Although it was seasonally appropriate, French onion soup was hardly the food item at the top of their list. And yet, as is the way, they went for the most affordable option. They weren’t going to get the thirty-something-euro entrecôte, after all. And that was the thing about these types of restaurants: there was no in-between price point. It was either fourteen-euro nothings or thirty-something and above “hearty fare.” Rina and Pablo were not in any kind of financial position for the latter, and yet, shelling out fourteen also felt like too much for what they would be getting in exchange for the so-called lower price tier.

But it wasn’t “low” when considering that the actual offering was, as Rina and Pablo found out (after about twenty minutes of waiting). For all that fourteen euros bought you in a place like this was a small bowl (a finger bowl size, really) of tepid French onion soup. Emphasis on tepid. For that was, as far as Rina and Pablo were concerned, the most affronting thing about the generally insulting dish. Oh sure, the presentation and the taste were offensive too, but the tepidity was the coup de grâce of getting across the message, “You’re too broke ass for us to bother with trying to please you.” Because it was true that paying for something was no longer a guarantee that you would “get what you paid for.” Not if it wasn’t a certain price point, that is. A reality that Rina and Pablo were being forcibly reminded of with this tepid-verging-on-cold soup.

Rina felt the most culpable for the disappointing experience, for it was she who had pushed them into this particular location after roughly forty minutes spent roving through the Odéon area, only to end up going in circles and finding that, contrary to popular opinion, tenacity and perseverance do not lead to “the desired result.” But no, as it turns out, all it leads to is, well, a vicious cycle and hoping that something might change. But the only thing that did, for Rina, was that her desperation level became elevated enough to succumb to a choice she had previously turned her nose up at. And yes, this was because of the menu’s price disparities, billing mozzarella sticks (or beignets de mozzarella, as the French so eloquently put it) as an “entrée” even though, to poors like Rina and Pablo, it would have to serve as the main course when, at best, the portion they were being given could be described as an amuse-bouche. Rina’s push toward this establishment also stemmed from another type of desperation: needing to use the toilette. And although the frigidity of the temperature had helped to “freeze” the urine inside of her, so to speak, it had presently reached the threshold and was about to burst forth.

And so, although Pablo might have had the stamina to continue their search for the ideal menu in terms of price, Rina had to be the one to cry oncle, abruptly stopping in front of a posh-looking restaurant, generically named L’Odéon, and asserting, “Let’s just go in here.” Pablo hesitated before conceding, wanting to ask if she was sure, but realizing their time together was short, and that he might as well “surrender Dorothy,” to use The Wizard of Oz parlance. At one point in time, Pablo and Rina had been what could be described as “best friends.” However, in the years since their lives took them to different cities—her to Paris and him to Cascais—they had grown apart. Of course, their bond would never be broken, but there was no denying that it had been frayed during the time apart.

What’s more, both of them had been wrapped up in the new lives they were cultivating. For Rina, that was an all-consuming internship at LVMH that she kept praying every day would land her, at some point in the near future, an actual high-paying job that would then prevent her from having to walk around for forty minutes hoping to find an “affordable” dining option. Of course, she would never say something like this aloud because she knew it would be billed as “white people problems.” And Pablo would be the first to tell her that. For, as someone who was Afro-Portuguese (hence, ending up in Portugal again after growing up in Spain), his skin tone did not afford him the same privileges as Rina, fair-skinned Spaniard that she was. Indeed, this had become a point of contention for them at different moments during their friendship—with tensions flaring up whenever Pablo called Rina out for simply not “getting it” when it came to the double standards he faced because of his darkness. Especially in Cascais, considered the backbone of the Portuguese Riviera.

Because of the wealth that flocked there, racism was endemic to the town, its history steeped in being overrun by “nobility.” But when Pablo secured a job as a croupier at the famed Estoril Casino (as in, the casino that Ian Fleming used as the inspiration behind Casino Royale), he couldn’t turn it down. Never in a million years did he think he would get hired, only adding to the sense that he absolutely had to uproot his existence in Lisbon and just go for it. Even though it would mean feeling alone in a far more profound way than ever before. But it would also mean, for the first time in his life, steady employment. Reliable work. Granted, it still wasn’t exactly a “robust” salary. Hence, the current state of affairs at L’Odéon: tepid French onion soup. And, to both parties’ surprise, tepid conversation.

After all the buildup of finally coordinating a time when both would be “free enough” to see one another over this particular weekend in early December, they found the other to be lacking in some way. It wasn’t that they struggled to find things to talk about, but there was a palpable distance that hovered between them. So perhaps, in a certain sense, the tepid French onion soup was a reflection of this particular hangout session, this newfound dynamic. But in another, more primary sense, it was simply a cost-oriented reflection of the ongoing expulsion of non-affluent people from any and all institutions and establishments. Restaurants especially.

Though both Rina and Pablo commented on the jarring temperature of the soup, neither of them said anything to the waiter about it. Not just because both were aware of the thanklessness of the job (or any “public-facing” job, really), but because neither of them seemed to care enough about this outing to somehow make it feel “above and beyond.” Or even par, for that matter. In short, it was a tepid experience to mirror a tepid reunion. And one that likely wouldn’t be happening again anytime soon.