Backerbsensuppe

Every Austrian child has a favourite Suppeneinlage, a favourite soup garnish, and if you ask most of them, they'll say Backerbsen before you've finished the question. In my grandmother Eva's kitchen in Kent, I'd stand on my stool and watch her drop tiny beads of batter into a pot of hot oil. They'd puff up into golden little balls, perfectly round, and I'd eat half of them straight off the kitchen paper before they ever reached the soup. Eva would look at Gretel. Gretel would look at Eva. Nobody said a word.

Backerbsen means 'baked peas,' which is a lie on two counts: they're fried, not baked, and they're made of batter, not peas. But they do look like peas when they're done, tiny golden spheres that float on the surface of clear Rindssuppe and bob gently when you carry the bowl to the table. The first ones you eat are still crisp, with a gentle crunch that gives way to the warm broth underneath. By the time you reach the bottom of your bowl, the last few have gone soft and pillowy, soaked through with beef broth and completely different from what they were two minutes ago. You're supposed to enjoy both stages. That's not a flaw; it's the design.

The recipe is almost absurdly simple. Eggs, flour, milk, a grating of nutmeg. You let the batter rest, you drop it into hot oil in tiny amounts, and you fish out golden pearls. The only real skill is controlling the size and keeping your oil at the right temperature. Everything else is patience. What makes this soup sing is what's underneath the Backerbsen: your broth. If the broth is good, if it's real, clear, honest Rindssuppe, then these silly little fried peas become something that grown adults will order at a Gasthaus without a shred of embarrassment.