THERE’S nothing subtle about the gratin, no elegant nuance or finely tuned technique. It has scant regard for parsimony, restraint or moderation and plays little heed to the dreary strictures of calorie control. Because this is a dish that is all about excess, of cream, cheese, crunch and delight. Simplicity, too—a no-nonsense feast to gird the belly and quicken the heart. It soothes and seduces, cossets and calms, the very quintessence of winter delight.
The key to any proper gratin is, of course, that crisp top. Originally, the term at the base of a paella, all chewy, toasted caramelised joy. But, by the 19th century, its meaning had evolved from by-product to main event, as the term (both noun and verb) described any dish dwelling beneath a crust of cheese, breadcrumbs, or, well, nothing at all.
