A Bird in the Hand with a Dash of Salt and Pepper

I was a fussy child. I did not like bones with my chicken.

This presented a problem. For a family of six on a budget, boneless chicken breasts were rarely an option. Chicken was typically served in pieces, bone-in, Shake ‘n Bake style. After all, we were growing up in the heart of suburban Long Island. I must admit, it was not my favorite meal. I would push the meat around the plate and whine a bit. It was not exactly what you’d describe as quality time at the dinner table.

Mind you, I didn’t dislike chicken – far from it. I longed for those Sunday dinners when my mother would roast a whole chicken, and I could eat the thinly carved breast slices that my dad would fan across the platter. Even then, suburban ingenuity defined the meal. A pop-up button, inserted into the breast of the “Oven Stuffer Roaster” would signal that the bird was done. If we were lucky, there would be bread stuffing as well, usually made with Pepperidge Farm bread crumbs.

As an adult, I clung vehemently to my independence, and my ability to eat boneless chicken breasts no matter the cost. It didn’t matter if the rent money was tight, I would spend the extra cash for boneless chicken breasts.

It was only long after when I started classes at the French Culinary Institute in 2005 did I learn that roasting a whole chicken was considered an epicurean art form.

Indeed, in the memoir, My Life in France, Julia Child muses on the romance of a roasted chicken:

“Oh, those were such fine, fat, full-flavored birds from Bress – one taste, and I realized that I had long ago forgotten what real chicken tasted like.”

The French Chef goes so far as to make roasted chicken a requirement of culinary proficiency: “But my favorite remained the basic roast chicken. What a deceptively simple dish. I had come to believe that one can judge the quality of a cook by his or her roast chicken. Above all, it should taste like chicken: it should be so good that even a perfectly simple, buttery roast should be a delight.”

For some reason, I always found the idea of preparing a roast chicken intimidating. It was our instructor, Chef Candy – in her practical and authoritative way – who got me to relax about roasting. Even the FCI’s signature chicken recipe, Poulet Roti Grand-mere or “Grandmother’s Roast Chicken” inspired thoughts of a simpler life of sensual pleasure. Chef Candy carefully walked us through each step: removing the wishbone, trimming the wings, and trussing the bird so that the breast is plump and cooks evenly. We learned how to trim the leg bone, French style, and cut the breast on a bias.

Maybe it is the dark days of February that demand some homespun warmth, or the somewhat disconcerting feeling that the wonderful, exhilarating time spent learning at the French Culinary Institute is now three years past. Whatever the reason, I have become obsessed with thoughts of trussing and roasting a chicken.

I consult Alice Water’s “The Art of Simple Food,” and the technique could not be more poetic – one chicken, about four pounds, seasoned with salt and pepper. Stuffing the cavity of the bird with bundles of fresh thyme, sage and marjoram perfumes the meat. Waters recommends, if possible, that you season the bird a day or two ahead and refrigerate allowing the salt and pepper to penetrate the meat.

My trussing skills are rusty and several times, the twine slithers from my hands. But, eventually, perseverance pays off and I wrestle the roaster into submission. It is tied into a taut, tidy package and placed in the refrigerator.

On the afternoon of roasting, the chicken must sit out for about an hour before cooking. A chilled bird will not roast evenly. The oven is a searing 400 degrees. The directions are elementary – roast 20 minutes with breast side up, 20 minutes breast side down, and finish roasting 20 minutes up.

The oven sizzles with anticipation, and the chicken breast acquires a lustrous, golden hue. That hot, buttery aroma – so beloved by Julia and now dressed with sprightly herbs – permeates my kitchen.

My carving skills have endured the years and the tender, luscious meat peels from the frame. I French the bone and arrange several pieces on the plate, topped by an amber reduction prepared from pan drippings deglazed with white wine and chicken stock.

Make no bones about it. Accompanied with a glass of white Bordeaux, the roast chicken is a meal of supreme comfort and elegance.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Sunday Stew, Slow and Simple

It doesn’t take a particularly logical train of thought to get me started on a new cooking project. But, it is often a complicated path. Here’s a typical chain of events:

• I’m sitting in a hotel in Middlebury, Vermont last weekend drinking coffee and watching Tyler Florence on the Food Network. He’s whipping up his “ultimate” version of coq au vin. He adds an entire bottle of red wine to chicken and pearl onions that is simmering in a glossy-red Dutch oven. I’m intrigued, but it’s only breakfast time.
• On New Year’s Day, I note that I’ve still got a couple of coupons left for that department store whose name begins with an “M.” I check the web site and discover a kick-ass sale of kitchenware by the Doyenne of Domesticity – whose name begins with “M” – including fifty-percent-off a shiny, fire-engine red Dutch oven. Before the New Year is several hours old, I am the proud owner of a Dutch oven, and I’ve saved a bundle. Not a bad way to start off 2008.
• On Thursday, I’m giving serious thought to how I will use that last remaining bottle of delicious Bordeaux from Christmas Day.
• On Saturday morning, I’m lounging in bed. I think I’ve finally licked my chronic sleeping issues. All it took was a rather pricy purchase of a 1-inch thick foam mat that now sits atop my regular mattress. I’m feeling well-rested, and just a little lazy. Since I’m usually thinking about food, the question rolls through my head, “What shall I cook this weekend? Maybe something simple and slow in the Dutch oven? Something easy that cooks on its own?” I wonder where I might research more about braising and stew and I remember “The Art of Simple Food” by Alice Waters, which sits in the kitchen, but I’ve not had a chance to read. Sure enough, there is a section on braising and stews and an inviting recipe for Beef Stew. One week into this journey, it’s beginning to feel like destiny.

• About half of the morning is spent at Whole Foods, shopping for the best ingredients I can find. I think I blow a week’s worth of grocery money, but the chunks of boneless beef chuck look good enough to grace the cover of Saveur magazine. I season the beef with salt and pepper and put it into the refrigerator, ready to hit the ground running on Sunday, creating a classic beef stew.
  
  Sounds simple, right?

Along the way, I’ve hit a slight snag. The truth is, I’m a bit of a novice with Dutch ovens, and the optimal cooking techniques. Braise or stew? Which is it?

“The Elements of Cooking” by Michael Ruhlman offers some basics on braising. He calls it a “combination cooking method” of dry heat, in which meat is seared in very hot fat, followed by moist heat, where the meat is simmered in liquid at a very low temperature, but never a boil. Braising works well with cuts of meat that that contain connective tissue, which breaks down during the cooking process and thickens the sauce. Stew, on the other hand, is primarily the moist heat method, but the meat is cut into smaller pieces, a greater amount of liquid is used, and you don’t always sear the meat, although it will boost the flavor if you do. The Dutch oven is constructed of cast iron, so it conducts heat evenly and the tight-fitting lid keeps steam from escaping so the long, slow cooking method results in tender meat and luscious thick sauce.
There appears to be some controversy over techniques. Harold McGee is on record that the optimal braise starts at a temperature of 200 degrees F and is increased to 250 degrees F after two hours. Other’s suggest higher temperatures.

This is all becoming complicated, so I stick to Alice Waters’ directions. The beef stew recipe looks a bit like a cross between a braise and a stew. She recommends beef chuck because the connective tissue and fat offers more flavor.

First, bacon is browned in a pan. Then, the chunks of beef are browned in the bacon fat.

Aromatic vegetables – onions, carrots, and thyme, savory and parsley – are then browned just slightly before being added to the meat in the Dutch oven. The pan drippings are deglazed with brandy and the Bordeaux. Organic fire-roasted tomatoes, chopped garlic and beef stock are added to the pot along with the wine reduction.

Essentially what I’ve done is layered one flavor on top of another. The mixture is topped with a long strip of orange zest. I particularly like the fact that I can cover the pot and place it untouched and unattended in a 325 degree F oven for three hours.

The method is sheer simplicity, and the aroma is sheer torture. I keep glancing at the clock to see how soon it is until dinner. The house is fragrant with savory meat, rich wine, herbs, garlic and citrus. I’m about to loose my mind, and my appetite is on a rampage.

Time is up, and I open the lid. The odyssey of braising, stews and a lip-stick red Dutch oven in search of a home is complete. Simple, however, is a misnomer.

The mahogany sauce looks like satin, and the onions have practically melted. The beef is succulent and smoky, the carrots tender, and the orange zest adds a sweet, fresh note. The stew … uh, braise … is served atop toasted bread rubbed with garlic. Who needs fussy, complicated cuisine?

The best part is the leftovers. I can almost bet the beef stew will taste even better tomorrow, and I won’t have to cook for several days.

What could be simpler?

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Zucchini and Tomato Gratin and Alice Waters' Food Revolution

Alice Waters is everywhere these days, shopping at the Union Square Greenmarket, cooking lunch for New York Times reporter Kim Severson, advocating for fresh and locally-grown food in Gourment Magazine, publishing a manifesto on the American food supply, changing the way we look at what we eat.

I must admit, I had never thought much about locally-grown produce. I'd heard the rumors, and I'd even shopped at the Union Square Greenmarket in New York City, but it was never really part of my consciousness. But, Susan at The Food Blogga is crazy for vegetables, and in the past year, she's caught my eye more than once with some of the freshest and colorful veggy creations on the planet. When Jill took me to the Ottawa Farmer's market to forage for ingredients for what she insisted be a locally-grown Canadian Feast, I could no longer deny the fact that there was something to this whole perspective. Frankly, the produce was far superior to anything I've ever come across in my local Waldbaum's grocery store.

So I was intriqued when a colleague suggested I pick up "Alice Waters and Chez Panisse: The Romantic, Impractical, Often Eccentric, Ultimately Brilliant Making of a Food Revolution." How can you pass up a title like that? It's a little like something P.T. Barnum might have dreamt up!



Author Thomas McNamee delves into Alice Waters' psyche, the origins of the world famous Chez Panisse restaurant in Berkley, Calif0rnia, and most important, Waters' philosophy about food -- that it must be fresh, locally-grown and sustainable. The book is a tasty read, indeed. McNamee explores Alice's highly developed senses, her extraordinary palate, and the sex, drugs and drama in the kitchen at Chez Panisse over more than 30 years. There is her obsession with salad, and her drive to change the diets of American school children with the incredible "Edible Schoolyard" project that teaches children to grow, prepare and eat fresh food.

I'd made the obligatory foodie pilgrimage to Chez Panisse in 2004, but what I was lacking then was context. At the time, I didn't fully understand the philosophy behind the food. It would be a very different meal for me now. Alice's ethos says that food, ingredients and community are interdependent, and ingredients properly grown and prepared can sustain the community. Still, I have been troubled by the term "revolution" that is used frequently when referring to Alice Waters. To me, a revolution suggests dramatic, and permanent change. Waters has a life-long calling and mission, indeed. But there is still a significant portion of the population who won't or can't eat locally-grown produce. Still, I can't get those dazzling purple cauliflower I saw in Ottawa, or the stunning yellow zucchini from the North Fork of Long Island out of my mind.

Maybe a revolution can happen in a quiet kind of way, not dramatically, but with crisp flavors, and beautifully brilliant flashes of color. Maybe, if we all committed to one locally-grown dish per week, behaviors might begin to evolve, habits would change, health would improve and good taste would prevail. So I dug out my copy of Chez Panisse Vegetables, and joined the revolution, using locally-grown ingredients I purchased on the North Fork of Long Island:

Zucchini and Tomato Gratin (Adapted From Chez Panisse Vegetables by Alice Waters)

1 yellow onion

Olive oil

Salt and pepper

1 branch fresh thyme

Fresh basil leaves

6 plum tomatoes

2 large yellow zucchini

Balsamic vinegar

Panko bread crumbs

Chop onion and sautee in olive oil until translucent. Season with salt and pepper, add thyme leaves and basil. Slice tomatoes and zucchini into rounds. Layer the onion mixture in a deep, buttered quiche pan. Add a layer of tomatoes in an overlapping, circular pattern. Season with salt and pepper and sprinkle with balsamic vinegar. Add a layer of zucchini and alternate with tomatoes until the dish is full. Finish with a layer of zucchini and sprinkle with Panko bread crumbs, season with salt and pepper and drizzle with olive oil. Bake in a 350 degree oven uncovered for about 30 to 45 minutes.

Meantime, I'm off to Vermont in search of autumn leaves and food artisans of New England. See you back here later in October.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved