Omaha's first gourmet soup truck faces two ironic hurdles:

On those gray, chilly days when you most crave soup, you don't want to go outside to get it.

And soup's not ideal street food.

Still, I'm willing to brave the cold and damp and risk a few stains on my shirt when the soups and the star-shaped biscuits that go with them are as delicious as they have been lately at the aptly named Soup Revolution.

Sara DeMars Cerasoli, the classically trained Nebraska chef who is helping to bring the gourmet food truck trend to Omaha, sells three to five soups a day (along with a biscuit, a couple of salads and a few desserts) from a white, logo-emblazoned van.

Some days her van is at a private event or otherwise out of commission. But since its launch in late July, Soup Revolution has tended to land somewhere downtown or midtown around lunch most Tuesdays through Fridays.

Since the van's location hinges on foot traffic and available parking, DeMars Cerasoli often settles on a general area the night before and a more specific location the day of. The easiest way to find the van, short of just happening upon it, is to check soup-revolution.com around 11 a.m. (Click “Today's Menu” and a little box pops up with the latest Tweet or Facebook post, like this recent one: “we r @ 35th and farnam...chicken pot pie soup and biscuit! YUM”). You can also follow the eatery on Twitter or Facebook directly or sign up for the daily e-mail. You could call, too, I suppose, but that seems so 2009.

You'll need to bring cash, but not all that much: $2 for a biscuit or a dessert, $3 for a salad, $4 for a small soup, $5 for a large, $8 for a small-soup-salad-and-a-biscuit combo, $1 for a can of Jones soda. Tax is included, so there's no fussing with small change.

Of the soups I tried recently, several were exquisitely seasoned. All were hot and built on soup stocks that DeMars Cerasoli makes weekly in a rented portion of a restaurant kitchen in north downtown. Most were loaded with fresh, nicely chopped vegetables and herbs — some locally grown.

The French onion involved a rich beef stock laced with wine, balsamic vinegar, slow-cooked onions and melted cheese that settled to the bottom and came up in good gooey strings.

Beef and barley was simultaneously hearty (nutty barley, nicely seared chunks of good beef) and delicate (almost-floral bursts of juicy tomato, petals of soft onion and a silky-but-not-oily broth).

The white bean and fennel soup was loaded with garlic and wonderfully chewy white beans. Though it lacked fennel flavor, it tasted agreeably meaty.

And a roasted cauliflower soup had a dark, nutty, garlic funk; bits of shiitake mushroom; and a semi-puréed texture that kept it interesting.

Other soups from my earlier visits were more meekly seasoned or lacking balance — a thin and sour chicken-lime tortilla, a creamy but undersalted chicken pot pie, a not-very-meaty-or-spicy pork and beef chili and an overly sweet corn-and-potato chowder (with nevertheless wonderful potatoes).

Salads involved crisp romaine with either julienned radish and bell pepper or a mixture of pickled red onions, shredded carrots and sunflower seeds. Each came with a small cup of thin, milky, sweet-sour dressing that wasn't bad but didn't make me want to eat all my vegetables. DeMars Cerasoli told me later that she never makes the same dressing twice and has since begun offering a second option — spinach and arugula with grilled onions and tahini dressing, say, or something with couscous or pasta instead of greens.

Baked goods were more consistently craveable. A portobello mushroom crostini offered on one occasion was like an open-faced biscuit, topped with slivers of cooked mushroom and shredded Parmesan that had crisped and bristled like the gelled spikes atop celebrity chef Guy Fieri's bleached head. And the large, always-offered biscuits were addictive: fluffy-crumbly layers of golden-browned goodness, with a salt, butter and baking soda finish that made all the soups taste better after a dunk.

A berry turnover offered for dessert one day had a light glaze and a mouth-perkingly tart filling. And the s'mores brownie — a round cutout with a graham cracker crust on the bottom and bruleed mini marshmallows on top — was a tidy and tasty package truly reminiscent of the fireside treat.

The only baked bit I didn't dig was what DeMars Cerasoli calls her signature: a chocolate chip bread pudding she said her former clients in New York went nuts for. The one I got was sickly sweet and very wet, more like an underbaked muffin soaked with honey and sweetened condensed milk and studded with large chips of dark chocolate. I'm still not sure if I got an unusually soggy portion or if that's what she intended. Asked for clarification later, DeMars Cerasoli said only: “We'll never know.”

“Soup Nazi” jokes aside, there was no evidence of the Seinfeldian “No soup for you!” attitude: DeMars Cerasoli and other Soup Revolution servers were friendly, enthusiastic and helpful.

And, though you might like it best when the van's near a bench or a ledge where you can sit and eat, the soup crew does a good job of making its wares portable. Waxed paper cups kept soups hot, even when I hoofed it several blocks. And white sacks with handles made it all easy to carry, with or without umbrella.

The Soup Revolution van is smaller than the UPS-sized food trucks you might have seen elsewhere or on TV. Soup warmers and a beverage cooler eat up most of the interior, and the servers must stand outside. Small awnings offer some protection, but the chef and her fellow soup-slingers still are likely to get wet on rainy days and to need serious parkas come winter.

DeMars Cerasoli says the soup station will be rolling year-round.

“It's got to be,” she said. “I must sell soup.”

I like her commitment. I like her approach. I like the majority of what she's selling.

And, though I may grouse about venturing out in the elements for lunch, I like that we're all in this together — rain, snow or shine — on a sidewalk in Omaha.

Contact the writer:

444-1069, nichole.aksamit@owh.com