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The better way to make tomato toast

1 August 2026 at 18:00

The mind keeps a strange little pantry of its own.

It shelves a photograph you paused over, a dish you ate three summers ago, a flavor combination you praised enthusiastically in public and then apparently continued discussing with yourself in private. Later, it sends an idea forward as though it has arrived whole.

Mine was miso-butter tomato toast.

A friend had recently posted photographs from Barcelona, including several enviable angles of pan con tomate. In one, it sat on a tiny plate beside a chilled vermouth cocktail garnished with a pearl onion on a spear. In another, it occupied an outdoor café table next to an exceptionally good pair of cat-eye sunglasses. I wanted the toast, the cocktail, the sunglasses and, presumably, whatever version of myself knew how to arrange all three so casually.

I had also recently waxed poetic about compound butter during a live discussion on summer entertaining. And after several weeks of 90-degree days, I had become devoted to grating tomatoes, an activity especially suited to weather in which chewing can seem like an unreasonable demand.

The name arrived before the instructions did. I knew it would involve sourdough. I knew the bread would be toasted in the oven, where its entire surface could become evenly crisp rather than merely acquire a few handsome skillet stripes. I knew I wanted unsalted butter and mild white miso. And I knew the finished thing would require some crunch.

It had, in other words, the certainty of a craving and the vagueness of a dream.

Toast is forgiving of this kind of thinking. It is the food of pantry rummagers and refrigerator foragers, and it exists on a curious emotional spectrum. One person says, with defeat, “All I managed today was beans on toast.” Another announces, with delight, “I made these incredible marinated white beans and put them on toast.” I am firmly in the latter camp. Toast is what happens when three unrelated things in the refrigerator agree to become lunch.


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This particular toast only looked improvised. Beneath its casual, slightly rumpled appearance was a specific bit of flavor logic: salt, fat, sweetness, acidity, glutamates upon glutamates.

There is a quiet kitchen principle I return to often: What wants to hold hands?

Spend enough time cooking — or leafing through cookbooks in bed — and you notice certain ingredients keep reaching for one another. Tomato already knows butter from ghee-rich curries, grilled cheese dipped in tomato soup and Marcella Hazan’s famously spare sauce. Miso and butter are just as comfortable together, whether in mashed potatoes or chocolate-chip cookies. The combination needed little persuasion. I only had to decide what shape it would take.

I considered whipping the miso into cold butter, making a compound butter to scrape over oven-hot sourdough before adding tomato slices and crystalline hunks of salt. But I wanted the miso butter to seep into the bread, not merely sit on top of it. I considered basting the tomatoes in butter and stewing them down with miso until soft and glossy. That version sounds wonderful, but it belongs to the first day the temperature slips below 70 degrees.

This was summer. The tomato needed to remain itself.

I melted the butter and miso together until fragrant and faintly nutty, then brushed it over sourdough and baked the slices until deeply golden. I grated a ripe tomato into a bowl, an operation I find disproportionately satisfying. When the skin has collapsed into your palm like a deflated balloon, you lift the box grater and discover an almost implausible amount of ruby pulp underneath it. Apparently, when it comes to shreds and zest, I possess the object permanence of a baby. Every time, the reveal delights me.

I seasoned the tomato with salt and a little garlic powder, which supplied savory warmth without the acridity fresh garlic can bring. I spooned it over the hot toast and finished it with scallions, sesame seeds, black pepper and olive oil.

I had my notebook open beside me, ready to catalogue the toast’s faults. Recipe development has trained me to distrust a dish that works on the first try; it is like meeting someone wonderful on a first date and spending the evening scanning for red flags. I have to be missing something, right?

Perhaps it needed acid. White balsamic, maybe, or a splash of the regular kind. Then I tasted it.

I took another bite before picking up my pen.

“This is a good toast,” I wrote.

Another bite.

“I’m glad I didn’t add vinegar.”

Miso-Butter Tomato Toast 
Yields
2 servings
Prep Time
10 minutes
Cook Time
15 minutes

Ingredients

  • 1 medium ripe tomato
  • ¼ teaspoon kosher salt, plus more for finishing
  • ⅛ teaspoon garlic powder
  • 1 tablespoon unsalted butter
  • 1 ½ teaspoons white miso
  • 2 thick slices sourdough bread
  • 2 teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more as desired
  • 2 teaspoons thinly sliced scallions
  • ½ teaspoon sesame seeds
  • Freshly ground black pepper

 

Directions

  1. Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Line a small sheet pan with parchment paper.
  2. Cut the tomato in half. Holding one half by its skin, grate the cut side against the large holes of a box grater set over a bowl. Continue until only the flattened skin remains; discard the skin and repeat with the remaining half. Season the tomato pulp with the salt and garlic powder, then set aside.
  3. In a small skillet or saucepan, melt the butter over medium-low heat. Add the miso and stir until smooth. Continue cooking for 30 seconds to 1 minute, until the mixture smells nutty and begins to deepen slightly in color. Remove from the heat before the miso darkens too much.
  4. Brush the miso butter generously over both sides of the sourdough. Arrange the bread on the prepared pan and bake until golden and crisp, 12 to 15 minutes, flipping halfway through.
  5. Transfer the toast to a plate. Spoon the grated tomato over the top, leaving behind any excess liquid if the tomato is especially juicy. Drizzle with the olive oil and finish with the scallions, sesame seeds, black pepper and another small pinch of salt. Serve immediately.

 

 

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Lemony Quinoa Kale Salad with Crispy Chickpeas

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Simple methods and BIG flavor collide in this Lemony Quinoa Kale Salad with Crispy Chickpeas! It’s zesty and sweet, full of crunch, and packed with wholesome ingredients. With minimal cooking required, it’s the perfect meal for summer or a quick meal prep session.

Just 10 ingredients and 30 minutes stand between you and this satisfying, flavorful, healthy meal!

How to Make This Lemony Quinoa Kale Salad

This quinoa kale salad comes together in a few simple steps that flow seamlessly:

  1. Soak sun-dried tomatoes in hot water if they’re especially dry and hard.

Lemony Quinoa Kale Salad with Crispy Chickpeas from Minimalist Baker →

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We can’t wait for you to try this satisfying, protein-packed, plant-based meal. Let us show you how it’s done!

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Pasta Bolognese

By: David
27 September 2023 at 10:25

During the current lockdown in Paris, you can still get most things at the supermarket. True, there’s less of a selection as some items are more popular than others; butter, of course, is popular, and so is flour. Fortunately I always have a good stock of both on hand, lockdown or not, but I did neglect to replenish my chocolate supply. But the pasta and rice aisles have suffered the most damage, and the selection of what’s available has been sparse.

Since I’m limiting my time going out, and food shopping, the other day I went to the frozen food store, Picard. Everyone in France loves Picard, although I’m usually happy to dice an onion and don’t need to buy frozen pre-diced onions, nor do I need to buy ice cream. (Theirs is rather good, but I’ve usually got several batches of my own in the freezer.) But I was craving pizza and they have a frozen one with arugula and speck that’s pas mal, as they say in French, which actually means “not bad.” However frozen pizza seems to be as popular as rice and pasta, so I had to get another kind that wasn’t so great (pas terrible.) But I did pick up a bag of those onions and some ground beef because I’ve also been craving Pasta Bolognese, and they were there, and so was I. So I caved.

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