It’s funny how the meaning of locations changes when we lose someone. What was once just a cafe to me is now a place I frequent to feel closer to the one I miss most. It doesn’t feel the same without him, yet having access to a space where his presence is felt means more than anyone could understand.

Not long before my partner died, we visited Soupear, a soup cafe on Opie Street. I had already been there a couple of times and hyped it up relentlessly to him, so his expectations were high. He ordered some kind of carrot soup, and I sat there nervously, desperate for him to fall in love with Soupear as I had. He didn’t even look at the salt and pepper shakers, which I think suggests whether he did or not.

My partner was a passionate cook who had nearly attended culinary school. He was always recipe testing and refusing to eat at restaurants because he could make it better (he was right). Even being able to drag him out to a cafe was a win, let alone him enjoying it. We were the only two people in there at the time, and I remember looking across at him, intently focused on this big bowl of soup and being in awe.

He was the type to appreciate Soupear’s dedication to seasonal and local produce, as well as their expertise in honing a particular cuisine. He always told me that he knew a restaurant was bad if there were too many options on the menu, a tip I’ll carry with me.

We then decided to order two different cheesecakes, matcha for him and Earl Grey for me. We swapped cakes every other bite, and as always, we preferred each other’s, so we ended up switching altogether.

I am not quite ready to eat another Soupear cheesecake, maybe because I only ordered them with him. They feel almost too close, but when I am, I’m sure it’ll bring me some comfort through these hard times.

In the last six months without him, I’ve been twice and felt a heaviness in my chest when I notice that this space means something different to me than it might for the other people visiting. For them, it might be their first time trying it out or a regular spot they hit for lunch. For me, it’s become a kind of visitation space for a cherished memory.

Whenever I complimented my partner’s cooking, he wouldn’t take credit for his skills, but instead, he would say that it was because he put some love into it. I’ll never get to eat his cooking again, which is one part of my grief that feels the heaviest, but when I visit Soupear, I can taste the care they put into their cooking and feel a little bit closer to him.

Image Credit: Isaac Minah