“What in the everliving fuck is going on?”asked one man. “Don’t take this away from me!” pleaded another. A third threatened to throw himself into the Thames. The year was 2019. Pret a Manger, the not-actually-French chain of coffee shops, had recently discontinued its iconic (yes, iconic) jambon-beurre sandwich, and an especially middle-class corner of the Twittersphere had gone into meltdown.
The three-filling sandwich had long inspired a cult following of foodies and budget-lunchers alike. The saline, pillowy Wiltshire ham; butter so thick that you left dental records in every bite; bread (sorry, “losange”) ideally shaped to gouge holes in the roof of your mouth. All punctuated by the zing and crunch of three noble cornichons, and for less than £3. Much to the joy of the JB acolytes — and, one assumes, to the relief of the Thames lifeboatmen — Pret blinked first in this cold-cut war and reinstated the sandwich less than two weeks after it was axed, claiming its disappearance was always intended to be a temporary measure. Order was, thankfully, restored.
The jambon-beurre, also known as Le Parisien, rose to prominence alongside the baguette itself towards the end of the 19th century and was allegedly popularised by the workers of Les Halles, the famous food market. It comprises a half-baguette, cut lengthways, spread with semi-salted butter (on both sides) and then filled with delicate frills of jambon-blanc. That’s it.
Earlier this year, alone in Paris, I texted an epicurean friend: “Where do I get the best jambon-beurre in Paris?” “Chez Aline,” he shot back, so off I went to the Rue de la Roquette in the 11th, just north-east of the Bastille.
Occupying the compact confines of a former horsemeat butcher — called “Chevaline”, hence the new name — delicatessen-and-sandwich-shop Chez Aline consists of a kitchen, a counter and four chairs beside a narrow bar. It is tiny and chicly unfussy, and when I arrived around midday, a modest queue was already forming outside. Through the small window, I could see founder Delphine Zampetti at her station, filling sandwiches and plastic takeaway tubs from dishes under the counter. A self-taught cook, Zampetti opened Chez Aline a few years ago after itinerant work in Paris’s food industry. One blogger has described it as a “jewel-box diorama of the low-key chef’s ideal restaurant” and, peering in from the cold street, that seemed about right.
I repeated the appropriate French in my head and, when my time came, I entered the quiet shop. Thanks to the pandemic, it was a one-in-one-out situation, lending my time inside a confessional vibe. “I have been told of your sandwiches,” I said to myself, “and I have travelled many miles to be here.” Zampetti smiled, and though I was temporarily distracted by a big plate of thon à l’escabèche (pickled tuna) under the counter, I rallied. “Deux sandwichs jambon-beurre, s’il vous plaît...”
Zampetti sprang into action. Chez Aline’s jambon-beurre consists of a classic jambon-blanc— “wet-brined for 24 hours in a mix of salt, sugar and a 'decoction’ of spices, garlic and aromatics, then steam cooked, pressed and branded with the ‘Jambon de Paris’ stamp,” a charcutier friend assures me — half a baguette from Parisian baker Maison Landemaine (chewy; crispy with-out and fluffy within) and a heart-stopping smear of salt-flecked butter from the Bornumbiac dairy in Normandy.
As Zampetti constructed her masterpiece, I asked for cornichons — because, Pret — and she smiled in a way that only Continental people do when a Brit is being culturally ignorant. “Non,” she said, the electric ham-slicer whirring back and forth. Apparently, asking for pickles in your jambon-beurre is like asking for brown sauce in Tuscany. And, to be fair, the clue is in the title.
The sandwiches — plural, one for then and one for not-then — were €6.50 each and easily the best thing I have ever eaten in Paris; perhaps, even, the best thing I have ever eaten at all. The combination of ham, butter and baguette is a holy trinity and a primal truth. Like the concentric petals of a dahlia or the mating dance of the magnificent riflebird, there is no explanation to its perfection. It just is.
I scarfed down the first sarnie almost instantly, but managed to make the second last the remainder of my trip, nibbling away at it like a junkie every time I passed the mini fridge in my hotel room. Its integrity waned, of course. The bread gradually toughened and the ham dried out at the edges, but it was still good. Freshness is temporary, but class is immortal.
I wasn’t able to get back to Chez Aline beforeI left Paris a few days later, but when I alighted at St Pancras, I passed a Pret and noticed a man in the queue, holding a JB. He seemed spritely and optimistic, ready to tackle the afternoon with the kind of vigour only a good sandwich can muster. “You fool,” I whispered, my eyes starting to mist at the memory. “You crazy, stupid fool.”
Charlie Teasdale is Esquire's style director
