Croque Monsieur — The Sunday Brunch Sandwich Mama Was Home For

Mama got Sunday off — first one since the second weekend of May, eleven weeks ago, and I’d been keeping count without meaning to. The diner had a pipe burst Saturday night sometime around closing, water went into the prep room, and they couldn’t open back up until Tuesday for the floor repairs, which meant the whole schedule shuffled and Mama’s name landed on the off-day for the first weekend since spring. She told me Saturday night when she got home, sat down at the kitchen table without taking her shoes off, and said, “Don’t set the alarm tomorrow. I’m sleeping until I’m done sleeping.” Then she went to bed at eight-thirty.

I’d been wanting to try a real croque monsieur ever since I saw one on a French cooking show at the library — the kind brushed with béchamel and run under the broiler so the top blisters gold — and a regular Sunday with Mama home felt like the right occasion to spend the four dollars and fifty cents on a small wedge of Gruyere from the IGA cheese case. The Gruyere is what makes it. The boxed pre-shredded “Swiss-style” bag is two-something cheaper and tastes like nothing; Gruyere has that sharp barnyard nuttiness that holds up to ham and béchamel and high heat. Four-fifty for the wedge, four-eighty-nine a pound for the good thick-cut Black Forest from the deli — I had them slice it just over a quarter-inch — and a fresh boule from the bakery rack for two-twenty-five. Total Sunday breakfast budget, fifteen-something. For us that’s a once-in-eleven-weeks number.

She came downstairs at almost ten in her bathrobe with her hair wet, which is something I’ve maybe seen her do four times in my entire life, because Mama’s mornings always start in her uniform with her hair already up and her name tag already pinned. She wasn’t wearing makeup. She looked younger without it — not young, but not as tired. We ate at the kitchen table with the radio on a country station I don’t love but she does, and she told me about Aunt Linda calling Friday night from Tulsa to say she’d gotten a promotion at the insurance company — team lead, two-dollar-an-hour raise, her own little glass office near the break room. Linda had asked Mama on the call if I’d be open to coming up to Tulsa for a weekend in August to walk the TU campus, not to apply, just to see what an actual university looked like up close instead of from a brochure. Mama said she’d told Linda yes without asking me first. I said that was fine. She looked relieved.

The sandwich was the best one I’ve ever made and I’m not bragging. The béchamel was the right consistency — thick enough to cling to the top of the bread without running off, thin enough to spread without tearing the crust — and I knew because I’d practiced the béchamel three times last week on plain bread just to learn the wrist of the whisk. The Gruyere bubbled gold under the broiler in about two minutes, came up with those little dark-edged blisters that taste like the best part of macaroni and cheese, and the ham underneath warmed all the way through without getting rubbery the way deli ham gets when you microwave it. Mama took her first bite, chewed slowly, set the sandwich down on the plate, looked at me, and said, “This is better than any restaurant sandwich I’ve ever had.” She didn’t add “including the diner’s,” but we both heard it.

After we ate, she asked me about the writing program — really asked, not the surface-level “how was it” she does on weeknights when she’s exhausted. I told her about Iris’s Tulane scholarship, about Antonio almost not coming because his mother thought OU was “too far” from Sapulpa, about Marcus Wells calling my Cody paragraph “structurally fearless” in his comments. She listened with both hands wrapped around her coffee cup and didn’t interrupt me once, which is its own kind of love language from her. When I finished, she set the cup down and said, “You’re going somewhere, Kaylee Turner. I just need you to let me see it from here.”

I didn’t answer. I just got up and made her another sandwich.

The béchamel is the whole game. Here’s how to build it without breaking it.

Croque Monsieur

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 30 min | Servings: 2

Ingredients

• 4 slices thick-cut white sandwich bread or pain de mie
• 4 oz thinly sliced ham (such as Black Forest or déli ham)
• 3/4 cup shredded Gruyère cheese, divided
• 1 tablespoon unsalted butter, plus more for spreading
• 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
• 3/4 cup whole milk, warmed
• Pinch of freshly grated nutmeg
• Salt and black pepper to taste
• 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard (optional)

Instructions

1. Make the béchamel. In a small saucepan over medium heat, melt 1 tablespoon butter. Whisk in the flour and cook 1 minute, stirring constantly, until the mixture smells slightly nutty. Slowly pour in the warm milk, whisking continuously until the sauce thickens, about 3—4 minutes. Season with salt, pepper, and nutmeg. Remove from heat and stir in 1/4 cup of the shredded Gruyère until melted and smooth.
2. Prep the bread. Preheat your broiler to high. Lightly butter one side of each bread slice. Place all four slices butter-side up on a baking sheet and broil 1—2 minutes until just golden. Watch closely — they turn fast.
3. Build the sandwiches. Flip two of the toasted slices over (untoasted side up). Spread a thin layer of Dijon mustard on each if using, then layer on the ham and a small handful of Gruyère. Top with the remaining two bread slices, toasted side down.
4. Top with béchamel. Spread the béchamel generously over the top of each sandwich, covering the bread all the way to the edges. Scatter the remaining Gruyère over the sauce.
5. Broil until golden. Return the sandwiches to the broiler and cook 3—5 minutes, until the cheese is bubbling and deeply golden in spots. Let rest 2 minutes before cutting — the béchamel sets slightly as it cools and won’t slide off.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 520 | Protein: 28g | Fat: 27g | Carbs: 38g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 980mg