A Smart Meal for One

Always start by going out to get a bottle of dry white wine, if you don’t have one on hand already. This is how lots of nights in begin for me, putting on my shoes and a hat and venturing out to the wine store. I’m getting better about the drinking-wine-at-home thing. These days, a glass or two, or several thimble-sized ones that at most end up accounting for half of a 750 mL bottle, get me through an evening just fine. I can attribute the shift to getting older, as well as my part-time job at a bar/café, which has had the same affect on my drinking habits that working in a bakery had on my cinnamon-swirl bread habit: it dampens it considerably. But you’re going to need the wine to cook with, so it has multiple purposes here and really is more of an ingredient than an indulgence.

If the wine isn’t cold, put it in the freezer and assess your cupboard situation. Actually, you might want to assess your cupboard situation before you head out, in case you need to stop at the grocery store as well as the wine store. Make sure you’ve got a package of spaghetti, linguini, or fettuccini on hand, as well as a head of garlic, some chili flakes, at least half a bunch of kale or Swiss chard, an egg, some good bread crumbs, and a chunk of salty hard cheese like parmesan, pecorino, or asiago. I’m assuming you already have salt and pepper and olive oil.

Go sit down for a bit, maybe at your desk, where you can enjoy the internet for 20 or 30 minutes while the wine chills enough that you’ll only need one ice cube to bring it to drinking temperature. I don’t enjoy the internet much anymore, mainly because all the people I used to follow and engage with so intensely three or four years ago no longer post very much. Lots of them have turned into good friends, and maybe they feel the same way that I do—that the internet ain’t what it used to be—but more often it seems like they’ve moved on and have better things to do. My internet time these days involves a lot of refreshing, and I’m not proud.

I should warn you that this meal requires three pans: a skillet, a pot, and one more smaller skillet. But the idea is that you’re going to use your free evening to take pleasure in the kitchen. That’s what I do on bum nights, I cook. It always makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something, which ends up not only being dinner but some new bit of experience that I’ll apply to dinner another time.

After you've poured yourself a glass of wine—if it’s not cold enough add an ice cube, but fish it out after a minute, before it dilutes the whole glass—make way to the kitchen and put a pot of water on the stove. Bring it to a boil.

Meanwhile heat about a tablespoon of oil in a skillet over medium heat. Add a handful—about 1/3 cup or so—of coarsely ground breadcrumbs that are ideally homemade, along with a pinch of salt and a dried herb you like. I use herbes de provence, which is a blend, because one time I had to buy a half-pound bag of it and I will therefore always have it on hand. Toast the crumbs in the oil until they darken a shade and smell like toast. Watch carefully. This will take about 5 minutes, but the bulk of the transformation happens over the course of about 15 seconds, and if you miss that window your crumbs will burn. Put them on a plate to cool and wipe the skillet out. It can be nice to mix in some lemon zest here.

Also meanwhile, prepare and wash the greens. I do this by yanking the leaves off the stems, or sometimes by folding the leaves in half lengthwise, like a construction-paper heart, and then slicing the stem off in one swipe with my knife. I compost the stems, because I haven’t found a culinary use for them that I find the least bit enjoyable (if you have one, let me know). I toss the stemmed leaves into my salad spinner and then I cover them with cold water. Then I swish them with my fingers, then drain them. At some point in there you need to chop it up into bite-size pieces. I usually forget about doing this until after I’ve washed it, so I just gather up the wet greens on my cutting board and work over them in a grid pattern with my knife.

Now the water should be close to boiling. If it is, salt it—and by salt it, I mean to make it taste pleasantly like the ocean. Depending on how much water you put in your pot, this could be 2 tablespoons or it could be a quarter cup. The only way to know if your water is properly salted is to taste it. Either dip a finger in and lick it off, or fill a dessert spoonful and slurp it up. Salting water properly, when I finally learned how to do it right, is what boldly changed my pasta game. Not only does it penetrate the pasta with flavor, but it produces a seasoned, starchy liquid—the pasta cooking water—that you’ll use in the dish later. So once you’ve got that figured out, add about a quarter of a package of pasta—1/4 pound, or 4 ounces, which is a hearty single serving—and let it cook, stirring periodically, until it’s just tender, anywhere from 7 to 11 minutes. Before you drain the pasta be sure to reserve at least a cup of the pasta water, which is something else I always forget to do.

While the pasta is cooking, heat another tablespoon of oil or so in the skillet, over medium heat. Roughly chop up 2 cloves of garlic. I’m not methodical about this and I don’t use a garlic press. I like a chunk of garlic every now and then so I leave some texture. Add the garlic, along with a big pinch of red pepper flakes, to the oil. Stir until you can smell the garlic, a few seconds, then add the kale all at once along with a few pinches of salt. Let it cook down until it’s bright green and wilted, but not, like, dead. This should only take 2 or 3 minutes. Taste the greens to make sure they’re appealingly tender and seasoned, adding salt if you need to. If there’s more than 2 or 3 minutes left on the timer before the pasta is done cooking, take the pan off the heat. Otherwise, turn the heat down to low and keep it warm.

Now you need to fry an egg. The clock is ticking, and the crucial final moments are before you. Take a deep breath. This is when, if I’m the least bit distracted, frenzied, drunk, or caffeinated, I lose my shit. Ideally, the breadcrumbs are toasted, the pasta is 3 minutes away from being done, the greens are dealt with, and you’ve got easy access to a burner so that you can fry your egg. If that’s not the case, work in stages. This meal is actually very forgiving, as most food actually is, so try to just be patient and generous with yourself. We’d all be dead if food wasn’t mostly forgiving.

Heat a small skillet over medium-high heat, then add a fairly generous amount of olive oil, enough that it pools visibly when you tilt the pan back and forth, 2 or 3 tablespoons. When it’s got a sheen and swirls loosely, crack the egg in. Let it cook until the white is set but the yolk is still ripe. I like to periodically angle the pan so that the oil pours on top of the egg, which encourages it to cook more evenly without the bottom turning to a burnt crisp. Or sometimes I’ll sprinkle in some water and then cover the skillet, which does the same thing by steaming. If you’re runny-yolk adverse, keep cooking it until it looks right to you, but be aware that you’re going to combine the yolk with the hot pasta and it will break open, coating and enriching the liquid elements in the pasta. When the egg’s done, transfer it to a folded paper towel or a plate to hang tight while the rest of the dish comes together.

Okay! The pasta is hot and ready in a colander! The greens are warm! You’ve got your reserved pasta cooking water handy (right?)! Get a block of salty hard cheese and a grating device, and set out your serving plate. Turn the heat up on the skillet so that you hear it sizzle, then pour in a few tablespoons of the wine to the kale. (If no wine, poor you, a few drops of lemon juice is a good alternative, along with a splash of the pasta water.) Stir for a few seconds, not much, it’s just nice to see some reduction/evaporation action. Add the hot pasta to the skillet along with a good quarter cup or so of grated cheese, most of the breadcrumbs, and a splash—maybe 1 or 2 tablespoons—of the cooking water. Toss with tongs. The pasta should appear luscious and moist. If it looks dry and rough, add another tablespoon or two of the pasta water. Add many grinds of black pepper. Toss well, adding pasta water bit by bit as needed, then scoot it onto your serving plate and gingerly set the fried egg on top. If you have some basil, parsley, or chives, tear them into haggard pieces and scatter them over the dish along with the remaining breadcrumbs.

Go to wherever you’re going to eat, bringing the cheese, grating device, salt, and pepper with you. Doctor up your dinner as you please. Take pride in your productive, smart evening, and don’t forget that there might still be wine in the freezer.