I didn’t expect to end my Wednesday night locked in a standoff with a stranger over a loaf of sourdough at one of the newest eateries on Cherry Street—but honestly, it’s not that far from my personal brand. I was dining with friends at Cow & Cabbage when a fellow guest casually mentioned that only a couple loaves of Country Bird Bakery bread remained in the market, a commodity usually requiring an early wake-up and queuing in a robust line. So, I did what any level-headed food writer would do: I turned to the table next to us and (half-jokingly) challenged them to an arm-wrestling match for the final loaf. Luckily, it didn’t come to fisticuffs, and we both walked away clutching our crusty treasures. Minus the invitation to feats of strength, this casual, playful interaction with a stranger felt perfectly in character for the Living Kitchen farm-to-table experience.
There’s something about the way Lisa Becklund and her team feeds people that turns strangers into dinner party guests. At the original Living Kitchen dinners—those dreamy, multicourse dinners prepared by the James Beard nominated chef in a rural Oklahoma cabin—you always end up talking to your neighbors. Sitting at a long table, someone passes you the pickled okra, and suddenly you’re deep in a conversation about goat milk with a retired couple from Owasso. Becklund’s newest project, Cow & Cabbage—a hybrid market and restaurant on Cherry Street—extends that same Living Kitchen ethos: thoughtful food, a direct line from farm to fork, and a dining experience that invites connection.
Housed in the former Grassroots Larder space, a beautiful but blink-and-you-missed-it concept that never fully found its footing, Cow & Cabbage is a leisurely market and lunch counter by day—a place to grab a sandwich or salad from the deli case, maybe a house-made cookie (hi, lemon ricotta) then leave with farm-fresh peaches or a locally-sourced steak from the freezer. There’s no printed lunch menu; what’s available depends on what they’ve made that day. For lunch, order one of the salads for $9, get a Duo ($10) or Trio Plate ($12) for variety.
A few of the salads on rotation have been a green bean and purple potato salad, a roasted beet salad, a local gold watermelon salad, or a pesto pasta studded with green olives. The sandwiches, like the chicken salad croissant ($15) or the muffaletta ($18) come with your choice of salad from the case, too. Grab it to go or have it plated up properly with a cold drink or something caffeinated from their coffee bar. The deli case has become a new place for chef Becklund to play, since she doesn’t get to build lunch specials at her other concepts, FarmBar and Il Seme.
The parking in back is suspiciously easy, and the quiet side alley entrance feels like a secret. The downstairs space at Cow & Cabbage is part Victorian apothecary, part European market, part wine bar dreamscape. Dramatic pendant lights and gleaming glass cases lend a touch of old-world glamour, while the hexagon mosaic tile floor nods to early 20th-century lunch counters. There’s a thick butcher-block communal table that runs down the center, flanked by a few four-tops and a bar-height counter with polished wood stools—all ideal perches for a lunch date, a solo snack, or spread out with your laptop and a latte.
In the evening, things shift gears. Dinner service kicks off with a more traditional à la carte menu—beautiful starters, Johnny cakes topped with Gulf shrimp and Porter peach salad (MKT), thoughtful entrées like a Cajun spice rubbed Grassroots Ranch pork chop ($32) or potato gnocchi ($25) with Grassroots Farm chicken and Three Springs Farm zucchini, and a short list of wines and desserts. It’s not fussy, but it is intentional.
On Wednesdays, that menu disappears entirely, in favor of the $40 Farmers’ Market dinner, a rotating prix fixe experience that showcases whatever was freshest that morning. Nobody spins farm-fresh vegetables into gold quite like Lisa Becklund, so I booked a table immediately.
Two friends—both with highly discriminating taste who somehow still let me take pictures of their food and steal bites from their plates—and I reserved a space in the upstairs dining room, a lofted perch that feels like a hidden treehouse. It's quiet, perfect for first dates or intimate dinners with people you actually like. But next time, I might post up at the big communal table downstairs so I can scope out the curated pantry items and deli cases filled with stacks of sandwiches and seasonal sides. (It's called multi-tasking.)
The $40 Wednesday prix fixe meal includes three savory courses and dessert, with a couple of choices at each turn. The first course had two options, so we opted for both. I chose the watermelon carpaccio, paper-thin slices of watermelon and yellow melon layered in a glistening fan, dressed with a bright lime vinaigrette and topped with thin slices of cucumber and jalapeño. The citrus did the heavy lifting—sharp and clean, offsetting the melon’s subtle sweetness. Tiny flecks of lime flesh dotted the top like citrus caviar, bursting when you caught one. It was the ideal starter after a sweltering Oklahoma day: cooling, elegant, and quietly clever.
The Country Bird sourdough crostini featured a husky slice of the signature fermented sourdough, slathered perhaps too generously with a cloud of fresh chèvre. Glossy half-moons of heirloom tomato and charred nectarine leaned up against one another like a still life. The enthusiastic portion of chèvre dampened the nuance of the fruit and fried rosemary; regardless, the dish was summery and easy to love.
The second course was where things kicked up. I chose the grilled yardlong beans with black garlic sauce, cherry tomatoes, and scallion vinaigrette. Each bite offered a new mood. Imagine a tangle of beans cooked just enough to bend but keep their bounce, soaked in a vinaigrette spiked with green garden heat. The scallion vinaigrette brought sharpness and lift, like a hit of garden spice, and the blistered cherry tomatoes burst like little fireworks—bright, sweet, and just barely smoky. There was char, there was acid, there was umami. The black garlic hit like a funky little bass note, and the whole dish had a sneaky depth that rewarded every bite: fun, smart, and unexpected.
For the main, my friends opted for the chicken-fried chicken, which arrived like a golden-crusted treasure. The chicken was perfectly tender, and the breading was audibly crisp with shattering crystalline edges that let you know someone nailed that fry temp and timing. It sat on a pillowy mound of purple mashed potatoes, which were rustic and creamy in that deliberately imperfect, hand-mashed way. The poblano corn gravy stole the show—velvety, with slow-building poblano heat and pops of sweet corn. The portion was massive, and when everything came together on one fork, it was hearty, nostalgic, and deeply satisfying.
The vegetarian poblano stuffed with red rice and beans alongside purple potato mashers came through with bold flavor and real heft. The poblano itself was the highlight—roasted just enough to bring out its gentle heat without losing that signature snap. The rice and bean filling was tasty and substantial, though perhaps a little too generous; it dulled the delicate green flavor that made the pepper so special. Between the purple mashers and the rice-and-bean filling, a little bit of crunch, a hit of acid, something to brighten and break the soft-on-soft would’ve been welcome. Individually, the stuffed poblano and purple mashed potatoes are great, just maybe not the right plate-mates for each other.
A cantaloupe sorbet—salty, melon-forward, kissed with mint—was a refreshing finale after the rich third course. The fresh mint added a bright lift, and the almond shortbread crumble brought just enough bitterness and crunch to play against the cool, fragrant scoop. For someone who doesn’t love sweet desserts, this was perfection.
When Becklund and the Living Kitchen crew quietly took over the former Grassroots Larder space, I don’t think many realized just how ambitious the Cow & Cabbage project would be—or how perfectly it would thread the needle between their longtime farmstead philosophy and the rhythm of city life. The space was inherited more or less as-is, and while it’s undeniably beautiful, there’s still the feeling that the concept is growing to meet the room. But that’s okay. That’s the fun part.
In fact, it reminds me of how The Living Kitchen Farm & Dairy started: a rural experiment out in nowhere-ville Oklahoma that slowly bloomed into one of the state’s most beloved dining destinations. And in many ways, Cow & Cabbage is the culmination of their years in the field—literally. There is no middle man here. This is direct-from-the-dirt, call-the-farmer-by-name kind of food. The Cow & Cabbage market is like a farm-to-table life hack: a stop-gap for when the farmers market feels too crowded or too early or too far. It may not be overflowing with products (yet), but there are treasures to be found. And going home with a little armload of locally grown groceries somehow makes lunch or dinner from Cow & Cabbage feel even more delicious.
