I’ve always felt that comfort food is overused as a trope. I have never once connected with an actual dish as a source of comfort. Maybe this is a function of my suburban upbringing. Maybe it’s because I’m officially in my mid-30s, which means there’s now a layer of carpet around my heart.
But I do believe in the idea of institutional comfort, that a diner or bar or restaurant can provide succor in times of emotional stress, and that you can take that comfort with you out into the real world, wear it like a suit of armor, even. I’ve found this comfort at a Tacoma soup counter.
Infinite Soups is a tiny space with no seating, flanked on both sides by vast empty storefronts at the edge of Tacoma’s downtown and north end (445 Tacoma Ave S). These were once billiard halls and comedy clubs with a blue-collar clientele. More than a decade after leaving Tacoma to live in bigger, more expensively gloomy cities, I became an unexpected regular at the shop through the fall and winter of 2017. My return was spurred by cancer—my father’s.
