Bali Soup

When my college friend, Perin, said she couldn’t find anyone to fill in for her Thursday evening, I said I could help.

She got very excited at my offer. "Really? You'll fill in for me at the refectory? I've been asking everybody and none of them could help."

"Sure," I said, unaware of why everyone else had plans for that evening except for me.

It turned out that she was going to the most popular event at school, the annual fashion show. After I realized that I was apparently the only person not going or even not aware of the event, I was sort of mad at myself. But Perin was so excited to go and I couldn't go back on my word.

I reported to the refectory at the appointed time and reported to the guy she told me to. The refectory was the fancy name for "cafeteria" at our school. Although refectory should conjure up some elaborate place, the food was served cafeteria style, with people going through the lines with their trays and requesting their individualized meals. My task that evening would be to stand behind the line and serve up the food. I had been though the line many, many times before and I knew that the menu changed with each dinner.

The guy I reported to showed me where to find my apron, gloves, and hair net. "Put deese on and stand ovah thayah," pointing to one end of the entrée section, "I'll give ya mooah instructions latah."

The Rhode Island accent was not unusual for me. I had already lived there three years for college and I had grown up in Massachusetts. I also omitted Rs and added Rs and slurred my "THs" and altered the number of syllables. It wasn't random, it was accepted.

After I had tied the apron around my waist, wrapped my hair with that crazy net, and placed the latex gloves on my hands, I did as I was told and stood at the end of the dinner section. The soups were located here. The guy who had been giving me instructions said that the vegetarians want soup and tonight it's Bali Soup.

I didn't know many vegetarians; it wasn't as common as it is today. I didn't know what they ate – though I knew it was different from what I ate. Bali Soup sounds different. Sounds like something that was created from the island of Bali. "Bali High, I'm calling. Bali High, come to me." It was a song from the musical, South Pacific. Very exotic, I thought. This soup probably has some of those unusual vegetables you'd find on some tiny island out in the Pacific.

So, when a customer came through the line and what the soup was tonight, I said, "Bali Soup." I didn't know what it was but I figured they would recognize the name as something they've had before and would want more.

As the night went on and I told them what the soup was, I was a little surprised at how many times I had to repeat the name. I spoke a little louder and clearer, hoping that would help out.

Some of them repeated the name back to me, "Bali Soup? What's that?"

"It's Bali Soup. It's the vegetarian soup." I didn't mean to single out the vegetarians but they kind of put me on the spot.

Another sort of laughed and smiled and asked, "Bali? Are you from around here?"

What a strange question to ask me. What has the name of the soup got to do with where I'm from? I'm not eating the soup; I'm serving it to other people. Do you want it or not?

They scrunched up their face as they repeated exactly what I had just told them. "Bali Soup?" they continued to ask. "What's in it?"

"I don't know. I guess it comes from Bali."

Enough people were asking for it that I was running out. "More Bali Soup!" I shouted back to the kitchen. "We're running out of Bali Soup!"

I have to admit I felt kind of proud that my soup was so popular. Why wouldn't it be? It's from Bali. It's what the vegetarians eat. They like soup and they want more of it.

The new batch of soup arrived when there was a break in customers. I had a chance to look at the soup a little closer. I was very curious by now. Curious not only about what was in it but also by the puzzled expressions many customers gave me right after I told them the name.

As I lifted the ladle and moved the ingredients around in the giant container, I saw lots of little oval shaped white things. They were about the size of rice but a little fatter. As I stirred the soup with the ladle, I thought to myself, "I wonder if this is barley. And maybe this is Barley Soup." Long pause in my silent thinking. "Maybe my boss pronounces 'barley' without the R and says 'bali'. Of course! This is Barley Soup. Vegetarians eat barley and this is barley soup."

I immediately replayed those customers' quizzical faces. Some of them accepted the soup and others declined. Was it because they had no idea what I had said and wasn't interested in trying it? Maybe others tried it because it sounded exotic? Enough people took it that I had to ask the kitchen for more.

"Bali" Soup and "Barley" Soup is the same thing. It just so happens we're in Rhode Island and the guy who told me the name lives in Providence so of course he pronounces "Barley" the same as "Bali."

I laughed at myself for incorrectly interpreting my own accent. I felt bad for the vegetarians who would have accepted Barley soup had they known that's what it was.

And the fashion show that I missed? I heard it was spectacular. But I bet it wasn't as exotic as Bali Soup.