The smell of bacon in a warm kitchen is a kind of announcement. Something is happening. Someone is paying attention. It reaches into the other rooms of the house and does what no dinner call ever could.

This is a salad that doesn't behave like one. It's warm and sturdy and satisfying in a way that leaves and vinaigrette rarely manage. The potatoes go into the dressing while they're still hot, which is the whole trick, really. A hot potato absorbs a dressing. A cold one wears it. The difference between the two is the difference between something good and something you'll write down in the notebook. The mustard is sharp, the bacon is salty and crisp, and the shallots have gone soft and sweet in the rendered fat. It all comes together in ten minutes once the potatoes are cooked.

I make this through the year. New Charlottes in June, when the skins are thin as paper and the flesh is waxy and yellow. Bigger, earthier potatoes in October, when you want something that holds its own against the cold. It sits happily next to a grilled chop, or on a table at a gathering where everyone brings a dish and yours is the one they come back to. Right food, right evening. We're only making dinner.