In defence of the crisp sandwich
My grandmother would disown me. She would also be wrong, and I can prove it with texture.
Nobody in France believes me when I describe this. I have tried at three separate dinner parties and watched the same expression cross the same faces, somewhere between pity and concern, as if I had confessed to putting ice in wine.
The dish, if we are being generous with the word, is a bread roll, butter, and a packet of crisps. That is all of it. There is no sauce, no garnish, and no technique to speak of.
Why it works
The argument I keep failing to make in French is about contrast. Every part of it is doing a job that the other parts cannot do.
- The bread is soft and slightly sweet, and it does nothing except get out of the way.
- The butter is there for salt and fat, and it must be cold enough to sit in ridges.
- The crisps supply the only interesting texture in the entire construction.
Crush the packet slightly before you open it. Not to dust — you want shards. The whole point is the noise.
A sandwich should surprise your teeth at least once.
My own defence, offered at a dinner party, to silence
Cheese and onion. This is not a matter of taste. Salt and vinegar turns the butter strange, and anything smoky argues with the bread.
What my grandmother would say
She would say that bread is a vehicle for things that took effort, and that a potato already fried by a factory is not effort. She would be right about the effort and wrong about the outcome, which is the most French possible way to lose an argument.
I have made her ratatouille perhaps forty times. It takes two hours and it is better than this in every measurable way. I still eat more crisp sandwiches.