There is chicken, and there is chicken. The French chicken, from Bresse, is the finest in the world. It is nurtured and cosseted like no other living creature (save, perhaps, the Japanese Kobe cattle, which are fed beer and given a daily massage).
The poulet de Bresse is a “controlled” breed in France and carries its own special criteria as to production and methods of rearing. In fact, it has its own appellation contrôlée, as wine does. Posh bird. V. I. P. (Very Important Poulet). It has a superb flavor, due to its diet and upbringing, and also because it is properly hung, like a game bird, to allow its flavor to develop.
Naturally, there are other fine farmyard-reared birds, in Britain and the United States as well as in France and elsewhere. And the better the bird, the better the dish cooked.
Well, up to a point.
A good cook can produce a good dish from any old scrawnbag of a chook. A poor cook will produce a poor dish—even from a Bresse chicken. I firmly believe this to be true. Take a boiling fowl, for instance; one of the toughest old birds that requires careful and controlled cooking. Poached gently for a few hours in water, with root vegetables, herbs, and a little wine, this classic French bourgeois dish is a delight. Poule au pot (hen in a pot) is its name, and it can be eaten just as it is; you could even anglicize it with a few dumplings, if you wished, flavored with tarragon, perhaps—chicken’s favorite herb.
A boiling fowl is a hen that is often sold guts intact. Unless you are squeamish, it is interesting to discover within the cavity seven or eight partly developed eggs. These are yolks covered with a thin membrane, graded in size and queuing up like an egg-production line ready for laying. Traditionally, these are removed, beaten just like a normal egg, and used to enrich and thicken sauce or soup.
A dish I often make with poached chicken requires removing the bird from the stock, discarding the vegetables and herbs, and reducing the cooking liquid down to a quarter of its original. The egg yolks are then beaten with some cream, added to the liquid, and cooked gently until it thickens like a custard. I like to add lots of chopped parsley. Carefully cut up the bird, lay the pieces in a dish, and cover with this gorgeous, richly flavored parsley sauce. The only accompaniment necessary is some boiled potatoes.
Roasting a chicken is a joy for me; and if I am pressed to name my favorite food, then roast chicken it must be.
I would think that the nicest one I ever tasted was at Chez L’Ami Louis in Paris. The late M. Magnin used chickens from Les Landes—I think from his own farm but I am not sure—and roasted them to a divine juiciness and crispness. Today they are still as good as the first I ate twelve years ago.
At Chez L’Ami Louis, the roast chickens do have the advantage of being cooked in a wood-fired oven, their pedigree is fine, and so much butter is used. The resultant chicken is cooked almost to a state of chewiness—particularly at its extremities; the parson’s nose, wing tips, and undercarriage where those secret “oysters” lie. These little nuggets are charmingly called “les sots l’y laissent,” which, loosely translated, means “the bits that silly idiots leave behind.” The name “oyster” presumably refers to their shape or color, or how they slip nicely out of the natural bone structure as if they were oysters being lifted from their shells.
Anyway, the chicken at Ami Louis arrives at your table sizzling hot in its well-worn Le Creuset, surrounded by its juices, and carved there and then. The only thing served with this is a plate piled high with pommes frites of the thinnest dimensions.
Roasting and poaching (you don’t have to use an old boiler for poaching; a good tender chicken is delicious too) are my favorite ways of cooking chicken. Grilled small pieces or butterflied chickens (split in half and flattened) are delightful alternatives, particularly when cooked on a grill, having previously been marinated with herbs, garlic, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, lemon juice, or what you will. If it is not outdoor weather, then it is worth investing in one of those cast-iron ridged grills; without one it just isn’t possible to achieve the searing heat that crisps and scorches the skin or flesh and gives it its distinctive taste and, of course, fabulous smell.
Incidentally, putting chicken, or anything else, save toast, under a radiant broiler or salamander is not grilling in my book. This is fine for giving the finishing touches to a dish to be glazed or au gratin. (A frightful word that often rears its ugly head in British menuspeak is the term “gratinated.” It is horrid and should be banned.)
½ cup good butter, at room temperature
4 lb free-range chicken
salt and pepper
1 lemon
several sprigs of thyme or tarragon, or a mixture of the two
1 garlic clove, peeled and crushed
Preheat the oven to 450°F. Smear the butter with your hands all over the bird. Put the chicken in a roasting pan that will accommodate it with room to spare. Season liberally with salt and pepper and squeeze over the juice of the lemon. Put the herbs and garlic inside the cavity, together with the squeezed-out lemon halves—this will add a fragrant lemony flavor to the finished dish.
Roast the chicken in the oven for 10–15 minutes. Baste, then turn the oven temperature down to 375°F and roast for a further 30–45 minutes with occasional basting. The bird should be golden brown all over with a crisp skin and have buttery, lemony juices of a nut-brown color in the bottom of the pan.
Turn off the oven, leaving the door ajar, and leave the chicken to rest for at least 15 minutes before carving. This enables the flesh to relax gently, retaining the juices in the meat and ensuring easy, trouble-free carving and a moist bird.
Carve the bird to suit yourself. I like to do it in the roasting pan. I see no point in making a gravy in that old-fashioned way with the roasting fat, flour, and vegetable cooking water. With this roasting method, what you end up with in the pan is an amalgamation of butter, lemon juice, and chicken juices. That’s all. It is a perfect homogenization of fats and liquids. All it needs is a light whisk or a stir, and you have the most wonderful “gravy” imaginable. If you wish to add extra flavor, you can scoop the garlic and herbs out of the chicken cavity, stir them into the gravy, and heat through; strain before serving.
Another idea, popular with the Italians, is sometimes known as “wet-roasting.” Pour some white wine or a little chicken stock, or both, or even just water around the bottom of the pan at the beginning of cooking. This will produce more of a sauce and can be enriched further to produce altogether different results. For example, you can add chopped tomatoes, diced bacon, cream, endless different herbs, mushrooms, spring vegetables, spices—particularly saffron and ginger—or anything else that you fancy.
For me, the simple roast bird is the best, but it is useful to know how much further you can go when roasting a chicken.
4 chicken breasts
a few sprigs of thyme
juice of 1 lemon
4 tbsp olive oil
salt and pepper
4 lemon wedges
watercress or parsley, to garnish (optional)
2 egg yolks
2 large garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
salt and pepper
1½ cups olive oil
juice of 1 lemon
1 large eggplant, sliced into rings
2 red bell peppers, peeled and seeded as for Pimiento Salsa (see here)
2 large zucchini, sliced diagonally
2 red onions, peeled and thickly sliced into rings
2 small fennel bulbs, thinly sliced
salt and pepper
olive oil
Put the chicken breasts in a shallow dish with the thyme, lemon juice, olive oil, and pepper.
To make the aïoli, first make sure all the ingredients are at room temperature. Traditionally, aïoli should be made in a pestle and mortar, but, failing that, a bowl and a whisk or, if you are not in the mood to be energetic (or are of a lazy persuasion), then an electric mixer will do. But no blender or whole eggs, please.
Beat together the egg yolks and the garlic with a little salt until thick. Start to add the olive oil in a thin stream, beating continuously. Add a little of the lemon juice and then some more oil. Continue beating, adding alternately more lemon juice and more oil until both are used up and you have a thick mayonnaise. Adjust the salt and add plenty of pepper. Cover and keep at room temperature.
To grill the vegetables and chicken, you need a cast-iron ribbed grill or skillet on the stove. This dish cannot be achieved with an overhead radiant broiler.
Put all the vegetables in a deep bowl. Season well and douse generously with olive oil. With your hands, mix all the vegetables together until evenly coated. This is a messy operation, but is the most practical method of ensuring even distribution of oil and seasoning. It doesn’t really matter in what order you grill the vegetables. Fennel takes the longest and it needs to be charred more than the others, as this brings out its aniseed flavor. All the vegetables should be grilled on both sides and nicely blackened with crisscross stripes from the grill.
As each vegetable is cooked, transfer it to another bowl; it doesn’t matter if they are warm or cold, they taste just as good either way. Taste one or two of them to see if they need more seasoning. Also, remoisten with a little more olive oil.
Remove the chicken breasts from their marinade and season with salt on the skin-side only (this helps the skin to crisp). Grill, skin-side down, for a few minutes, then turn 45 degrees and grill for a further few minutes. Turn over and cook for a few minutes more until bouncy to the touch and not quite cooked. Transfer to a hot plate and invert another plate on top to allow the meat to relax and lightly steam its way to becoming thoroughly cooked. This will take about 10 minutes.
Assemble the vegetables in the middle of a large oval platter, and arrange the chicken breasts attractively with the lemon wedges. Pour over any remaining juices from the chicken and vegetable dishes. Serve the aïoli separately. If you like you can pop bunches of watercress or parsley here and there for added color.
The definitive version of this Burgundian speciality is to be found at Georges Blanc in Vonnas, Burgundy, France. On more than one occasion I had wanted to try this dish instead of the more complicated or more novel dishes on the menu, but curiosity always got the better of me and I would plump for a Menu Dégustation—a six- or seven-course tasting menu that is supposed to represent the chef at his best. I am not sure about this. It appears to be good value and a balanced selection, but I feel, in the final analysis, that it is production-line cooking and not for me. However, I have to admit that on the two occasions I have eaten the Dégustation at Georges Blanc, it was delicious.
However, when finally I was grown up enough to choose such a mundane plate of food as boiled chicken in a cream sauce with potato cakes, the rather imperious and oh-so-confident (English) sommelier came out with an unforgettable phrase: “What do you want to choose that for! There is a little place just down the road that does a far better version at half the price.” Thankfully, I wasn’t put off and enjoyed one of the best dishes I have ever eaten.
The crêpe recipe is Grandmère Blanc’s; the recipe for the chicken is not so grand Hopkinson.
4 lb chicken
3 carrots, peeled and cut lengthways
4 celery stalks, sliced into 3
3 leeks, trimmed and split lengthways
1 onion, peeled and studded with 3 cloves
2 bay leaves, a few sprigs of thyme and tarragon
peppercorns
salt
½ 750 ml bottle dry white wine
2 cups light cream
juice of 1 lemon
1 lb 2 oz potatoes, peeled and cut into chunks
¼ cup milk
2 ½ tbsp all-purpose flour
3 eggs
4 egg whites
2 ½ tbsp heavy cream
salt and pepper
8 oz unsalted butter (melted, skimmed of froth, strained, leaving behind milky
residue to produce clarified butter)
To cook the chicken, put it in a large, deep flameproof casserole or large boiling pot with the vegetables, herbs, peppercorns, and 2 tsp salt. Add the white wine and sufficient water just to cover. Put on a high heat and bring to the boil, then skim the surface, which will have produced a gray scum. Turn down the heat to a mere simmer. More scum will appear from time to time, so skim the surface when necessary. Do not cover, though you may like to turn the bird over from time to time if portions of it are not submerged. Simmer for 1 hour.
Carefully lift out the chicken and place it on a large plate. Strain the cooking liquid into a clean saucepan and throw away the vegetables. Put the chicken back in 1 cup of the strained stock, bring back to the boil, then remove from the heat and cover. This is to keep the chicken warm and allow it to rest.
Reduce the rest of the stock until thick and syrupy, ending with about ½ cup. Add the lemon juice and the cream and boil to reduce again, gently, until the sauce is unctuous and the consistency of thin custard. (In fact, a wine merchant friend of mine always refers to this dish as “chicken in custard.”) Check the seasoning and keep the sauce warm.
Meanwhile, to make the crêpe batter, steam the potatoes until cooked through. While still hot, put through the finest blade of a mouli-légumes or food mill into a bowl. Leave to cool. Mix together all the other ingredients, except the butter, in another bowl, and add to the potato. Pass the whole mixture through a sieve and check the seasoning.
To cook the pancakes, heat 1 tbsp of the clarified butter in a frying pan (preferably nonstick) until hot but not smoking. Use 1 tbsp of the batter per pancake, and cook three pancakes at a time. When the top of each pancake looks almost set, flip it over with a spatula, cook for a few seconds, then transfer to a warmed plate. Continue in this fashion until all the batter is used. Keep the crêpes in a single layeron an ovenproof plate in a warm oven.
The nicest possible way to present this dish is to place the whole chicken on a grand serving dish, arranging the crêpes attractively around the edge, and pouring the rich sauce over the whole bird. I don’t believe this dish needs any further embellishment.
This very simple dish is a great favorite. Its success lies in the fact that there are very few ingredients other than a good chicken and excellent-quality vinegar.
When Michel Guérard first sent us his recipes via the Sunday Times magazine in the early 1970s, he included a recipe for Poulet Sauté an Vinaigre de Vin. It was a dish I cooked over and over again, I loved it so much. His version included Armagnac, Dijon mustard, tomato purée, garlic, white wine, chervil, and heavy cream. It is very good and very rich. I have to say, though, that today I prefer this more traditional version. But I thank him, and his translator Caroline Conran, for the introduction to his genius, which has inspired me and countless other cooks.
4 lb chicken, cut into 8 pieces
salt and pepper
½ cup butter
2 tbsp olive oil
6 very ripe tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and chopped
1 cup best-quality red wine vinegar
1 cup chicken stock
2 heaped tbsp chopped parsley
Season the pieces of chicken with salt and pepper. Heat 4 tbsp of the butter and the olive oil in a flameproof casserole until just turning nut-brown. Add the chicken and fry gently, turning occasionally, until golden brown all over. Add the chopped tomatoes, and carry on frying and stewing until the tomato has lost its moisture and is dark red and sticky. Pour in the vinegar and reduce by simmering until almost disappeared. Add the stock, and simmer again until reduced by half. Remove the chicken to a serving dish and keep warm. Whisk the remaining butter into the sauce to give it a glossy finish. Add 1 tbsp chopped parsley, pour over the chicken, and sprinkle with the remaining parsley. Serve with plain boiled potatoes.
