In Gabrielle Hamilton's last Eat column, she considered what it takes to feed a village.

Give any friend a story

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Everyone here remembers the story of Shitang. It starts with a pot of water and ends with a delicious big pot of soup. There is always a stranger—a person who has nothing but a stone—and a certain kind of village. The villagers reject the stranger at first, but in the end they make a miraculous, delicious, and satisfying ending. Has made his own contribution.

I have seen many versions of Stone Soup stories, in which the stranger is a tramp, three soldiers, a barefoot monk, some Chinese fishermen, or a few witches. There is even an interpretation of the story, including a Somali boy, a big wave surfer, a political lobbyist and an entrepreneur-centric story. The stones are ordinary stones, some are specially polished stones, and some are bones, nails, buttons on jackets, magic shells and even fox tails. The final soups are Asian fish stew, Passover matzah soup, Muslim feast, Caribbean bisque and borscht. As for the entrepreneur I mentioned? In the end, it was not soup at all that entered the cauldron, but a successful business career.

But from here to there, from water to soup, from nothing, from friction and resistance to that contented and full village, I have always been most interested in it. How do we get there? I am a little surprised that there is no version about restaurants and their owners. They create something from scratch every day to feed all the villagers. Or one about the chefs, who are obviously standing in the middle of the village square, stirring their pot from the beginning.

In the version of stone soup that I was introduced to when I was young, a very old woman was sitting next to a big pot of hot water in the village. There was only one stone in the pot, stirring contentedly. Curious passers-by came over and asked her what she was doing. When she said, they all reacted suspiciously. And their disbelief. And their unsolicited suggestions. But, in the end, their contribution. The villagers added what they could eat to the pot, and each portion made the broth a bit more delicious-a cabbage, an onion, a piece of old bread crust, and a bit of lamb neck or shin bones. Of course, a potato, a handful of salt and an old carrot from the cellar were then offered until everyone, even the skeptical at first, was very satisfied. In fact, happy. During the whole process, the old woman just stirred her pot carefully, obviously satisfied.

In 1999, when I tried to open my Prune restaurant in this once beloved tavern space, I was sure I had this version in my mind until it suddenly closed inexplicably. We will clean, paint and move the chairs with the door open-this is a version of stirring hot water in your own pot with only a stone at the bottom-people will stick their heads out: very excited at first I thought that their beloved old restaurant was back, but soon I was disappointed to learn that it would be a new place. I am inexperienced and unsure, and feel a little disturbed by their early suspicions: you should open a vegetarian shop! You should copy the menu from the busy place next door and collect their spills! Would you call it Prune? They frowned. I finally spread paper on the window, locked the front door, and then re-stirred my pot faithfully. For the next 20 years, we fed this village.

As chefs, we used to think of this fable as a template or guide recipe for the “family meal” of our daily employees that we need to create with leftovers every day-not at the level of fables, but in a practical way. The chef assigned to this meal did nothing at first, and quickly scanned the walk-in refrigerator and noticed that we had a large amount of green beans starting to fade, for example, she started building from there. In the beginning, feeding our entire small village with some regretful green beans seemed severe and impossible. But that is her stone. From there, she went to all her colleagues — the person who made the stir-fry that night, the girl in charge of the cold station, etc. — and humbly begged everyone for some leftovers: some cooked potatoes, one A large handful of sliced ​​shallots may be minced cod from the chef who slaughtered the fish that day. Then she searched for a few minutes in the pantry, dry goods shelves and dairy crates. Maybe she would find a pot of cooked white beans, diced tomatoes or roasted peppers. Or a cup of rice, a pint of dried lentils, a few eggs that she can boil softly. Of course, she can use a little sesame oil, if she wants to go in that direction, or if she goes in that direction, she can use tarragon vinegar. As they said, now she is cooking with gas.

In all versions of the story, there are resistance, doubt, fear, stinginess, scarcity, or doubt that must be overcome first. There are many iterations to overcome this friction or resistance, depending on the chef. The fox deceives the tares in the foxtail version. These three soldiers are particularly charming, interesting and lively in the soldier version. In the witch's version, the witch is convincingly scary.

What are the many possible meanings of this incredible fable? Is this a multiplayer story? A story about community and generosity? A religious story about charity, the whole thing has the tone of a barefoot Jesus? Is this a story about wit and creativity out of thin air? This is the thing about stone soup recipes: this is what we do.

Obviously, I have always liked people like this: you start with a smart and sincere idea, and are very loyal to your idea, bow your head, and do your work the way you think it should be done. You stir your pot faithfully and contentedly, letting the idea itself capture the imagination and curiosity of the villagers. I especially like that you bring enough of your own—no more, no less—and it’s better when you leave the village than when you find it. I am leaving this column, this is my last time, because I returned to the dining room to start cleaning and moving the furniture, and finally, in the next few months, remove the paper from the window again. I hope this version of the story will still be valid many years later. I hope this will be a lot like a family dinner game, but with larger families, villagers, sitting at the table, they will all make their enthusiastic contributions to the soup.