I’m going to tell you something straight from the jump; this is not going to be a negative review. If you were hoping for one of my 0 out of 10 eviscerations, I hate to disappoint you, but this will not be one of those. Before I tell you that this soup and sandwich combination is an easy 10 out of 10, let me give you some personal context. I love sandwiches. I love soup. So, when I heard that a restaurant called “Maria’s Bread Sandwiches” was moving in, a six-minute walk from my house, I was appropriately giddy. The name said it all for me. If you’re going to put “sandwiches” right in the title of the restaurant then put your name on it, I instantly know that you are not about no play time with your sandwich craft (or ‘Wichcraft,’ as I like to refer to it). In fact, I was so instantly positively biased toward the place that I found myself defending the name to critics.

“Bread sandwiches?” someone scoffed to me. “What other type of sandwich is there?”

“Well,” I started. It was a loaded prefix. It implied a clearing of the throat and a full body stretch in preparation for obliterating an ill-thought thesis. I continued, “ice cream sandwiches… sandwich cookies… knuckle sandwiches, and the Sand Witch, who appears in multiple SpongeBob SquarePants episodes.”

I believe they replied something to the effect of, “I guess” but they were just the dying words of a fallen soldier. Victory was mine.

But you look here, Maria… (I’ve just decided that I’m going to write the rest of this directly to (or at) the proprietor). You’ve got no goddamned right to take the quintessence of comfort soup and make enhancements to it. A staple is a staple is a staple. But thank you so much. For, upon first slurp, I felt inside as if I were a subtly roasting tomato floating atop a steamy tomato soup river upon a cheesy toast, as the wafting umami of my grilled cheese caddy filled my sinuses with comfort. It was very emotional.

For one thing, Jersey tomatoes are remarkable. They are sweet and savory in perfect balance. My mom used to eat them like apples. You can just slice one up, drizzle some EVOO on there and a little sprinkle of salt and you’ve got yourself some good eatin. But you didn’t do that, Maria. Oh no, you’ve done what I can only guess is some miraculous artisanal shit to these tomatoes, which I assume involves some roasting and simmering and scientifically balanced seasoning. Perhaps you used a gram scale to measure the kosher salt and crushed peppercorns? Is there some cumin in there, Maria? Then you splashed a touch of cream in there. Not so much as to cheat the palette in that way that over-creaming or over-cheesing tricks the mind into assuming something is delicious (though it is). No, you didn’t do that. I think you just misted the cream over the simmering pot and let the creamy, dancing particulates settle on the surface like the first dusting of snow. Then, you blend it in there and it’s somehow just enough to let the consumer know that they’re about to be utterly satisfied with this bowl of pleasure – just enough to let the tomatoes speak for themselves.

And what do those tomatoes say? They say, “Welcome, friend. You are with us now. Let me show you around. Right here we have your tastebuds. You likely think of them as mere receptors for perceiving sweet, salty, sour, etc. But no. You should really think of these as instruments of flavor. Take these sweet ones over here…” The tomato grabs a handful of your tastebuds and stretches them out, then plays them like harp strings, initiating a cacophony of subtly distinct sweetness upon your mouth. Then they do the same with salty and umami tastebuds before showing you what happens when they are played in orchestra. You then lay there and die from a flavor overdose and the tomatoes resuscitate you because they’re the best. Yes, Jersey tomatoes are the best. Yes, that had been my point all along.

Wait… Hold on. Is that a little chili oil on top of there? Maria, you naughty girl. I knew I felt a little tingle manifesting on the back of my tongue. You really did think of everything. I think I got some green onion in that bite too. Some parsley?

And I didn’t even get to talking about the Mushroom Grilled Cheese. This is a top-two grilled cheese of my lifetime. Firstly, I just knew you were going to throw Cooper Sharp on there. I mean, why the hell not, right? Did you also forage your own proprietary blend of mushrooms? Did you then sauté them in the artisanal butters of the old country? These mushrooms certainly were not soaked in water. You know better than to squander the pungency like that. You must have lovingly hand-brushed the earthy grit from each one yourself. And then there’s the formidable toasting of the oiled sourdough – enough to stand up to such an insidiously delicious soup. I’m a dunker – I dunked that bad boy right into that soup and let me tell you, the marriage of those two must have been written betwixt the stones of the pyramids and blessed by a high priestess and told to generations of dreaming children before it finally came to be right there on Haddon Ave.

I’m sorry about that, Maria. I may have veered too far into the world of the fantastical and lost my footing in reality. But you knew that would happen. It’s your soup. It’s your sandwich.

If I can give one warning to future eaters of this soup, however, it is this: Let the soup cool before you try it. I have it on good authority that Maria cooks it atop volcanic coals from Asgard, as it is the hottest item I have ever attempted to eat, and the worst part is that you can’t stop eating it once you start. All you can do at that point is to hope your exhale breath after swallowing some is sufficient to cool the next reflexively incoming spoonful before it burns your face off all over again.

Verdict: 10 out of 10