Perhaps you know a dish has officially receded into “retro” territory when it’s more likely to turn up in a church cookbook or on a yellowing recipe card tucked behind an elastic-bound plastic sleeve than on a restaurant menu.
Case in point: the tomato stuffed with something. Tuna salad. Cottage cheese. A scoop of cold chicken salad trembling like a secret inside its seedy bowl. These are the foods of bridge luncheons and afternoon teas, and they sit in my mind not with disdain, but with a kind of distant fondness.
Some dishes are allowed to mature, to go gray at the temples and be declared timeless. Others are quietly shuffled offstage, clinging to their aspic molds and doily-lined plates. Why do deviled eggs get their renaissance — topped with trout roe, no less — while the stuffed tomato remains the punchline of a joke no one quite remembers?
It’s not always about taste. Often, it’s about taste. About fashion and nostalgia and the stories we still want to tell about ourselves over dinner. Some dishes can shapeshift, slip into a new outfit and reenter the party. Others seem frozen in time — not because they’re bad, but because we’ve decided we’ve moved on.
And yet, every so often, I find myself craving something from that dusty, disrespected corner of the culinary canon. Once a quarter, I need a diner tuna melt: white bread griddled too hard, a slice of orange cheddar molten on top, served with fries and a dill pickle and the worst cup of coffee I can find. Recently? I wanted a stuffed tomato. Badly.
Not a twee one. Not a revivalist, microgreen-dotted, deconstructed riff. I wanted something indulgent and hot and built for right now — something that didn’t apologize for being a tomato holding other things inside it. My version isn’t dainty. It’s not a side salad or a starter or something you push around while drinking rosé. This is a tomato engineered for appetite.
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Start with a peak-season beefsteak — firm enough to hold structure, ripe enough to smell like sunshine when you slice into it. Hollow it out with a small spoon or melon baller, careful not to pierce the skin (though if that happens, it’s not the end of the world; some extra breadcrumbs and burrata can cover a multitude of sins). Salt the interior just a little and let it sit while you work.
The base layer is texture: sourdough breadcrumbs, torn small and sautéed slowly in olive oil with whatever herbs you have on hand until deeply golden and crisp at the edges. Add a few into the hollowed tomato — they’ll soak up the juices and become something closer to stuffing. On top of that: chorizo, browned hard in a skillet until the edges darken and curl. Just a scattering. Enough to bring heat and fat and smoke.
Then the burrata. Don’t overthink it — tear it open and let it fall into the tomato, the creamy stracciatella spilling into every crevice. Top with more breadcrumbs and bake just until the burrata bubbles. Before serving, finish with a pinch of flaky salt and lemon zest grated directly over the top so the oils bloom in the warmth.
Serve it with buttered orzo, maybe, or pearl couscous slicked with olive oil. Or just more sourdough to drag through the juices.
I’m not trying to save the stuffed tomato. It doesn’t need rescuing or rebranding or a pop-up devoted to its legacy. But I do think there’s something lovely about letting a dusty dish back in through the side door — not because it’s trending, but because it just sounds good. Because you’re hungry, and you’re curious and because a tomato, warmed and spilling over with good things, can still surprise you.
Ingredients
- 4 large ripe tomatoes (beefsteak or heirloom preferred)
- Kosher salt
- Olive oil (you’ll want at least ¼ cup)
- 1½ cups torn sourdough or rustic bread, crusts on
- 1 tsp chopped fresh rosemary or thyme (or a mix)
- 3–4 oz cured chorizo, diced or crumbled
- 1 ball burrata (about 4 oz), torn into 4 pieces
- Zest of 1 lemon
- Flaky salt and freshly cracked black pepper, to finish
Optional for serving:
- Buttered orzo, pearl couscous, bucatini, or toasted sourdough
- A bold red wine and something moody on the speakers
Directions
- Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C).
- Prep the tomatoes. Slice the tops off the tomatoes and gently hollow them out with a spoon or melon baller. Salt the insides lightly and place them upside down on a paper towel while you prep everything else — this helps them release a bit of moisture and concentrate their flavor.
- Make the herbed breadcrumbs. In a skillet, heat 2–3 tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat. Add the torn bread and chopped herbs, and cook, stirring frequently, until the crumbs are golden brown and crisp. Season with a pinch of kosher salt and set aside.
- Cook the chorizo. In the same pan (no need to wipe it out), cook the diced chorizo until crisp and browned. Drain on paper towels. The rendered fat should smell spicy and smoky in all the right ways.
- Assemble the tomatoes. Place the hollowed tomatoes upright in a small baking dish or cast iron skillet. Spoon a small layer of herbed breadcrumbs into the bottom of each, followed by a spoonful of chorizo. Nestle a chunk of burrata into each tomato. Drizzle the tops with a bit more olive oil and finish with a sprinkle of flaky salt.
- Bake. Slide the dish into the oven and bake for 25 minutes, until the tomatoes begin to slouch in on themselves and the burrata looks slightly molten — creamy and barely holding its shape.
- Finish & serve. Top each tomato with more of the reserved breadcrumbs and a light dusting of lemon zest. Serve warm, ideally over a bed of something cozy like buttered orzo or torn pieces of sourdough to mop up the tomato juices and molten cheese.
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