
Chef Thomas
A Ploughman's Salad
The old pub ploughman's, shaken loose from its board and laid across butter lettuce with a sharp mustard dressing, for the kind of lunch that feels like you've given yourself the afternoon off.
A cooking platform built around craft, culture, and the stories behind what we eat.

Created by Chef Thomas
Earthy lentils and sweet roasted beetroot brought together by a sharp mustard dressing, piled over peppery watercress. The kind of bowl that makes October feel like a good place to be.
October. The light has changed. The kitchen window catches the last of the afternoon sun, lower now, warmer in colour if not in temperature. The beetroot I brought home from Saturday's market still had their leaves on, soil clinging to the roots, and they sat on the counter like something dug up from a painting.
This is the salad I make when summer has properly gone and I don't miss it. Puy lentils, the small slate-green French ones that hold their shape and taste of the earth they grew in. Beetroot, roasted until the edges caramelize and the flesh turns from raw and chalky to something dense, sweet, almost jammy. A dressing with enough mustard to make your eyes water, enough vinegar to cut through the sweetness, enough oil to bring it all together. Watercress underneath, because watercress has an iron bite that stands up to everything else on the plate.
I've written this one in the notebook several times across different years. The notes are always short. "Lentils. Beetroot. Mustard. Wednesday. Cold outside, warm bowl." That's all it needed. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract. The beetroot might be golden one week, the lentils dressed while still warm another, a few walnuts scattered on top if the mood takes you. Your kitchen, your rules.
There are few better feelings than putting a warm plate of this in front of someone on a dark evening. It looks like you tried. You did, but not very hard. That's the secret of it.
Quantity
4-5 medium (about 500g)
scrubbed and cut into wedges
Quantity
3 tablespoons, plus extra for the beetroot
Quantity
250g
Quantity
1
Quantity
1 small
finely diced
Quantity
2 tablespoons
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
100g
tough stems removed
Quantity
a small handful
roughly chopped
Quantity
to taste
crumbled
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| beetrootscrubbed and cut into wedges | 4-5 medium (about 500g) |
| olive oil | 3 tablespoons, plus extra for the beetroot |
| Puy lentils | 250g |
| bay leaf | 1 |
| shallotfinely diced | 1 small |
| red wine vinegar | 2 tablespoons |
| Dijon mustard | 1 tablespoon |
| wholegrain mustard | 1 teaspoon |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| black pepper | to taste |
| watercresstough stems removed | 100g |
| flat-leaf parsleyroughly chopped | a small handful |
| soft goat's cheese (optional)crumbled | to taste |
Set the oven to 200C/180C fan. Tumble the beetroot wedges onto a roasting tin, drizzle with olive oil, season with salt, and turn them through with your hands until everything is glossy. Spread them out so they have room. Crowded beetroot steams; spaced beetroot roasts. Put them in the oven and leave them alone for forty to forty-five minutes, turning once halfway through. You'll know they're done when a knife slides through without resistance and the edges have gone dark and sticky. The kitchen will smell sweet and earthy, like a root cellar in the best possible way.
While the beetroot roasts, rinse the Puy lentils under cold water. Put them in a saucepan, cover generously with cold water, tuck the bay leaf in, and bring to a steady simmer. No salt yet. Salt toughens the skins. Cook for twenty to twenty-five minutes until they're tender but still have a gentle bite. They should hold their shape, not turn to mush. Drain them, discard the bay leaf, and tip the lentils into a wide bowl while they're still warm. Warm lentils drink up a dressing. Cold lentils resist it.
In a small bowl or a jar, combine the diced shallot with the red wine vinegar and let it sit for a few minutes. The vinegar takes the raw edge off the shallot and turns it pink and mild. Add the Dijon mustard, the wholegrain mustard, and a good pinch of salt. Whisk in the olive oil until it comes together into something thick and glossy. Taste it. It should be sharp and punchy, almost too much on its own. It needs to be. The lentils and beetroot will absorb and soften the blow.
Pour most of the dressing over the warm lentils and stir through gently. Season with salt and pepper. Taste. Then taste again. The lentils should be savoury and bright, with the mustard humming in the background. Let them sit for five minutes to absorb everything while the beetroot finishes.
Spread the watercress across a wide serving dish or pile it onto individual plates. Spoon the dressed lentils over the watercress, letting some of the leaves poke through. Arrange the roasted beetroot wedges on top and among the lentils, not too carefully. Drizzle the remaining dressing over everything. Scatter the parsley, and crumble over the goat's cheese if you're using it. Serve while the lentils and beetroot are still warm against the cool watercress. That contrast is the whole point of the dish.
1 serving (about 280g)
Culinary guides, cultural storytelling, and the editorial depth that makes cooking meaningful.
Discover Culinary Explorer
Chef Thomas
The old pub ploughman's, shaken loose from its board and laid across butter lettuce with a sharp mustard dressing, for the kind of lunch that feels like you've given yourself the afternoon off.

Chef Thomas
Double-podded broad beans and sweet peas, dressed simply with torn mint, lemon, and good olive oil. The kind of bowl that tastes the way a June garden smells.

Chef Thomas
Celeriac cut into pale matchsticks and dressed in sharp mustard and crème fraîche, the sort of thing you make on a Sunday and find yourself eating from the bowl with a fork on Tuesday.

Chef Thomas
Bitter chicory leaves carrying sharp apple, crumbled Stilton, and toasted walnuts, dressed with cider vinegar and honey. A winter salad that earns its place at the table when the garden has shut up shop.