Tartiflette

Eastside Road, February 14, 2015 (St. Valentine's Day)—

I KNOW EXACTLY when I first tasted tartiflette, which has become such a favorite dish of mine — so often mentioned and recalled — that Cook thought (so thoughtful a companion is she) to prepare it tonight: what a delightful surprise; what a sentimental gift.

It was Wednesday, June 25, 2008; I was with my friend Mac and my grandson Henry in a hiker's "refuge" called Bassachaux, a day's walk beyond La Chapelle d'Abondance, a kilometer or two inside France from the Swiss border, south of Geneva, in Savoie. Let me quote from my book Walking the French Alps:

We had a little suite of our own upstairs at the front of the building, Henry and I sharing one bed, Mac alone on the other; showers and flush toilets were curtain-walled off in the big dortoir we’d walked through to get to our rooms. I noticed, then, that other guests were beginning to show up, and made a mental note to reserve when I could, otherwise to arrive as early as possible. I don’t mind sleeping in these dortoirs but I do like a bed at the end of the row, by a window if possible.


At seven-thirty we had what seemed to be a standard refuge dinner: potage on a potato base, sometimes flavored with nettles; not rabbit but tartiflette, a dish of potatoes and local cheese, sliced and layered and cooked in the oven; and a delicious tarte à myrtilles, washed down with Aprémont, a favorite white wine of mine. We would have both these dishes frequently; they are both tourist specialties and honest food du terroir; “tartiflette” coming apparently from the local dialect word for “potato,” tartifla.

The next few days we continued our walk through the Savoie region of Beaufort, home of a very favorite cheese of mine, and we had a number of tartiflettes, all made exactly the same way: layers of thin-sliced potato, onion, and cheese.

But there are, apparently, a number of ways to approach this dish, which you'll have recognized is a version of potatoes dauphinois, or what was called, in my own childhood, "scalloped potatoes," why, I'll never know. My Berkeley grandmother made scalloped potatoes to take to church potlucks, and my mother made her own version on our broken-down "farm": sliced potatoes layered in a rectangular Pyrex baking dish, with sliced onion, and good rich milk from our Jersey cow, and dots of butter. I don't recall the presence of any cheese.

Tonight's version boasted little chunks of smoked bacon, which gives the dish an aroma more Alsatian than Savoyard: but the cheese was definitely Beaufort, and it was a lovely Valentine. Broccoli on the side, and a green salad afterward, of course.

Cheap Pinot grigio (had I known, I'd have splurged on an Aprémont)

☛Restaurants visited in 2015 are listed at Eatingday's Restaurants