Until about a month ago, my favourite sandwich was the smoked meat number from Schwartz’s deli in Montreal. It is a beautiful and generous skyscraper of a thing, where perfumed meat sits happily, fat rendered and soft, between two pieces of rye bread.
I am deliberating as to whether I might shove it off the top spot in favour of a sandwich I had in a field near Bordeaux in August. I was picnicking on the periphery of a vineyard: it reminded me of A Good Year with Russell Crowe; all the whimsical pretension of a man suited in linen being a bit of a twat in France. My only regret is not having taken a silly hat.
We had excellent wine – a breezy, not toothy Bordeaux; soft in middle-age – and a hamper full of sandwiches. One, a tuna wrap, saw raw fish tucked in alongside carrots, pickles and a spiced mayo. Not bad. Another was a take on a club (another front-runner in sandwich preference, a legendary thing) where good Bayonne ham was partnered with lettuce and boiled eggs, these between thin, malty bread. Decent.
But then came a sandwich made with a savoury version of kouign-amann, a Breton bread made with laminated dough and one of the French region’s finest creations. It is croissant-like, rich and buttery, and is usually made as viennoiserie: sweet, layered and flaky with toasty notes and sugar. Similar(ish) to puff pastry and structured much the same. The kouignette might be better still: a smaller, muffin-shaped version. These days, all the rage in high-end dining, often punctuating courses during set menus.
The chef looking after us that day on the vineyard hailed from Brittany. He was apparently born not far from Douarnenez in Finistère, which is where kouign-amann was invented in 1860. The town, also known for its mackerel and sardines, is fiercely traditional. And the bread remains quite local but has made tracks beyond Brittany. The New York Times once called it the “fattiest pastry in all of Europe”.
A classic kouign-amann is indulgent beyond measure: the original recipe calls for: 400g of flour for 300g of salted butter and 300g of sugar. You wouldn’t want to eat one every day.
This sandwich we had was made in much the same way but without quite so much sugar. The chef had to pull off some baking mastery to make it work, and I’m sure there would be some hardline Bretons who would dismiss it, or call it something else.
Whatever, this sandwich, with bread kouign-amannesque if nothing else, was nothing short of genius: a circle of deliriously rich pastry-dough-bread – I’ve no idea, really – with a laminated top and precise, ruffled layers bound tightly but with room to breathe. Too greasy? Not at all.
Inside, folds of chorizo, soft and near-melting into its vehicle, and rocket leaves. Nothing else, because nothing else was required. It was a sandwich so perfect it didn’t even need a squeeze of mayonnaise to lubricate.
Kouign-amann is pronounced “queen-ah-man”. It is widely considered to be a gâteaux de voyage, which translates as travel cake, or thereabouts. And so of course the style of bread (calling it this for ease) works brilliantly in sandwich form. It is positioned perfectly to be carried around, snugly wrapped in tin foil to be enjoyed later. Which is what I did with the second one: I ate it at the airport before another Ryanair nightmare.
There are some foods that work to a near-unfathomable degree. This is that: a total, unadulterated masterstroke of a lunch, combining three, simple elements to become a perfect dish. And to think I am unlikely to ever eat it again.
Painful, possibly disastrous. But impeccably romantic – hey, my favourite sandwich, then, I suppose.
