I was a weird little kid, as anyone who knew me growing up could tell you. For my birthday, the biggest treat was going to a restaurant downtown, now long gone, and having the French onion soup.

Carbur’s was all dark wood and 1900s ephemera. Tabletops featured old newspaper drawings of ladies with Edwardian hair and dapper men riding penny farthings. For a PBS Mystery-obsessed tween, the place was bliss. At cake time, the servers brought it over while playing assorted musical instruments.

But the best part was when the small brown earthenware pot covered in a thick crust of melted cheese arrived.