Eating a perfect caldo on a hot day is the culinary equivalent of swimming in Scrooge McDuck’s vault.
It’s rich. It’s tender. And it’s all mine, damn it.
Maybe that’s just me. Maybe it’s because when I close my eyes to dream of the perfect soup, I’m always nine years old sitting in a tiny yellow house in Paramount eating caldo de papa while DuckTales makes me forget about the beating I took that day at school. And the caldo’s incredible colors, heat, and flavors gave me the same satisfaction this old cartoon billionaire got from swimming in a sea of gold.