feel pampered. Criterion (b), check.
Sunshine Bakery does not offer all its soups every day; it is a du jour operation. Only chili is offered every day. It is closed on Sunday, and it doubles-up on Monday and Thursday with potato soup. If you’re doing the math, that’s four soups, plus the chili, to choose from. But don’t worry, you soup connoisseurs, Gurley says that he actually has a tomato-based vegetable soup that the menu does not mention, so make that a total of five soups. The menu is easily accessible from their Facebook page, so I’ll say only that the split-pea is served on Tuesday.
Unlike customers in the well known “Soup Nazi” episode of Seinfeld, you will not have to stand in a long line outside the doors of the Sunshine Bakery to get a bowl of the best soup in Augusta. (In fact, that’s true of any soup-serving restaurant in Augusta.) But don’t misinterpret that. This diminutive bakery and deli is easy to miss, sandwiched between the sprawling Firestone store and the Empire Building on Broad Street. I’ve never seen a printed advertisement or billboard for Sunshine, which may explain why there are no long lines of customers, but it suggests a humble confidence both in their product and in people. Sunshine Bakery must know that good food is its own advertisement; it attracts loyal customers.