Our focus tonight is a classic Tuna Melt from 1960’s Sandwich Style. Throwback 60’s recipes and cooking. Recipes for Sleep we also feature 6-7 more easy comfort recipes this video. Wind down with us as the night comes to an end with these delicious recipes told as stories from the past of a experienced chef. These are perfect recipes for bedtime. Easy late night snacks, 2am midnight snacks that are simple food and foods made before sleep. This video is 2 hours and mixes sounds of a cozy fireplace with gentle storytelling and reflecting of history in a kitchen. This is a recipe for sleep, what you need to drift off thinking of tasty and comforting meal recipes for the coming days, imagining your life with these comforting foods. Learning how to cook before sleep, smelling and tasting these foods. These videos are intentionally made for a chill recipe, mix educational and nostalgic atmosphere to perfect sleeping, studying, and overall a nice relaxing ambiance for sleeping without any worries. Grown ups, parents, any adult is welcome to join us and enjoy an escape. Inspired by chefs and comfort foods, just looking for the perfect sleep recipe!
Enjoy the recipes and backstories, we wish you all a peaceful and pleasant night of rest and sleep.
Cheesy and buttery tuna melts. Simple, creamy, and delicious. Whether it be for a quick postwork meal or to bring a loved on comfort on a plate, tuna melts are always a cheap luxury. Tonight, we focus on that easy and comforting recipe, followed by six or seven others here on Recipes for Sleep. If you enjoy these dozy recipes, a like would mean more than you know. This was our Friday night tradition. Not on the menu, not in the cookbook, just something we made after service at Lavro. When the knives were cleaned, the ticket stopped printing and the last table had long since been cleared. Midnight would strike and someone, usually me, would start opening tins. Tuna, that humble little tin that had no place in fine dining, but every place in a tired cook’s hands. By that point in the week, we’d plated for grar on bri turned just into lacquer and debated the temperature of lamb with the kind of intensity normally reserved for court trials. But when the whites were off and the aprons were hung, none of that mattered. We just wanted something hot, something honest, something that didn’t require tweezers or garnishes. just butter, cheese, and bread toasted enough to remind us we were still human. The tuna melt was our unspoken ritual, a nod to the past, really. Most of us had memories of it from our childhoods. Our parents made them. Our grandparents, too. It was one of those dishes that felt like it had always existed, like rain on Sunday or tea after trouble. And somehow, in one of the best kitchens in Europe, it found its place again. Here’s how we made it and how I still do. Start with the bread. We used whatever was left. Sourdough if there’d been a delivery that morning or simple white sandwich slices if the pantry had run dry. It needs to be sturdy though. Nothing too soft. You want it to stand up to the melt to hold the line between crispy edge and tender bite. I butter both sides. Not lightly, generously. This is not a time for restraint. Then the tuna. One tin drained well. Press it gently with the back of a spoon. Not bone dry, but not dripping either. In a bowl, mix it with a small spoonful of mayonnaise. Just enough to bring it together. And here’s where the magic comes in. A bit of finely diced onion. Not too much. Just enough to give the mix a little spirit. A pinch of salt. A crack of pepper. If someone had a lemon, we’d grate a touch of zest in two, but only if it was going begging. The cheese always cheddar, sharp and grated, not sliced. It needs to melt in and around the tuna, not sit on top like a hat. Sometimes, if the fridge was kind, we’d mix a bit into the tuna mixture before assembling. That way, every bite got stringy and soft. Other times, we just piled it on thick at the end. Assembly is simple. Bread down on the pan, tuna on one slice, cheese on top. If we had the energy, we’d grill them openfaced first just to get the cheese bubbling. Then press the two sides together and toast them until golden on both sides. A heavy pan or a grill weight makes a difference here. It’s not about smashing it. It’s about even heat and proper contact. The crust goes from soft to crackly. The cheese runs slightly down the edges. And the smell, butter, toast, tuna, onion, cheddar. Fills the air like comfort turned audible. We’d cut them in half diagonally, always diagonally. One of the pastry chefs swore they tasted better that way. No one argued, and then we’d eat, standing, sitting on overturned crates, leaning against the prep table. The chatter from service would fade into quiet chewing. Someone would hum softly. Someone else might sigh. That’s the best thing I’ve eaten all week. And we’d nod because we understood. It was rich but not heavy. Salty, melty, and just enough crunch. It coated the fatigue in our bones with something gentle, something familiar. It asked nothing of us, not even a garnish. Now I make it when the fridge is nearly bare. When I’ve had a week that’s taken a bit more than it gave. When I want to eat something warm without thinking too hard. I butter the bread like I mean it. I stir the tuna slowly. I remember the hum of the extractor fan slowing down the clang of closing time and the way even the most exacting chef softened over a tuna melt. So tonight, if you’re tired or it’s late, or you just want to feel full without fuss, make this. Open the tin, dice the onion, butter the bread, let the cheese melt and the corners crisp, eat it warm, eat it slowly, and let the week slip away, bite by bite, because some meals don’t need plating. Just remembering. And every now and then, even the fanciest kitchen in the world needs a good tuna melt. That was our main 6080s theme recipe tonight. The next six or seven recipes will still make your mouth water, focusing simplicity and savory. Good night. The first recipe tonight is pickled egg with sea salt and a buttered cracker. The first time I saw him do it, I thought it was a joke. One pickled egg plucked from a cloudy jar near the fryer, a tiny plate. Sea salt in a ramkin, one plain cracker, generously buttered. He arranged it like a ritual. Then he ate it quietly without comment, standing at the pass while the kitchen lights buzzed low, and the last drunk punters were herded gently into the street. His name was Joe. He’d been cooking since long before gastro pubs existed. Back when a cook’s only measure was how well he could work a grill and hold his drink. But there was something meditative about how he ended each shift. Not with a pint, but with that small plate. He called it his closing bite. A way to draw a line under the day. I started asking about it on the fourth or fifth week. It’s just a pickled egg, I said, trying not to sound like I was mocking it. He shook his head. Not just the vinegars, the punctuation, the eggs, the soft bit. Salt keeps it honest. Butter smooths it all out. It was poetic in its own way. And I was young enough to want to believe there was meaning in every bite. He taught me how to make the eggs from scratch. white wine vinegar, a dash of mustard seed, bay leaf, black pepperc corns, and a touch of sugar. Boil the eggs hard but not rubbery. Shell and slip them into the brine while still warm. They’ve got to learn the new world while they’re still soft, he’d say. That was Joe for you. Everything had a reason, even if it wasn’t written down. We’d taste them after 3 days, but he said seven was better. You want them just shy of sharp. On Sunday nights when the dining room emptied early and the pub was half lit with the last of the bar light, we’d make our own plates. One egg halved, a sprinkle of flake salt on the yolk. A cracker slathered with room tempmp salted butter, never fridge cold. You’d eat the egg and cracker in one bite, letting the vinegary edge hit first, then the creamy yolk, the crunch, the salt. small, sharp, certain. That was the word he always came back to. Certain. You can’t guarantee a shift. Orders go wrong. Suppliers flake. But this this you can trust. After he retired, I kept making them. Less out of habit. More out of a need to ground the end of certain days. The ones that didn’t feel finished. The ones that left a question mark hanging. And that one bite with all its contradiction, tangy, soft, salted, smooth, still holds more clarity than any closing comment I’ve ever heard in a kitchen. When I teach now, I tell my students that not every recipe is a signature dish. Some are signatures in quieter ways. A pickled egg, a cracker, a ritual that tells you without doubt or decoration, the day is done. Good night. That was recipe one. The second recipe tonight is half a cold pork pie with English mustard. He was not a man of indulgence. That’s what struck me first. My mentor at Legavos, sharp jacket, clean hands, eyes that could cut through chaos on the pass, seemed to live off espresso, adrenaline, and the occasional curse whispered in French under his breath. But at exactly 12:05 a.m., after the final ticket had been wiped off the board, after the kitchen’s clang had faded to a low murmur of pans soaking and fridges humming, he would vanish. Not for long. Five, maybe 10 minutes. No one followed him. You don’t follow the man who trained half the kitchen. I did once. Not out of disrespect, out of curiosity. I stepped into the walk-in just as he was setting the lid back on the Tupperware, sliding it neatly behind a tray of Chantelli cream. That’s when I saw it. The pork pie, British, unapologetic, squat, and golden. the kind with thick crust and a dense peppered meat center encased in jelly. Beside it, a small spoonful of Coleman’s mustard in an old ramkin. No bigger than a thumbrint. He didn’t acknowledge me. Just sliced a clean wedge, precise as always, dipped the edge into the mustard and ate it cold. Not rushed, not slow, just present. He once said to me, “Pork pies are not for showing off. They’re for keeping your feet on the ground.” And I think I finally understood what he meant that night. After service, when your nerves are frayed and your head is still replaying orders, you don’t want poetry. You want something that doesn’t demand a performance. Cold, savory, familiar. It wasn’t just the food. It was the silence. a heavy, thoughtful stillness that filled the space after the last plate was sent. He didn’t eat the pork pie to treat himself. He ate it to end the day, and in a way to return to being human again after hours of performing like a machine. Over time, I took up the ritual. Never the same pie, but the same idea. Sometimes storebought, sometimes made from scratch, when I had the foresight. The jelly should tremble, not melt. The crust should give a slight crunch even when chilled. And the mustard, bright yellow, unapologetically hot, should bite, just enough to wake the senses, but not overwhelm. I never told him I’d picked it up. He wouldn’t have said anything anyway. Years later, when I found myself in charge of a brigade, I noticed how I, too, began keeping something back in the fridge. Not a pie, always, but something honest, something that didn’t need a garnish. A piece of food that asked nothing of you except to be eaten. Preferably alone, preferably without a word. Because some of the best lessons in a kitchen don’t come on the pass. They come in the walk-in, in the quiet, over a slice of cold pie eaten with mustard and memory. Good night. That was recipe two. The third recipe tonight is cheddar on toast with sauce, grilled until bubbling. was 22, living alone in a creaky, crooked flat above a butcher in Kent. The walls were thin, the windows always fogged, and the kitchen was barely wide enough to stretch both arms. But it had a working grill, and for a while, that was all I needed. That period of my life was marked by long days of prep work and longer nights of wandering. I wasn’t always cooking for others back then. Sometimes just myself, sometimes not at all. But what I made most often, what I came back to, like a song on repeat, was cheese on toast. Not just any cheese on toast. A bubbling blistered slab of cheddar melted over thick bread anointed with sauce in streaks like brushstrokes. The bread was usually whatever I had. Half stale sourdough from the corner shop. Thick slices of white tin loaf if I was feeling indulgent. Always toasted hard enough to keep structure under the weight of melted cheese. Always layered with far more cheddar than was reasonable. I didn’t bother with bashimal or ale or the frills of traditional Welsh rare bit. At 3:00 a.m. You don’t crave complexity. You crave gravity. I’d come home from the pub, sometimes tipsy, sometimes not. Kick off my boots and head straight to the grill. No preamble, just bread, cheese, sauce, heat. The ritual was oddly meditative. I’d slice the cheddar by hand, never grated, because I liked watching it melt in slow tectonic shifts. The wasachure would go on after the cheese, never before. So it cut through the richness with sharp little streaks of vinegar and spice. Then under the grill, watching it swell and bubble, edges burning just slightly, like a brown crust on a lasagna. It was always slightly burned. I insisted on it. That was part of the right. The singe is the soul, I used to mutter, defending my charred corners against anyone who dared critique them. I ate it standing up, elbows on the counter, occasionally over the sink if I was feeling contemplative or drunk. The toast scalding, the cheese stringing into my lap, the wasachier sauce catching in the back of my throat just enough to remind me I was alive. It was perfect. That was the first dish I ever became protective of. My own personal religion made from odds and ends. I could make it blindfolded. one arm behind my back, and I’d argue about its merits with any chef, any critic, any mate who suggested there might be a better version. This was the better version. Burned, bubbling, and entirely mine. I haven’t lived in Kent in years, but sometimes when I come home late and the world feels too wide or too quiet, I find myself pulling bread from the freezer, slicing cheddar thick, and reaching for the bottle of Wasachers like it’s a prayer. Because some nights don’t need talking. The day is done. Good night. The fourth recipe tonight is salted boiled potatoes with a bit of butter and cracked pepper. Some foods don’t ask to be admired. They’re not built for centerpieces, not engineered for the camera, not meant to dazzle. They’re the foods that stay when everything else gets complicated. The ones that whisper, “This is enough.” For me, that dish has always been salted boiled potatoes. I first learned to appreciate them not as a chef, but as someone who had gone too far, too far into finesse, into impressing, into chasing the next clever plate. I was staging at a modern Nordic restaurant in Copenhagen, hyper precise plated with tweezers, the kind of kitchen where even the dirt on the carrots had to come from a specific hillside. And after service one night, bone tired and half frozen, from the walk back to the star flat, I saw one of the line cooks, a quiet Finnish lad named Teemo, pull a small pot from the back of the shared fridge, just potatoes, tiny yellow fleshed ones, boiled in aggressively salted water, still in their jackets. No sauce, no oil, no garnish, just a bit of cold butter, and a twist of pepper from the grinder he carried in his knife roll like a secret. He offered me a few, shrugged, and said, “Reset food.” We sat on the tile floor, backs against the cupboard, and we ate in silence. Teemo told me later that his grandmother boiled potatoes every night in winter. said it kept the house grounded. Not everything has to be exciting, he told me. Just honest, just there. I never forgot that. Especially when the stress of service pushed me toward the edge of burnout or when dishes started to feel like theater more than sustenance. Here’s how I make them now. When I need something to come back to, I start with the potatoes. Small ones are best. Yukon Gold, Charlotte, or Fingerlings if I can find them. I give them a rinse, but never peel them. The skins carry character. I place them in a saucepan and fill it with cold water, covering the potatoes by about an inch. Then the salt, enough to taste like the sea, more than you think. It seasons them from the inside out. I bring them to a gentle boil, not a rapid one. Let them move slowly in the water. I use that time to clean the kitchen, to breathe, to let the noise of the day simmer down with them. After about 15, 20 minutes, I check them with a fork. There should be just a bit of give, like the soft part of your thumb. I drain them, but never rinse. I want the steam to carry the salt to the skin. While they’re still hot, I toss them back in the warm pot and drop in a knob of butter. Just enough to melt and coat. I swirl the pot gently, not to mash, just to gloss. Then I grind fresh black pepper over the top. Coarse, fragrant, just enough to remind the tongue. That simplicity still has dimension. That’s it. I serve them in a shallow bowl, warm, unadorned. Sometimes with a spoon, sometimes with fingers. I eat them slowly, letting the salt and butter coat the mouth like a balm. It’s not a showstopper, and that’s the point. These potatoes are not for celebration. They are for restoration. I make them when my appetite doesn’t know what it wants. When the noise of the world has been too clever, too fast, too much. When I need something that simply is. And each time I think of Teemo, of that quiet kitchen, of the long Scandinavian winter, and the steady calm of boiled potatoes in a cold ceramic bowl. No need for flare, no need to explain, just food that tells you you’re home now. Let’s reset. So, if the day was too much and you don’t want to be amazed, you just want to be okay, try this. Salt the water well. Boil the potatoes gently. Butter them while they’re still steaming. And let the first bite remind you it’s enough. Good night. That was recipe four. The fifth recipe tonight is leftover roast chicken on a cold roll with mayo and crest. Not every sandwich is made in the light. Some are pieced together under the hush of the extraction fan. Elbows brushing past stacked ramicins and cling wrapped prep trays. Some are made standing quietly behind the pass after the lunch rush when the kitchen feels like it’s just exhaled. This roll, cold roast chicken, a slick of mayo, a few fronds of crest, was one of those. We didn’t call it a recipe. We didn’t talk about it at all. Really, it was just what happened when the plates had been wiped and the last tickets were gone. When your stomach caught up with you and reminded you it had been working just as hard. The chicken usually came from a bird we’d roasted for staff or a test dish that never made it to service. Pulled from the carcass in ragged, honest strips. No carving finesse, no glistening, just just whatever we could rescue before the bones went to stock. The bread was usually soft, nothing crusty or architectural. We didn’t want resistance. We wanted yielding rolls from the corner bakery if someone had remembered to grab them that morning. Sometimes leftover bio buns from the brunch shift. sometimes even hamburger buns. No one cared. The point was that they held the filling and got out of the way. I’d grab a clean spoon and swipe on the mayo store bought. No shame. Not artfully piped or whipped with vinegar. Just a cool creamy layer to carry the chicken. A smear on both sides of the roll. That was key. keeps it from feeling dry, especially when the meat’s been in the walk in half the day. Then the crest, a humble handful, peppery, fresh, green enough to lift the whole thing without making it noble. It didn’t pretend to be salad. It was contrast. A splash of bite to keep the bread and meat from feeling too sane. We never toasted it. That would have taken time. And this wasn’t a meal made for patients. This was hunger meeting opportunity in the five-minute window between cleanup and prep for dinner. You’d lean over the sink or sit on an upturned crate by dry goods, your apron still damp, your feet sore. And for those few mouthfuls, nothing else really mattered. I remember once late summer we had a roast with lemon and thyme going spare. The skin had gone slack in the fridge, but the meat still held that her eye edge. I piled it into a flowery b heavy on the mayo, and one of the younger chefs walked by and said, “That smells better than half the stuff we sent out today.” He wasn’t wrong. There’s something about food that isn’t trying. food that isn’t looking to be remembered but ends up etched in your bones all the same. Here’s how I make it now. When I need to taste those quiet moments again, start with leftover roast chicken. Ideally, not fresh out of the oven. It wants to be cold, firm, pulled from the fridge with that savory chill only roasted meat carries. Tear it into bite-sized pieces. Don’t overthink the shapes. Take a soft white roll. Slice it open gently, not all the way through, like a hinge. Spread good mayo on both sides. Be generous. If you’re feeling thoughtful, you can stir in a dash of mustard or a crack of pepper, but honestly, plain works best. Layer in the chicken. Compact it slightly so every bite gives you meat and bread and mayo. Then scatter over a handful of crest. Water crest if you can find it. Garden crest if you’re lucky. Even rock it in a pinch, though it’s not quite the same. Close the roll. Don’t press it. Let it sit a moment while you pour a glass of tap water or just lean on the counter. Eat it standing. It’s not a meal for plates. And as you bite through bread yielding, mayo cool, chicken savory, crest, sharp, you might just feel something subtle. A reminder that comfort doesn’t need to be curated. That food at its best doesn’t have to perform. It just has to be there when you need it most. Good night. That was recipe five. The sixth recipe tonight is savory oatmeal with olive oil and a soft egg. Some recipes come with law. Not the kind that’s written down in books, but the kind spoken at tired hours in half kitchens, shared between chefs, not as instruction, but as offering. The pastry chef who first told me about this dish was from Glasgow. A force in the kitchen, tattooed arms, sharp tongue, hands that shaped sugar-like sculpture. But there was softness in her, too. At the end of the night, after the last tart had been glazed and the trays scrubbed clean, she’d make this savory oatmeal finished with a swirl of olive oil and a soft egg. She claimed it helped her sleep. “Granny food for a warrior’s sleep,” she’d say. And something about that felt true. We’d laugh, but I watched her eat it slowly, steadily, like it was both her last ritual and her first comfort. She showed me once how she did it, not in the kitchen, but in the staff room with a battered electric kettle and a single hob plate. Said the trick was to treat the oats like rice. Don’t just drown them, coax them, stirring gently, salting at the right time. And always, always finishing with good oil. And the egg just barely set. She believed it mattered how you cooked for yourself. That when the clatter of service ended, you owed yourself a dish that required just enough care to bring you back to Earth. I started making it, too. quietly at home on nights when my brain wouldn’t stop replaying the dinner shift or when dreams threatened to rattle the few hours of rest I had. It wasn’t flashy. There was no garnish, no plating, but every bite had ballasted, warm, soft, seasoned, like being reminded the day was over and that was enough. Here’s how I make it now and why I always keep oats in the cupboard. Start with rolled oats, not instant, not steel cut. You want something in between, quick and stubborn. I measure out half a cup and place it in a small saucepan with a full cup of water and a pinch of salt. Bring it to a gentle simmer, stirring now and then, not to hurry it, but to encourage the oats to bloom. Let them cook until soft but still with a bit of give, about six, eight minutes. If the mixture gets too tight, add a splash more water. It should finish like a soft risotto, loose, creamy, spoonable. Off the heat, I sometimes add a touch of grated cheese or a few drops of soy sauce, whatever the mood calls for, but never too much. The simplicity is part of the grounding. Now the egg. In another pot, I gently lower one into simmering water. 6 and 1/2 minutes, give or take, for a yolk that’s barely set, but not runny. Then I plunge it into cold water, just long enough to peel it clean. I pour the oats into a bowl, make a small well in the center, and drizzle in a thread of good olive oil, grassy, peppery, full of body. Then I nestle the egg in the middle. Crack it gently to reveal the custard-like center. A pinch of salt over top. Maybe some black pepper if the day had teeth. And then I eat. Not at a table. Usually standing by the window or perched on the sofa edge. The oats are soft, the oil rich, the egg anchoring it all like a moon in a quiet sky. No crunch, no sugar, no show, just warmth, slow salt, and sleep. Some nights I don’t need anything else. Just a reminder that food can still be gentle. That not everything needs to be gourmet. Sometimes you just need something humble to carry you into rest. And if you sleep well after, maybe it wasn’t just the oats. Maybe it was permission to stop, to settle, to soften. Good night. That was recipe six. The seventh recipe tonight is crackers with Stilton and a thin slice of apple. There are nights when you don’t want to cook. Not out of laziness, but because silence feels more nourishing than heat. When the kitchen’s dim and the day has been loud, I find my way to the pantry, not the stove. It’s not always a meal I’m looking for. Sometimes it’s a conversation I once had, a ritual I once witnessed, a quiet habit I’ve kept alive through the years. This one came from my old sue chef, a wiry Scotsman with a bark louder than his bite. He ran the line like a battlefield. But at the end of the shift, he had his ceremony. A small plate, three crackers, no more. Stilton sliced thick, and a thin slice of apple cut fresh with a pairing knife he always kept on him. That and a glass of port, which he sipped like medicine. I admired the precision of it, not the food, but the restraint, the respect. He never overdid it, never turned it into a cheeseboard or added a drizzle of honey. He said the apple brought out the Stilton’s better side. “Sweet dreams don’t always need sugar,” he once muttered, half to himself, and then he leaned back, eyes half closed, like he was tasting the end of the day instead of the cheese. At the time, I was still rushing, still trying to impress even myself with midnight snacks that involved flame and flare. But the longer I cooked professionally, the more I began to understand him, the value of something small, deliberate, unshowy, something that left room for sleep rather than competing with it. I adapted his ritual to suit me. I don’t keep port in the house. Never took to it. But I found that the combination worked just as well with tea. Something black and a little bitter. Cool just enough to sip without effort. The apple wakes you up slightly. The cheese settles you back down. The crackers remind you to chew. Here’s how I prepare it now. When the kitchen is quiet, and I want to feel the day winding down, I start with the apple. Crisp, cold, and not too sweet. Granny Smith if I’ve got it. Jazz or Pink Lady if the mood calls for more perfume. I slice it thin. Really thin. So each piece folds slightly as it rests. I never prep the apple in advance. Part of the ritual is the slicing. The way it slows the hands, steadies the breath. Next, the Stilton. Not a wedge, just enough for three crackers. I let it sit out for 10 minutes if I remember, so the cold doesn’t mute its voice. Stilton has presence. It doesn’t need volume. A modest spread is plenty, just enough to soften the salt of the cracker and contrast the cool fruit. The crackers are always plain. Water biscuits or oat cakes. Sometimes if I’m out, I’ll toast a thin slice of bread until brittle and break it into uneven chips. The goal isn’t crunch, it’s quiet structure. I assemble them side by side on a small plate. Apple on top or to the side, depends on the day. I pour the tea last. Earl gray if I want perfume. English breakfast if I want weight. I take the plate to the window where the street light sketches soft outlines across the sill. And I eat slowly, one bite at a time, one breath at a time. And somewhere between the first cracker and the third, the body begins to forgive the day. Not forget, but soften. I think that’s what my old sushi was chasing. Not indulgence, closure. Some night sweet isn’t what you need. You need something earthy, clean, sharp at the edges, but not jagged. Something that pairs with stillness. A cracker, a crumble of cheese, a slice of apple paper thin, and a sleep that asks for nothing but quiet. Good night. That was recipe seven. cheesy and buttery tuna melts. Simple, creamy, and delicious. Whether it be for a quick postwork meal or to bring a loved on comfort on a plate, tuna melts are always a cheap luxury. Tonight we focus on that easy and comforting recipe followed by six or seven others here on recipes for sleep. If you enjoy these dozy recipes, a like would mean more than you know. This was our Friday night tradition. Not on the menu, not in the cookbook, just something we made after service at Lavro. When the knives were cleaned, the tickets stopped printing and the last table had long since been cleared. Midnight would strike and someone, usually me, would start opening tins. Tuna, that humble little tin that had no place in fine dining, but every place in a tired cook’s hands. By that point in the week, we plated for gr on brios, turned just into lacquer, and debated the temperature of lamb with the kind of intensity normally reserved for court trials. But when the whites were off and the aprons were hung, none of that mattered. We just wanted something hot, something honest, something that didn’t require tweezers or garnishes. Just butter, cheese, and bread toasted enough to remind us we were still human. The tuna melt was our unspoken ritual, a nod to the past, really. Most of us had memories of it from our childhoods. Our parents made them. Our grandparents, too. It was one of those dishes that felt like it had always existed, like rain on Sunday or tea after trouble. And somehow in one of the best kitchens in Europe, it found its place again. Here’s how we made it and how I still do. Start with the bread. We used whatever was left. Sourdough if there’d been a delivery that morning, or simple white sandwich slices if the pantry had run dry. It needs to be sturdy, though. Nothing too soft. You want it to stand up to the melt, to hold the line between crispy edge and tender bite. I butter both sides, not lightly, generously. This is not a time for restraint. Then the tuna. One tin drained well. Press it gently with the back of a spoon. Not bone dry, but not dripping either. In a bowl, mix it with a small spoonful of mayonnaise. Just enough to bring it together. And here’s where the magic comes in. A bit of finely diced onion. Not too much, just enough to give the mix a little spirit. A pinch of salt. A crack of pepper. If someone had a lemon, we’d grate a touch of zest into, but only if it was going begging. The cheese always cheddar, sharp and grated, not sliced. It needs to melt in and around the tuna, not sit on top like a hat. Sometimes, if the fridge was kind, we’d mix a bit into the tuna mixture before assembling. That way, every bite got stringy and soft. Other times, we just piled it on thick at the end. Assembly is simple. Bread down on the pan, tuna on one slice, cheese on top. If we had the energy, we’d grill them openfaced first just to get the cheese bubbling. Then press the two sides together and toast them until golden on both sides. A heavy pan or a grill weight makes a difference here. It’s not about smashing it. It’s about even heat and proper contact. The crust goes from soft to crackly. The cheese runs slightly down the edges and the smell, butter, toast, tuna, onion, cheddar, fills the air like comfort turned audible. We’d cut them in half diagonally, always diagonally. One of the pastry chefs swore they tasted better that way. No one argued. And then we’d eat, standing, sitting on overturned crates, leaning against the prep table. The chatter from service would fade into quiet chewing. Someone would hum softly. Someone else might sigh, “That’s the best thing I’ve eaten all week.” And we’d nod because we understood. It was rich, but not heavy. salty, melty, and just enough crunch. It coated the fatigue in our bones with something gentle, something familiar. It asked nothing of us, not even a garnish. Now I make it when the fridge is nearly bare. When I’ve had a week that’s taken a bit more than it gave, when I want to eat something warm without thinking too hard, I butter the bread like I mean it. I stir the tuna slowly. I remember the hum of the extractor fan slowing down, the clang of closing time, and the way even the most exacting chef softened over a tuna melt. So tonight, if you’re tired or it’s late, or you just want to feel full without fuss, make this. Open the tin, dice the onion, butter the bread, let the cheese melt, and the corners crisp. Eat it warm, eat it slowly, and let the weak slip away. bite by bite. Because some meals don’t need plating, just remembering. And every now and then, even the fanciest kitchen in the world needs a good tuna melt. That was our main 6080s theme recipe tonight. The next six or seven recipes will still make your mouth water, focusing simplicity and savory. Good night. having trouble sleeping. I was once young and ambitious and had many sleepless nights. When I need to fall asleep, I may read. I may have a snack, but I always pull back fond memories to soothe my mind. Never of my restaurant and achieving my Michelin stars, but always of my first week at Hotel St. George or learning the way to truly cook at the box tree. And finally, when I became a man at Legos, search for your own memories, forget the troubles awaiting you, and drift off keeping in mind these recipes for sleep. having trouble sleeping. I was once young and ambitious and had many sleepless nights. When I need to fall asleep, I may read. I may have a snack, but I always pull back fond memories to soo my mind. Never of my restaurant and achieving my Michelin stars, but always of my first week at Hotel St. George or learning the way to truly cook at the box tree. And finally, when I became a man at Legos, search for your own memories. Forget the troubles awaiting you and drift off keeping in mind these recipes for sleep. having trouble sleeping. I was once young and ambitious and had many sleepless nights. When I need to fall asleep, I may read. I may have a snack, but I always pull back fond memories to soothe my mind. Never of my restaurant and achieving my Michelin stars, but always of my first week at Hotel St. George. Or learning the way to truly cook at the box tree. And finally, when I became a man at Legos, search for your own memories. Forget the troubles awaiting you and drift off keeping in mind these recipes for sleep. having trouble sleeping. I was once young and ambitious and had many sleepless nights. When I need to fall asleep, I may read, I may have a snack, but I always pull back fond memories to soo my mind. Never of my restaurant and achieving my Michelin stars, but always of my first week at Hotel St. George or learning the way to truly cook at the box tree. And finally, when I became a man at Legos, search for your own memories. Forget the troubles awaiting you and drift off keeping in mind these recipes for sleep. having trouble sleeping. I was once young and ambitious and had many sleepless nights. When I need to fall asleep, I may read, I may have a snack, but I always pull back fond memories to soo my mind. Never of my restaurant and achieving my Michelin stars, but always of my first week at Hotel St. George, or learning the way to truly cook at the box tree. And finally, when I became a man at Legos, search for your own memories, forget the troubles awaiting you, and drift off, keeping in mind these recipes for sleep. having trouble sleeping. I was once young and ambitious and had many sleepless nights. When I need to fall asleep, I may read, I may have a snack, but I always pull back fond memories to soothe my mind. Never of my restaurant and achieving my Michelin stars, but always of my first week at Hotel St. George or learning the way to truly cook at the box tree. And finally, when I became a man at Legos, search for your own memories, forget the troubles awaiting you, and drift off keeping in mind these recipes for sleep.