Years ago, when my family and I were living in Paris, we would spend our spring vacations in the French Alps. The skiing was magnificent, and so was the food. In fact, I’m still haunted (in the best way possible) by memories of tartiflette, the luscious gratin of tender potatoes, crisp-chewy poitrine fumée (smoked bacon), white wine, and cream, generously topped with nutty, milky Reblochon cheese. My sons and I would tuck into individual crocks, still bubbling from the heat of the oven and dolloped with tangy crème fraîche, for lunch most days at a slopeside restaurant in Courchevel. I would sip a cold, crisp Chablis, and the boys, chocolat chaud, as we took in the glittering Mont Blanc.