Free Around My French Table by Dorie Greenspan

eaten within minutes.

 

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    the luckiest guy on the plane
    a black truffle sandwich to go
     
    The last thing I said to my husband one winter morning in Paris when he was leaving for the airport was, "I put a little snack in your computer bag." The first thing he said to me when he called from New York was, "I wish you could have seen the faces on all the French passengers when I opened my snack! The second I removed the plastic, everyone turned in my direction, and the flight attendant came over to my seat almost immediately—she was so envious that I gave her a bite." The snack that caused the fuss was a black truffle sandwich. It's not that everyone could see it—they didn't have to: the smell of truffles is so powerful and so distinctive that it's immediately recognizable to those who know and love them, a group that includes almost everyone in France.
    Black truffles are rare and expensive, and it's not often that I've got them. But one winter (the season for truffles runs from about November to March, with the holidays being prime time), I went in with a couple of friends on a truffle buy and ended up with two beautiful truffles, each fresh, fragrant, and the size of a small walnut. I hoarded my supply, using the fungi judiciously to make the pleasure last.
    Since the less you do with truffles, the better—you don't want to really cook them, but you do want to warm them to bring out their aroma (which is a major part of their draw)—I used a few slices in coddled eggs ( [>] ), a few with sautéed potatoes, and a few (well, more than a few) raw, with aged Comté (a truly sublime combination). And I stashed some away so that I could make Michael's surprise snack.
    Michael's sandwich was my version of one almost synonymous with Michel Rostang, the Michelin-starred chef. In Rostang's mythic creation, two slices of country bread (such as pain Poilâne; see [>] ) are spread with salted butter and thickly sliced fresh black truffles—an entire ounce of them! The sandwich is wrapped in plastic and refrigerated for two days so that the bread and butter are thoroughly infused with truffleness. Right before the sandwich is served, it's heated. Chez Rostang, it's run under the broiler, but it could be warmed in a buttered skillet.
    So Michael's snack was a shadow of Rostang's. His didn't have an ounce of truffles, and it wasn't warmed, but it was still the best sandwich he'd ever had—and the only one he still talks about.
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Tartine de Viande des Grisons
    F OR TEN YEARS, I LIVED DOWN the street from the Chai de l'Abbaye and it was
my
café—also, at times, my living room and office. It was the place I went to meet friends, do work, and have meetings. And often it was the place I went for lunch. If I walked in at lunchtime, Rabat, my favorite waiter, would hold the menu out and say, "Do you need this, or are you having
une tartine de viande des Grisons?
"
    Viande des Grisons is air-dried beef that comes from Grisons, in Switzerland. It's like Italian bresaola, and it's a popular component of winter meals and snacks in the French Alps, where it's often served with melted cheese and potatoes or on its own with drinks. At the Chai de l'Abbaye, it finds its way into salads that include hunks of Gruyère and walnuts as well as into my tartine. If you can't find air-dried beef, try making this tartine with prosciutto or another thinly sliced dry ham.
1
very large slice country bread, about ⅓ inch thick, or 2 smaller slices heavy tight-grained bread (rye works)
Butter
Enough slices of viande des Grisons or bresaola or other air-dried beef to completely cover the bread
Walnut oil or olive oil
Walnut halves (about 10)
    Lightly grill one side of the bread or toast it on one side in a toaster oven. As soon as it's toasted, slather that side with butter. Cover the bread with the beef—the pieces should overlap only slightly—and, using a long heavy knife, cut the bread crosswise into strips about 1 inch wide. Drizzle with a