I realize Thanksgiving is right around the corner. And I’m very much looking forward to Thanksgiving dinner. This year, as we usually do, we’re celebrating at my sister-in-law’s house on Long Island. She’s making a turkey with all the fixings. I’m supplying, as I always do, the tinfoil wrapped chocolate turkeys.
But I’d like to discuss a different bird, one that’s been on my mind this week for no apparent reason. Chicken. Maybe it’s because I was walking down the street and picked up the scent of a rotisserie chicken. In any case, the connection – probably as much neural as conscious – took me back six decades or so to a shop I haven’t thought about since that bygone era.
Called Merit Farms, it stood on West 72nd Street between Columbus Avenue and Broadway. But the location is unimportant. What mattered was the mouth-watering scent of broiling chicken that emanated from it. We didn’t buy their birds often but when we did the meal was foolproof.
That’s the thing about roast chicken. It’s almost impossible to mess it up. In a world where uncertainty seems to grow by the day one thing you can always count on is chicken.
Before I go any further I’d like to offer an apology to all the vegetarians, lacto-vegetarians, lacto-ovo-vegetarians, vegans, pescatarians and any other non-poultry consuming “arians” out there. In the best of all worlds I’d be with you. But I’m weak and there are times when my body is run down and sobbing for a filet mignon or porterhouse steak.
Chicken falls into a somewhat different category. There’s a reason that “a chicken in every pot” was a political campaign slogan during the Great Depression. Notice they didn’t say a pork roast or burgers, even though both can be great.
Chicken triggered elemental, atavistic associations. It conjured up images that transcended mere food. It was a stand-in for hearth and home, for peace and prosperity, for an idealized Norman Rockwell image of a thankful American family sitting around the dinner table and never squabbling about politics or anything else.
I doubt we’re any less in need of that reassurance today. And chicken is there to provide it. Chicken is also extremely easy to cook. Forget spatchcocked chicken under a brick, chicken Parmesan, chicken Kiev, chicken Cordon Bleu, even chicken picatta. I’m referring to simple roast chicken.
Set the oven at 350, 375 or 400 degrees – who cares – and come back an hour or so later and it’s done. I used to think you needed to baste it. But my daughter, who’s a professional chef, told me that even that step is unnecessary. Especially if you like crispy skin. And boy do I like crispy skin.
I probably fell in love with the simplicity of chicken as a bachelor in my twenties. My date was invariably impressed, perhaps even moved, that a man knew how to cook and was making her dinner. I’m not sure my wife is similarly smitten when I pop a bird into our Breville oven. But one of the clauses in our unwritten marriage contract is that, with occasional exceptions, I do the cooking and she does the dishes.
And even cooking yourself is unnecessary. Most supermarkets make an acceptable rotisserie chicken. Of course there’s the question of sourcing. I doubt these are humanely raised free-range birds. Also, they may have been sitting under a heat lamp since morning and you’re likely purchasing it when coming home from work.
I’m also apprehensive about seasoned chicken. Every supermarket has a different formula and I don’t trust any of them to understand the nuance and finesse seasoning requires. Besides, why season with anything besides salt and pepper? The quiet majesty of poultry, especially if it’s led a good life, is that it brings game, no pun intended, to the meal. Less is more.
My spouse often boils the carcass to make stock and contends there’s no comparison between the richness of the broth rendered from farm-raised all natural chickens compared to those that are commercially produced.
Let’s discuss sides. This is probably where I lose my audience. I’ll make a salad and often something like glazed carrots with butter and maple syrup or maybe honey. And mashed potatoes or smashed potatoes turn a meal into an occasion. But if you’re feeling depleted at the end of the day, and just want to crash in front of the TV, Caesar salad out of a bag and potato chips go great with chicken.
If you think there’s something odd or exaggerated about my affection for chicken I want you to know that Jacques Pepin, the celebrated French chef and You]Tube star recently published a cookbook – his thirtysomethingith – devoted entirely to chicken. Titled “Art of the Chicken” and filled with recipes, stories and a hundred of his own paintings of, well, chickens it documents his life-long love for the bird.
But guess what? I don’t plan to buy it. I don’t plan to read it. I don’t plan to try any of his recipes. Because a well-bred roast chicken hardly needs my help or his.
Ralph Gardner, Jr. is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found be found on Substack.
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