What We Eat When We Eat Alone Part 2

The Galisteo Inn, which is practically next door to us, had polenta with a vegetable ragout on the menu one night. It looked especially tempting to a robust, dreadlock-sporting African American potter named Sam Harvey, and a discussion about its possibilities ensued. Sam liked the sound of the dish because it reminded him of what he cooks for himself.

"When I eat alone, which is most of the time," Sam said, "I put on grits and after they've cooked for ten or fifteen minutes, I throw in some vegetables and fresh garlic. I use frozen veggies out of the bag. Peas are good, and so is corn, but any vegetable will do. Then I finish with some grated Parmesan. I have this for breakfast and for lunch. But for dinner I throw the frozen veggies in a skillet with olive oil, add water, sardines from a can or that other fish with a rich taste-anchovies!-maybe cubes of tofu or chunks of whatever protein is on sale. And I make a salad with olive oil and lemon juice for a dressing."

I was impressed that Sam made the dressing for his salad. Finally, here was someone who wasn't seduced by the false promises of bottled dressings built on dull oils, xantham gums, and corn syrup. But as a vegetable lover, I was somewhat dismayed by all those frozen veggies. But Sam spoke up for them as others have. "Frozen vegetables are terribly underrated. There are so many kinds and they don't go bad! You can break off just what you want to use and return the rest to the freezer without worry."

In the end, Sam ordered the salmon because, after all, grits and vegetables are what he cooks every day, and I had the polenta. And in the spirit of compromise, I came up with a dish for Sam that uses both fresh and frozen vegetables over polenta-corn on corn with scallions and shrimp, which might work for someone willing to cook something but not everything. In other words, polenta with corn and scallions plus sauteed shrimp is a partial slam-dunk approach.

A number of men like to modify canned soup. I am a fan of canned lentil soup simply modified, and I've also eaten my share of Amy's organic tomato soup with additions of avocado, lime juice, sour cream, and other goodies. You can improve a lot of canned or boxed soups using this method. Or expand upon them, I should say, for you should start with a decent soup to begin with and then make it better.

Patrick of the polenta smothered with braised greens recommends doctoring up chicken noodle soup by mas.h.i.+ng a clove of garlic, then "carelessly chopping five or six kalamata olives until the stones escape." Next, he sautes these in a tablespoon or so of good olive oil, "until they begin to be noticed," and finally dumps them in the chicken noodle soup and brings it to a simmer. "Let it simmer until it's all bubbly, then turn off the heat for a few minutes rest. Crumble up soda crackers in a bowl and pour the hot soup over that. Yum!"

An even simpler way to enhance a soup, especially a bean soup, invariably involves such basic ingredients as a capful of extra-virgin olive oil, a few parsley sprigs (or another herb) chopped with some garlic, freshly ground pepper, and shavings of Parmesan cheese. Toast is also good served on the side or broken up and added to the soup.

Toast, in fact, has been known to comprise the main part of the dinner menu for more than one solitary eater. This particularly simple means to a meal came from a Spanish chef and guitar player we met in Madrid. His answer to our question? "Grill sliced bread with b.u.t.ter on both sides in a skillet. Serve it with marmalade."

That's it! Not much of a meal, perhaps, but satisfying, especially if you need to be nourished after feeding others. Being a chef, he'd probably already tasted a lot of food while at work, and he just might have wanted to sit down to something that wasn't on the menu, wasn't a sample or a leftover, and wasn't a plate shared with others. Crisp, b.u.t.tered pan toast and marmalade would do the trick. No artifice involved, no chance of failure, just a good, honest bite to eat.

Another man, not a chef, also turned to toast when batching it. He calls his recipe "Meat and Toast." We were a little wary of it, but then, it wasn't the only time we had heard of pairing bacon with peanut b.u.t.ter. Here's what he says to do: "Nuke four pieces of peppered bacon wrapped in a paper towel until crisp but still juicy, about 3 minutes in the average microwave. Meanwhile, toast a slice of whatever bread you favor until brown and good smelling, then slather it with crunchy peanut b.u.t.ter. Chew a bit of bacon, take a bite of toast, have a slurp of coffee. Ahhhhh."

A panini machine has provided Patrick with an endless parade of good things to eat that are shelved between festive slices of grilled bread. Never inclined to make a regular sandwich, Patrick has taken to his panini machine with gusto. "Panini are warm and so much more satisfying to eat on a cold day than cold sandwiches," he explains. "Plus you can make two kinds at once, and you can slice them and serve them as appetizers." And you can forever improvise with the fillings. His panini with mustard greens and roasted peppers has become a house cla.s.sic, along with one made of grilled cheese and roasted green chile. When we made the bartender's grilled flank steak stuffed with mushrooms and more, we had a lot of the mushroom filling left over, as well as some Gruyere cheese. "All those fillings went into panini the next day and a day or two after that, and it was so good that now I make a version from scratch," says Patrick.

A fried egg sandwich is another toast-based meal that has its avid supporters. I myself am a huge fan of fried egg sandwiches-those crisp slices of wholesome toast, a really fresh egg from the farmers market, lots of pepper, and good b.u.t.ter. Owen Rubin told me about the fried egg sandwich he makes when his wife, Dianne, is away. He has a great twist on this cla.s.sic: he fries, rather than toasts, his bread, but only on one side. I saw how this worked when he made one for my breakfast-the crunchy b.u.t.tery side goes in toward the egg, and the soft and greaseless sides are the ones you hold so your fingers don't end up all greasy. Owen topped his with prosciutto and cheese, but of course, fried egg sandwiches can be less-or more-complicated. A recent favorite, for example, puts a fluffy cheese omelet with bacon and smoked chile between sliced, but not toasted, rosemary focaccia.

Another man, one in the food-importing business, also turns to toast, only his is covered with tomato sauce. "This is a spiceless recipe," he declares. "You must not go near a spice rack. I mean no spice. Just toast an English m.u.f.fin, pour a ton of Prego mushroom ragu over it, grate some cheese over the whole thing, and bake it in a toaster oven."

This isn't that far away from tomatoes on toast, a woman's favorite. The ragu makes for a somewhat l.u.s.tier topping, or try our version of an English m.u.f.fin with (spiceless) ragu and sharp cheddar. It happily recalls that nostalgic pairing of canned tomato soup and cheese sandwiches, only it's better, even without spice.

We've known farmers who, exhausted at the end of a long market day, will pick up a pizza for dinner. But Ed May, another farmer we used to know before he gave up farming in New Mexico and moved to Hawaii to tend a macadamia nut orchard, used to grow between twenty and thirty varieties of potatoes. Ed once hosted a potato-tasting party in which boiled potatoes were mindfully tasted, notes dutifully taken, and then washed down with as many varieties of vodka as there were tubers. That was fun and informative, but on more everyday occasions, Ed claimed to satisfy his solo cravings by covering toast not with potatoes, but with ratatouille, or his version of it.

He prefaced his bachelor supper, saying, "I've gotten so lazy," and then went on to describe making his ratatouille from scratch with roasted peppers, onion, garlic, eggplant, zucchini, and, finally, tomatoes. (Remember, not only did Ed start with raw materials in the kitchen, he actually grew them as well.) After making his stew, he pan-toasted bread with b.u.t.ter, oregano, basil, and thyme, then poured the ratatouille over the toast, still in its skillet, and melted some cheese on top of that, covering the whole thing with a lid. Not exactly your cla.s.sic ratatouille, but good enough by far.

On other days when Ed was no doubt unspeakably lazy, he would dig up some of his fingerling potatoes, sprinkle New Mexican red chile over them, and put them in a pan with b.u.t.ter, garlic, and a bit of onion. "Then I roast the whole thing in the oven and put Parmesan on top when the potatoes are done."

This is good. Even our simpler version is very good. So good that it's hard to eat just twenty-five golden roasted potato wedges dusted in smoldering red chile.

In contrast to Ed and his homegrown farmer's cooking, there's James Holmes, a Quaker cowboy artist and master of gutsy male cooking with an eye on the fat. Take, for example, his dish for chili con carne, which he makes when his wife is out playing in her country band. He swears it takes thirty minutes from start to finish.

"Buy ground sirloin. It's low in fat," he instructs. "Throw it in the pot without any oil, but add a little beer. Brown the meat and add three cans of pinto beans with jalapenos. Or you can subst.i.tute one can of Ranch Style black beans. Don't drain them; use them right out of the can. Throw in cinnamon and brown sugar and get it all cooking for twenty minutes. Put in some masa harina, 6 or 7 cloves of garlic, then add chopped cilantro and cook for one or two more minutes."

This would be rather garlicky, we imagine, which is fine if it's just you and your horse. But this isn't true for James's potatoes with green chile, a cla.s.sic combination in these parts. "Steam cubed potatoes or boil them in chicken broth and skip the b.u.t.ter. Mash them with crushed garlic. Add roasted green chile and a b.u.mp of c.u.min," he says. "And plan on beer for your beverage."

The same roasted green chile also goes into James's range gazpacho. "Take onion, tomato, cilantro, bell pepper, carrot, and more green chile, chunk it up in some V-juice, add lots of black pepper, and let it sit in the refrigerator. You've never had a gazpacho like this, but it's not bad for range cooking," James says.

Staying with the Southwest theme, a burrito is another basic food that does a good job of filling up that hollow leg. If you have beans, tortillas, cheese, and eggs, and, of course, some salsa or some good red chili, you can feed yourself all week, maybe even forever, on burritos. Breakfast or supper, they can be the same or they can differ. Actor John Flax has his own version of the burrito.

"I get a tortilla and put some steamed spinach in there with a chopped-up baked potato, yellow cheese, and hot sauce out of a bottle. Wrap it up in tinfoil and bake it in a toaster oven. Then peel back the foil, add more sauce, and eat."

Scrambled eggs are also good with the potatoes and spinach, or alone, and an eggy breakfast burrito is one you can eat day or night.

Do men eat salads when they're on their own? One describes what he eats as pretty basic stuff, and that includes salads. "Whatever's in the refrigerator," he says, "but no exotic lettuces. I find them too bitter. Carrots, regular lettuce, throw whatever in and put on a little olive oil. Done. Finished."

A wine and architectural enthusiast says that if it's just him alone he eats "pretty healthy." That is, he makes a salad "with greens and stuff, including arugula." But the three eat-alone meals he described-steak sandwiches with asparagus, frijoles with salsa fresca, and chilaquiles, sound nothing like salad even if they do sound good. As for their being pretty healthy, you can decide.

The idea of cooking a lot of asparagus and drawing from it at will is a good one. Just simmer it in salted water until it's tender, let it drain on a clean towel, and refrigerate. Dress it just before you eat it so it doesn't go gray on you. It's simple and straightforward, and you can do that with lots of vegetables-beets, green beans, and artichokes, too.

Although this is mostly a man's chapter, Amelia Saltsman also turns to a platter of roasted asparagus to eat off of over a few days, only hers is a bit more done up. "I roast two big bunches of the first thick asparagus from the farmers market with a bit of olive oil, Maldon sea salt, and black pepper. I boil up three Aurcana eggs (the blue ones), and make a whole-grain mustard vinaigrette. I crumble the eggs over the asparagus, pour the vinaigrette over all, and scatter some toasted stale, torn bread on that and, of course, a little more crunchy salt. I pick up the spears one by one. No utensils required other than a soup spoon to scoop up any bits of egg and dressing at the end. I eat half the first day, warm, most of the rest cold the next day for lunch, and the last bit as a snack late in the day." We highly recommend this dish.

Our male solo eater enjoyed his asparagus to eat all week with the tri-tip that he grills and uses for steak sandwiches. The tri-tip is mostly known as a California cut that's mainly featured in Santa Maria barbecue, but it is gradually becoming better known outside of the area. (I just spied a tri-tip tortilla wrap in Trader Joe's, so you know it's getting out there.) Our local rancher who sells gra.s.s-fed beef at the farmers market knew right away what it was and even had one on hand. "But you have to cut it thin," he warned. And you really do. It's a tough one.

"You might prefer a grilled flank steak," commented a friend, surprised that anyone would recommend a tri-tip, although marinating does help.

Regardless, the instructions are, "Put good olive oil on bread and oregano on the thinly sliced meat. Add lettuce and tomato, and serve it with the asparagus." And that's his sandwich.

For his frijoles, or pretty plain pinto beans, he soaks pinto beans, "a dried bag of them," cooks them with salt pork and lard, and then eats them with tortillas. "I make a meal of this with salsa out of a bottle. But in the summer, I make a salsa fresca out of tomatoes and onion, chopped fine, and celery for texture. Sometimes I throw in corn. And I add cilantro, and vinegar, and oil." We suspect this might be as close to salad as we're going to get.

His chilaquiles is a good, messy dish and is another practical approach that blends time at the stove with chips from a bag. "Shuck tomatillos and boil them in chicken broth with garlic and jalapeno peppers," his recipe begins. "The key is the peppers. Some are a lot hotter than others, so you need to taste them. Sometimes it takes three peppers, other times just one. In any case, throw it all in a blender and give it short, jerky jolts until you have the consistency you want. You can put this in a jar and keep it in the fridge. Once you've got a supply of sauce, you take tortilla chips, put them in a skillet and pour the sauce on top. Put a couple of fried eggs on top of that and drizzle over Mexican crema." And there you have it.

This may sound funky, and it is. But it's also really good. If you're lucky enough to find a good fresh tomatillo salsa made by some enterprising local cook, then it's a matter of very few minutes before you're sitting down to a delicious dinner, or breakfast, for that matter. If not, make your own. It's easy and it's worth it.

Let us introduce the one-ingredient driven cook, Dan Welch, who has been, among other things, a traveling pizza maker, an artist, and a Zen monk with an appet.i.te for all foods hot and fiery. Dan has been cooking with a beginner's mind for more than thirty years. When you eat with Dan, you have to ignore the mess he makes in the kitchen, overlook the excessive amounts of dripping fat from bacon and olive oil, deal with the heat, and just dig in without reserve. It's always worth it.

As a lone eater, Dan has never gotten sloppy and skipped an opportunity to make food, especially tapenade, which is, in effect, his most basic ingredient, the very base, in fact, of his personal food pyramid. He's made children cry and adults wither with this condiment, which has far more chile flakes than any authentic version. There's a certain theme to Dan's food. In fact, it's all variations on a theme, but what a theme! There's always tapenade, chile, pork in some form (unless he's behaving like a vegetarian), tongue-searing salsas, and some pungent goat cheese, Gorgonzola, or gooey melting cheese. These ingredients are variously folded into tortillas, sandwiched between slices of toasted levain bread, or tossed with hot strands of spaghetti. These dishes come from an era when Dan was taking a break from monastic life. At that time, poison eggs were a big part of his diet.

"I get poisoned rain or s.h.i.+ne, company or no," he used to say. And he still gets poisoned, but not every day.

Here's an easy version of the recipe.

"I make two poach-fried eggs, which means you start frying them in olive oil, then add a tablespoon of water, cover the pan, and steam until the yolks are as firm as you like them to be. Then I fold them in a warm flour tortilla with tapenade, Muenster cheese, avocado, salsa fresca, bacon, sausage, prosciutto, steak, or whatever meat is leftover from another time." Or, you can skip the meat. The only part you need is the recipe for tapenade, which, in Dan's words, goes like this: "Combine in descending order of quant.i.ty, chopped kalamata olives, capers, anchovies, olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, and red chile flakes."

The open-faced melted cheese sandwich that Dan consumes on a regular basis is also made with tapenade. It's easy and, not surprisingly, predictable.

"First melt cheese (Muenster, again, is named) on levain bread in a toaster oven, top it with tapenade, then add cuc.u.mber, avocado, or tomato. Wash it down with a Dos Equis, then take a nap."

Chipotle chile is another one of Dan's basic food groups. He packs a vial of it at all times to wake up any bland cafe food he might encounter on the road, and he uses it to make an addictive mayonnaise. His fundamental food choices may seem narrow, but they are good building blocks for the solo eater who wants fire and fat.

When I asked the "What do you eat?" question in a workshop I was giving at Ta.s.sajara Zen Mountain Center, Marty, who had said almost nothing during the entire cla.s.s, quickly volunteered for this one. He had it all worked out.

"When alone, I eat standing up next to the sink," he started off saying, describing what you might think of as typical man-alone behavior. Then he went into the details.

"I pick the oldest and fastest foods to prepare, or what my wife doesn't want," he continues. The oldest food? The food that needs most to be eaten? This we hadn't heard before, except from our teacher, Suzuki-ros.h.i.+, who, when he had the occasion to shop for his own food after first coming to America, also used to choose the oldest, saddest vegetables. Someone had to eat them. His father, also a Zen priest, was known to pluck vegetables discarded by farmers out of the stream and then cook them. This approach, both tender and fierce, is not one that's often talked about. In Marty's case, it may have been about sympathy for the oldest vegetables, but it was also about frugality.

"I'm genetically frugal," he explained. "For example, we had some sliced Velveeta cheese around for a long time. I bought it, lots of it, by mistake for a big party we were having. I couldn't throw it away, so I ended up making a lot of toasted cheese sandwiches over a period of many months.

"First I get some bread out of the freezer. Multigrain is best for long-term freezing," Marty explains, saying he's had quite a bit of experience freezing bread.

"Second, I toast the bread," he continues. I a.s.sume he adds the cheese about now.

"Third, I find those things that have been there for months, like pepper jelly. The correct amount is important. Too little and it's too bland, too much and it's too much."

I suspect that a lot of us have ancient opened jars of pepper jellies and chutneys and other condiments hidden, forgotten about, neglected, and ignored that we'd do well to use up. And this is not a bad combo. In fact a grilled cheese and pepper jelly sandwich can be very good indeed. I recall my grandmother sitting down to a quiet morning bite of toasted rye bread with Cheddar and jam or marmalade. For her, it wouldn't have been pepper jelly, but the salty-sweet twist of the rye, cheese, and jam is what makes such combinations appealing. Add chile or vinegar, and they're even more interesting.

"While I'm chewing," Marty continues, "I go to the pantry and look around for cookies. If it's a really bad day and there aren't any, I get another piece of bread and make toast and jelly. And I drink V-8 juice. It's my healthy compensation."

And not a word about eating over the sink. Marty is, it turns out, a pacer.

In contrast to all this cooking, there's Charlie Johnston, a retired banker from Arkansas, who's had one too many hip replacements. He isn't too keen on cooking. Patrick has even sent him boxes of soup in the mail, and his friends who are geographically closer try to help out in the kitchen as well.

"Cooking messes up the kitchen too much," Charlie says. "Cooking is a stand-up sport. I can think about breakfast, but cooking is a pain in the a.s.s. No wonder women rebelled."

Polenta Polenta is one of those fundamental foods on which you can build entire meals. Many say that 1 cup of polenta cooked in a quart of water will serve four, but it's more likely to feed a hungry man just once or twice.

1 CUP POLENTA.

SALT.

b.u.t.tER OR GRATED CHEESE.

Bring 4 cups of water to a boil. Gradually stir in the polenta in a slow, steady stream, then add 1 teaspoon of salt. Lower the heat to medium and cook, still stirring, until the polenta has absorbed enough water to make a more or less even ma.s.s. Then, lower the heat still more, almost as low as it will go. At this point you can leave it pretty much alone, stirring it just every now and then to make sure it isn't sticking. It needs 30 minutes to really be cooked, but the longer it cooks after that, the fuller the flavor will be. Once done, taste for salt and add more if needed. Leave as is, or add b.u.t.ter or freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. Odds and ends of cheese are good too, such as fontina, mozzarella, and crumbs of Gorgonzola or other blues.

Soft Polenta. At this point you can pour the soft polenta onto your plate and add whatever else you're having with it-sauteed mushrooms, braised greens, or blue cheese sauce.

Firm Polenta. For discrete pieces, pour the warm polenta into a bowl lightly brushed with olive oil, let it stand while you cook your topping, then turn it out. Now you can slice it and put wedges of polenta on the plate, or you can fry the pieces in olive oil or b.u.t.ter before serving.

Ways to Use Leftover Polenta Leftover polenta will already be firm when you take it from the refrigerator. Slice it, then brown it in b.u.t.ter or olive oil. If you like it better soft, put it in a saucepan, add water to thin it out, whisk to make it smooth, and reheat. (Polenta, by the way, makes a warming breakfast cereal: flavor soft polenta with a little vanilla; add honey or sugar, a pat of b.u.t.ter, and milk.) Here are some other things you can do with leftover polenta: 1. Pour softened polenta in a bowl. Cover it with slices or crumbles of Gorgonzola cheese, grate over a little Parmesan, and add toasted breadcrumbs and chopped parsley mixed with some fresh marjoram. This is comforting in its goodness and simplicity.

2. To make a straightforward gratin, cut firm polenta into planks about 34 inch thick, cover them with tomato sauce, and add cheese such as Gorgonzola, Parmesan, fresh or smoked mozzarella, or a mixture of all three. Meat eaters might want to add sausage. Bake in a 375-degree oven until bubbly and hot, about twenty minutes.

3. Fry firm polenta in one pan and heat tomato sauce in another. Spoon the sauce over the polenta and add grated cheese.

4. Reheat polenta and serve with sauteed mushrooms to which you've added some diced tomato, fresh or canned.

Polenta Smothered with Braised Greens Moky McKelvey finishes his dish by strewing pieces of prosciutto over all at the end. Leave it out and you have a good vegetarian dinner. Greens cook down so much that you might as well use an entire bunch. If there are any left over, use them to make the green panini with roasted peppers and Gruyere cheese.

POLENTA.

1 TABLESPOON OLIVE OIL.

1 SMALL ONION, THINLY SLICED.

2 GARLIC CLOVES, FINELY CHOPPED OR PRESSED.

3 OR 4 BIG HANDFULS CHARD, KALE, OR OTHER COOKING GREENS, LEAVES REMOVED FROM THE STEMS, RINSE AND TORN.

SALT AND PEPPER.

13 CUP WATER OR CHICKEN BROTH A FEW DROPS RED WINE VINEGAR.

3 SLICES OF PROSCIUTTO, CUT INTO STRIPS (OPTIONAL).

ASIAGO OR PARMESAN CHEESE FOR GRATING.

1. Make the polenta and pour it into a lightly oiled bowl to set.

2. Meanwhile, heat the olive oil in a 10-inch cast-iron skillet over medium heat. When hot, add the onion. Give a stir and cook until the onion is wilted, about 8 minutes, adding the garlic halfway through. Add the greens, sprinkle them with 12 teaspoon salt, and pour in the water or chicken stock. Cover and cook until the greens are wilted and tender, from 8 to 15 minutes, depending on the type of greens used. Sprinkle with vinegar and add the prosciutto, if using. Let rest while you turn out the polenta. Cut polenta into slices and arrange them on your plate, cover with the greens, and grate the cheese over all.

Polenta with Corn, Scallions, and Sauteed Shrimp When I thought of Sam Harvey tossing frozen vegetables into his grits, corn came to mind. Of course, it's corn going into corn, but why not contrast the kernels with the grains? Instead of adding the corn to the polenta, I sauteed it with a half-dozen shrimp, lots of scallions, and cilantro. With a large pan to convey plenty of heat to the frozen corn, it should end up defrosted and cooked by the time the shrimp are done.

POLENTA.

1-12 TABLESPOONS OLIVE OIL OR OIL AND b.u.t.tER, MIXED 4 SCALLIONS, INCLUDING SOME OF THE GREENS, CHOPPED.

1 CUP FROZEN CORN.

6 SHRIMP (DEFROSTED IF FROZEN), PEELED AND DEVEINED.

SALT AND PEPPER.

2 TABLESPOONS CHOPPED CILANTRO.

1. Start the polenta. While it's cooking, heat the olive oil in a 10-inch skillet. When hot, add the scallions, corn, and shrimp. Season with salt and freshly ground pepper to taste, and saute over high heat, jerking the pan back and forth to turn the shrimp. When the shrimp are pink and firm to the touch the corn should be done. Taste to be sure. Add the cilantro.

2. Serve yourself a bowl of polenta and cover with the shrimp and corn and more black pepper.

Green Panini with Roasted Peppers and Gruyere Cheese If you're going to use fresh spinach, you might as well look to more pungent greens like broccoli rabe, mustard, or turnip greens. And break them down Southern style, that is, cook them until they're really tender. Mustard greens have more punch than spinach, and a bunch yields twice as much, giving you enough for two or three hefty sandwiches. If you're wary of them, know that when mustard greens are cooked until tender, they are as mild and delicious as can be.

1 BUNCH MUSTARD GREENS, LEAVES CUT OFF THE STEMS AND WASHED BUT NOT DRIED.

SALT AND PEPPER.

RED PEPPER FLAKES, A FEW PINCHES.

1 GARLIC CLOVE, PRESSED OR MINCED.

PEPPER SAUCE OR RED WINE VINEGAR.

2 PIECES CIABATTA, OR YOUR FAVORITE RUSTIC BREAD.

OLIVE OIL.

GRATED GRUYeRE OR FONTINA CHEESE.

ROASTED BELL PEPPER CUT INTO WIDE STRIPS.

DIJON MUSTARD.

1. Put the mustard greens in a pot over high heat with the water that clings to the leaves plus 12 cup. Sprinkle with 12 teaspoon salt, the pepper flakes, and cover. Once the leaves have collapsed, reduce the heat to medium and cook until they're tender when you taste one, about 7 minutes. Drain, then squeeze the excess water out of the greens. Put them in a bowl and season with additional salt, if needed, pepper, the garlic, and pepper sauce or vinegar to taste.

2. Slather the outside of the bread with olive oil. Cover one slice of the bread (the dry side) with cheese, pile on a half or a third of the greens, and add the pepper strips. Spread the top slice with Dijon mustard, then cover.