A one-slice affair for sandwich lovers
Tartines are open-faced with a single piece of bread that accepts everything as topping
Mention the avocado-toast craze to a French person and you’ll get a Gallic shrug. Although that shrug is generally a nuanced gesture with myriad meanings, the translation of the toast shrug is: What’s the big deal?
Long before hip, small-plates restaurants and hole-in-the-wall diners were topping toasts with smashed avocado, olive-oil drizzled ricotta, squash roasted with maple syrup or anything with tahini, the French were eating tartines. Like toasts, tartines are a one-slice affair, an openfaced sandwich, a single piece of bread that accepts everything as a topping including scrambled eggs, aged cheese and truffles. And yes, you can top a slab of country bread with avocado.
The other day in Paris, I topped my tartine with a type of eggplant caviar, the French name for a mash of eggplant, herbs and spices (like baba ghanouj). It wasn’t what I had set out to do, but having done it, I liked it so much that I did it again.
I had roasted two eggplants and set them aside to turn them into one of several mezze plates that I had planned to serve as the starter for a Mediterranean-inspired dinner. And then the dinner got cancelled: I came down with la grippe (like everyone else). All bets were off.
All except whatever I was going to do with the eggplants, roasted, burnished, appropriately shrivelled and resting in a speckled enamel pan. Doing my best to channel Yotam Ottolenghi, who makes miraculous things with eggplants, I created this silken spread, flavoured with tahini (natch), pomegranate molasses (a new must-have in my house), ground sumac, onion and a hyper-generous amount of chopped ginger. To anyone who says that eggplant is undistinguished (the polite way to say that its flavour can be muddy), I say, taste this: The ginger is transformative.
As for the tartine, I built it from ingredients I’d intended to use for the ill-fated dinner. The base was a thick slice of olive-oil-moistened sourdough bread (thicker than most French people would consider for a tartine) and then, for surprise and crunch, some paper-thin slices of pear to support a hearty layer of the eggplant spread. I finished the dish with slivers of onions and radishes, pomegranate seeds and soft lettuce. It was gorgeous. It was delicious. It was more Israel than Eiffel Tower. It was a winner. Take-away tips
Roast the sleek-skinned eggplants until they’re wrinkled, soft and sag in the centre. Poke them in their bellies and they should give way easily.
Aword from experience: You never know what you’re going to find when you slit open an eggplant. Lots of liquid? Drain it away. Lots of seeds? Get rid of them. Thick, stringy pieces of pulp that you know won’t mash smoothly? Snip them to size with kitchen scissors.
Use a fork or a spoon to mix the add-ins with the eggplant; this is a very low-tech dish.
Keep tasting. Keep tweaking. You might want more bright stuff in the mix; I always want more lemon juice.
Choose a bread that will hold up under the weight of the ingredients. (If you’re in Paris, as I am, choose everyone’s favourite bread for tartine: Poilâne.) Tartines are usually as slender as French mannequins, but not this one: You want a thick slice. Brush it lightly with olive oil. (If you’d like to toast it, do so before oiling.)
Build your tartine for taste, texture and beauty. Season the layers, if you think they need it, and finish the top with a flourish of small, colourful vegetables.
You never know what you’re going to find when you open an eggplant. Lots of liquid? Drain it. Lots of seeds? Get rid of them