Before plant-based eating had a marketing budget, grandmothers everywhere were stretching beans and grains into meals that fed families for days.
Walk into any hip vegan cafe in Silver Lake or Williamsburg and you'll drop $15 on a bowl of lentils with some fancy name like "Mediterranean Protein Power Bowl." Meanwhile, my grandmother was making the exact same thing in 1975, feeding six people, and having leftovers for three days. She called it "lentil soup" and it cost about two dollars.
The irony is delicious. We've rebranded peasant food as wellness cuisine, slapped some microgreens on top, and called it innovation. But here's the thing: those old recipes actually work better for real life than the Instagram-ready versions. They're designed to last, reheat well, and get better over time. Let me show you what I mean.
1. The bean and rice situation that becomes seven different meals
My grandmother made a huge pot of beans and rice every Sunday. Not as a meal, but as a foundation. Black beans, pinto beans, whatever was cheap. She'd cook them with onions, garlic, and bay leaves until they were creamy and perfect.
Monday it was beans and rice. Tuesday she'd mash some beans into tostadas. Wednesday the beans went into soup with whatever vegetables needed using. Thursday meant bean quesadillas (okay, she used cheese, but you get it). By Friday, any remaining beans were getting fried and served for breakfast.
That one pot probably cost three dollars to make and fed our family all week. Now you go to Cafe Gratitude and a single bean bowl runs you $16. Same beans, different marketing.
2. Potato and vegetable stew that improves with age
Every grandmother has a version of this. Potatoes, carrots, celery, onions, maybe some cabbage. Throw it all in a pot with vegetable broth (or just water and salt, honestly) and let it simmer until everything gets soft and the flavors marry each other.
The magic is that this stew tastes better on day three than day one. The potatoes break down slightly and thicken everything. The vegetables surrender their flavors to the broth. You can eat it as soup, serve it over toast, or mash it up like a rustic pot pie filling.
Total cost for a week's worth of lunches: maybe five dollars. At your local plant-based bistro, they'll call it "Root Vegetable Ragout" and charge $14 per serving.
3. Pasta with whatever vegetables are dying in the fridge
This wasn't even considered a recipe in my grandmother's house. It was just Tuesday. You boil pasta, you saute whatever vegetables are getting sad, you add garlic and olive oil, you eat.
Zucchini, tomatoes, peppers, spinach, mushrooms. Literally anything works. The pasta water helps create a light sauce when you toss everything together. Add some red pepper flakes if you're feeling spicy. Nutritional yeast if you want that cheesy vibe.
One box of pasta and some rescue vegetables feeds you for days. But order "Seasonal Vegetable Pasta" at a trendy spot and watch $18 disappear from your wallet. They might add pine nuts and call it elevated.
4. Lentil soup that multiplies like a Bible story
Lentils are the ultimate grandmother food. They're cheap, they last forever in the pantry, and they turn into something deeply satisfying with minimal effort. My grandmother would make a pot with lentils, diced tomatoes, carrots, celery, and cumin.
The beautiful thing about lentil soup is how it transforms. Day one, it's soup. Day two, it's thickened into more of a stew. Day three, you can spread it on toast like a rustic pate. Day four, thin it back out with more broth and it's soup again. It's the Lazarus of leftovers.
A bag of lentils costs about two dollars and makes enough soup to last a week. That "Turkish Red Lentil Soup" at the vegan cafe? Probably the same recipe, definitely $12.
5. Baked vegetables that become everything else
My grandmother would roast giant sheet pans of vegetables every few days. Potatoes, onions, bell peppers, whatever was on sale. Just olive oil, salt, and heat until everything caramelized and got sweet.
Those roasted vegetables became sandwich fillings, taco stuffings, pasta additions, grain bowl toppings, and standalone meals. She'd make them once and deploy them strategically all week long. The roasting concentrates flavors so everything tastes richer than it has any right to.
A sheet pan of roasted vegetables might cost four dollars in ingredients. A "Roasted Vegetable Plate" at a modern vegan restaurant will run you $15, and they'll probably give you less food.
6. Chickpea and tomato stew that's basically international
This recipe exists in every cuisine. Spanish, Italian, Indian, Middle Eastern. Everyone figured out that chickpeas and tomatoes are magic together. My grandmother made her version with onions, garlic, canned tomatoes, and dried chickpeas she'd cook herself.
The stew would simmer for hours until the chickpeas were creamy inside and the tomato sauce was thick and rich. She'd serve it over rice, with bread, or just in a bowl by itself. Sometimes she'd add spinach at the end. Sometimes raisins for sweetness.
The ingredients cost almost nothing. Dried chickpeas are absurdly cheap. Canned tomatoes too. But order a "Chickpea Shakshuka" or "Chana Masala" at a trendy spot and you're paying $16 for what's essentially the same concept.
Final thoughts
The vegan food movement has done something weird. We've taken recipes that grandmothers made out of necessity and economic reality, and we've turned them into luxury items. There's nothing wrong with supporting vegan restaurants, but let's be honest about what we're paying for.
Those old recipes work because they were designed for real life. They use cheap ingredients, they scale up easily, they last all week, and they actually taste better as leftovers. No one was thinking about Instagram when they created these dishes. They were thinking about feeding people without going broke.
Maybe the real plant-based revolution isn't happening at $15-per-bowl cafes. Maybe it's been sitting in our grandmothers' recipe boxes the whole time, waiting for us to remember that good food doesn't need to be expensive or complicated. It just needs to be made with intention and eaten without apology.
