What makes France's sandwich game so strong?

A jambon-beurre consumed today at Le Bougnat, an old-school brasserie at 28 Rue de Saintonge.

Big fan of sandwiches (or "sandwichs," as they are often listed in the city), in part because of their Seussian portability ― you can eat them in a box, you can eat them with a fox ― and also because they are fucking delicious when the French make them. Why is this so?

Well, the French baguette goes for anywhere from 90 cents to 1.20e today and is better than any grocery or "artisanal" bread available in my hometown for 5 times the price. They come out of hot, steamy ovens and when torn open, the glutinous, cratered mini-world you were dreaming of on that 8-hour plane ride eagerly reintroduces itself. "How ya doin'?" it asks. The correct reply is, "You were missed."

French baguettes are not all created equal, but nearly so. Bought at a boulangerie they range from good to excellent ― there are no Division II baguettes. Once you start eating a baguette you can stop, I suppose, but only in the event of a major distraction ― the moulin next door is being swallowed by flames, or the kid chipped a tooth.

By some adhesive miracle it is impossible to maim a baguette. If you cut one laterally and pull back on each side, as if opening a book too far so as to persuade it to lie flat, the loaf will self-heal, its two halves slowly re-mirroring each other like the wings of a butterfly at rest. There is no better canvas on which to fling your sandwich ingredients. This is best done with verve, which is to say, if you apply spreadable butter, it should resemble the impasto brushstrokes of Van Gogh. Grab a trowel and pretend you are a drywaller. If cheese, thick slabs. If ham ― well this is a matter of preference. I choose moderation with ham, particularly if it is a cured, reddish jambon de pays. The owner of Caractere de Cochon, a charcuterie at 42 Rue Charlot, will give you a good deal of ham and at his prices, currently 6.90e for the simplest of sandwiches, he damn well better. But this is overkill.

The jambon-beurre is the quotidian sandwich of the street and as a working stiff I will order it 8 times out of 10. I'm OK with butter étale ― warm enough to spread with a knife. If making it myself, I want my beurre cold and broken into coin-sized chips, placed by hand at intervals the length of a half-loaf, about 11 inches. On top of that a single tranche of boiled ham, the traditional stuff, almost white ― the kind with a 2.5 mm ring of fat around its perimeter. This is known as jambon de Paris, and if you ask for it by name, you will be understood. I tear or twist this piece ― tousle it really, with the thought that will aid in its random distribution. The making of a jambon-beurre should take no more than 40 seconds. It should not be adorned with Dijon or cornichons or arugula.

A baguette sandwich without butter is ... well, it's a crime. This brand ― golden yellow with grains of salt ― is widely available and is the best thing in the world.

Where I differ with some of my beloved sandwich makers in Paris is in the choice of butter. I am a stranger in your country, but I honestly believe a beurre d'Isigny, or something like it containing crunchy flecks of salt, elevates everything.

One other thing: If a jambon-beurre captures my heart 8 times out of 10, the other 2 are reserved for the cheese sandwich. Do you know where to get a cheese sandwich in your city? I do not. The only thing I can think of is to order a cheeseburger at McDonald's and ask them to hold the patty, pickles, ketchup and mustard. (The Velveeta grilled-cheese sandwich, a ham-less cousin of the croque-monsieur, is an American masterpiece but I would argue belongs to a different genus.)

My musings coalesced after a couple of visits to Chez Aline, at 85 Rue de la Roquette, where I was encouraged to pursue this train of thought. Add one dairy fat to another, advised the proprietress. "We have salted butter," she said, "and I suggest a fourme d'Ambert to go with it."

And I thought, "This is why you come to France, you fool." As Larry David would say, it was pretty, pretty, pretty good.