I have a very specific fantasy about the restaurant I would open, should someone ever hand me a set of keys and an unlimited supply of funds and optimism. It would be a little neighborhood bistro, the sort of place where the wine comes in mismatched stemless glasses thrifted from estate sales. The menus would be illustrated by hand, which sounds charming until you’ve spent an entire afternoon trying to get the shading right on a watercolor artichoke. There would be personality wallpaper in the bathroom, icy sparkling cocktails, very good roast chicken and a bread service so generous it would probably make an accountant nervous.

Fortunately, I don’t have to worry about razor-thin margins in a fantasy. But even if I did, I know one dish that would earn its place on the menu: cabbage.

Specifically, green cabbage roasted in miso butter, then showered with crispy, lemony panko breadcrumbs. It’s inexpensive, uncomplicated and just a little chic. More importantly, I can’t seem to stop making it.

The recipe began with one of my favorite ways to cook: playing matchmaker with ingredients. If Thing A already loves Thing B, and Thing B loves Thing C, perhaps A and C would get along, too. There’s a pleasing logic to it, like introducing two friends at a dinner party and watching them discover they have more in common than the host.

I already adored miso butter, with its salty, savory depth. And cabbage cooked in butter is a classic for good reason. Putting the two together was hardly a leap. I chopped up a head of green cabbage, coated it with the miso butter and let the oven do the rest. After about 30 minutes at 350 degrees, with a stir halfway through, the cabbage had softened into silky folds, with a little browning at the edges. The butter made it rich; the miso gave it a subtle funk.

It was very good. It also needed crunch.

My first instinct was to go the baked-macaroni-and-cheese route: lightly toast some panko, scatter it over the cabbage, then return the whole thing to the oven. In theory, a golden, crunchy topping. In practice, the crumbs more or less fused into a single crust over the slick cabbage beneath. Cutting through it was less delightful than I’d imagined.

The fix was blessedly simple. I crisped the breadcrumbs separately in a pan with olive oil, red pepper flakes and the zest of an entire lemon, then spooned them over the cabbage just before serving. Now each forkful caught a little of everything: tender, almost creamy cabbage; browned edges; bright flecks of citrus; and individual crunchy crumbs that stayed crunchy.

That last part matters. The contrast is what makes this feel like a dish rather than a vegetable dutifully placed beside dinner.

And beside dinner it has appeared, repeatedly. With salmon and rice. With grilled chicken and sweet potato coins glossed with maple syrup and orange zest. With a skillet of white beans and sausage, plus sourdough for scooping. Different meals, same cabbage. At this point, I’d be more surprised by a week without it.

Lately, I’ve been trying to make room for more vegetables in everyday cooking, ideally two kinds at dinner. Not as a grim exercise in virtue, but because I want the vegetables to be things I actually look forward to eating. That means finding a few sides that are so appealing, and so low-effort, that adding one more feels less like a chore and more like, “Oh, hell, why not?”

Cabbage is particularly good at this. It’s cheap, keeps beautifully in the refrigerator and demands almost no knife skills. You can even buy it pre-shredded. It sits in the oven while you make the rest of the meal, asking for little beyond a halfway stir. Low-maintenance, low-effort, high return.

I may never open that bistro, and perhaps that’s just as well for the accountant and the watercolor artichokes. But on an ordinary weeknight, when dinner is nearly done and I find myself reaching for the cabbage again, I get a small piece of the fantasy anyway: something simple enough to make at home, and good enough that I’d happily order it out.