Roast Chickens

The day is one of those perfect ones here where the sun is bright in the sky, the air cold. It is the kind of day when the world seems to have woken up from a deep sleep, all perky, ready for what is ahead. I have been, of late, obsessed with perfecting a dish that is seemingly easy, but quite difficult to get just right--the roast chicken. I'm not a fan of chicken, finding the overuse of it as a substitute for meat a poor substitution for a nice piece of steak. Perhaps as a result of my indifference, I'd given little thought to preparations for it that can elevate this every day meat to something bordering on the sublime. I know the French do a wondrous roast chicken, which is heavenly in the moistness of the meat and the crispiness of the skin. But since we don't live in Provence, well, I'd always relegated chicken for something I cooked out of guilt rather than out of a real desire.

A recent cookbook put out by a food writer in London changed all of this around for me. Simon Hopkinson wrote the kind of cookbook that I love, full of interesting anecdotes about having eaten sweetbreads in a small Italian village, some, thirty years ago. The writing is very English, which means it is hyper literate and amusing, another trait the Brits have mastered. This book, unlike the mass market junk put out by the likes of Rachel Ray, is a book that should be read cover to cover.

In my thorough perusal I found his recipe for roast chicken that perked my interest. Why, you might ask after so many years of indifference? Well, it might have something to do with the pound of butter he used to lather over the bird, an absolute no-no in our health conscious eating and cooking life. But since I believe food should be savored, not devoured, therefore all things should be cooked the way they were originally meant to be cooked, there is no substitution for ingredients in my house. I cook with butter, olive oil, use butter when I bake. I do draw the line where shortening is concerned, finding that to be something I can't wrap my head around.

After reading and rereading his simple recipe for the roast chicken, I decided to bake two birds for a dinner at our house with some friends. A girlfriend was over for a visit, watching me lather the two birds with enough butter to clog up a few arteries. I knew it was bad when she said, "that's alot of butter." But despite her doubts, I put the bird in as instructed by the recipe. I'd added a few of my own touches like layering the roasting pan with root vegetables. Within fifteen minutes, our apartment filled with the fragrant aromas of butter, vegetables, and herbs. When my girlfriend and I peaked into the oven, the bird was baking to a perfect golden color, the skin very crisp, the bottom of the pan filled with the delicious gravy.

The meal was a huge hit with the kids and adults alike. The two five pound birds were devoured, very little of the carcass left by the end of the meal. The orzo risotta I'd made as a side dish was also completely gone. It was the firs time I'd made a chicken that lived up the worship of those who live on this one meat source.

I haven't tried any other recipes from this amusing, well-written book. Somehow the idea of cooking shortbreads in our apartment seems a sure way to make sure we lose all friends on our floor--not that they are plentiful.