641.5944 McNally: The Balthazar Cookbook

When we were a-courtin', the Husband called me up at work one day and told me he'd like to make me dinner that night. These were out waiting-tables years, and dinner often meant a plate of whatever the tired cooks were willing to throw together for me after 12 hours of cooking for other people. Otherwise, it was delivered pizza or takeout, or leftover pizza or takeout. I was impressed and giddy at the gesture. As I biked over to his apartment, I wondered what we'd be having. I figured it would be some pasta with doctored-up tomato sauce, maybe a salad, some garlic bread. Or perhaps a steak, a few over-sautéed mushrooms on the side. I was no cook at the time, and either of these options appealed to me greatly. But I was wrong. Dinner, it turned out, was grilled tuna steak topped with a sun-dried tomato relish and grilled leeks. The tuna was lightly seared on the outside, the inside a distressingly pale pink. “It’s supposed to be like that,” he told me as I peered at the fish. “Like sushi.” I pondered this. I’d never had sushi, though I was curious. “Actually, this isn’t raw like sushi, just a bit rare. It’s the way tuna’s supposed to be cooked.” I blinked. I had only had tuna from a can, which, I would think, should never be rare, and never cooked. It should just be. Preferably with mayo. But I trusted this young man, so I took a bite. The seared, slightly salty edges gave way to a tender, juicy and very flavorful center. The texture was wonderful – not at all the dry, grainy tuna I’d previously known. The relish on top was a burst of tomato flavor, mellowed a bit into a savory, smooth sauce that complemented the tuna nicely.

“How did you make this?” I asked, imagining hours of marinating, super-expensive imported tomato sauce, piles of cookbooks. “It’s so simple,” he told me, explaining that he grilled the tuna steak with a bit of salt and pepper, and the relish was just jarred sun-dried tomatoes blended with a bit of chicken stock. Simple, indeed. I was amazed. This was easier than making a tuna salad sandwich. And with much more flavor and a better texture. “The key,” he told me, “is to get good ingredients.” So…something better than Chicken of the Sea?

Since then, I’ve come to appreciate simple cooking – starting with superb ingredients and preparing them without fuss, letting the inherent qualities of the food itself shine through rather than spending all day turning the food into something totally unexpected. Most professional chefs would agree (just in case you were wondering if this is, in fact, just a defense of laziness on my part). In "My Life in France," Julia Child marvels on the basic roast chicken, saying, "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." Now, most things described as “buttery” are a delight, but I digress. Chicken is a tricky bird: easy to overcook, easy to undercook; and while the former is just disappointing, the latter is gross, and potentially dangerous. Many of us have mastered the boneless, skinless breast, which is a nice thing, but not the most exciting meal in the world. But a whole chicken is quite something else. It’s not a perfect oval of continuous white meat. It’s very easy to dry out one part while undercooking the rest. But with a few tips and tricks, this simple recipe can create a truly extraordinary, and romantic, meal.

The Husband has, lucky for me, mastered this. He nailed it on the first try, in fact. His go-to recipe is endearingly titled “Roast Chicken for Two,” and can be found in Kevin McNally’s “The Balthazar Cookbook.” Balthazar, the restaurant, is a stunning Parisian-style bistro in Soho. It’s all subway tiles and high ceilings and Frenchy waiters. I love it. The cookbook is just as perfect: simple French recipes, nothing fussy, just delicious. The Avon Library doesn’t have this one on the shelf, but you can easily request it for transfer from one our consortium libraries. We do, however, have a ton of other cookbooks on our shelves that do offer wonderful roast chicken recipes.

Julia Child, of course, in "Mastering the Art of French Cooking," tells you not only how to roast a chicken in the oven, but on a spit as well. Jamie Oliver provides a jolly good recipe in "The Naked Chef," though he admits he likes to over-cook the thighs a little, and explains how to accomplish this, just in case you want to do the same. And our friend Thomas Keller, not typically known for simple cooking, provides a roast chicken recipe as well, in his book, "Bouchon." Of course, he brines his bird first. Show off. We’ve tried a few different recipes, but we’ve always come back to the Balthazar version. It’s just that perfect.

I used to be scared of raw chicken. To me, it looked too much like an old man just out of the bath. But the more I cook, the less “chicken” I get about such things. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) Still, when I offered to take on the task of roasting a chicken for our dinner the other night, the Husband was impressed, but skeptical. “Are you sure? You’re going to handle it raw and everything?” As if I can roast a chicken without ever seeing it raw. I wish. I’m not delusional, though. We agreed that he would help me a bit. Normally my stubborn side would insist that I could handle it just fine on my own, thank you very much, but I liked the cuteness of cooking together, and I really didn’t want him retching with salmonella after we dined by candlelight. Husband rinsed the bird while I grabbed a few paper towels and pulled out a clean plastic cutting board. After pulling the nasty bits out of the cavity, he handed the bird to me and I dried it off and put it on the board. I slid my fingers under the skin and separated it from the breast meat. This is tricky – you have to be careful not to tear the skin. If this part grosses you out, just remember that you’re doing this to make room for the butter. Yes, butter. Yummy herb-speckled butter. Once the skin is loose, you slide some herb butter underneath it and massage it into the breast. (I told you this recipe was romantic.)

More herbs, along with a lemon and a head of garlic, both cut in half, go into the cavity. Next you truss the chicken. (It’s not always a good idea to ask anyone help you with this, cute husband or not. If you do, and the string comes undone just as you’re about to put the hot, seared bird in the oven, you’ll irrationally blame said helper and then almost get into a really big fight and end up eating Roast Chicken for Two all by yourself.) If you’ve never trussed a chicken before, consult your cookbook, or any cookbook with an illustrated how-to on this process. It’s actually not all that complicated, but some instructions are way overblown and just confuse things. You can get a very nice video demo here: How To Truss A Chicken. Trussing the chicken pulls all the floppy limbs close to the body, which helps to brown and cook the chicken more evenly. It also keeps any flavors inside the cavity (allowing them to penetrate into the meat), if you’ve stuffed the bird.

When it’s good and trussed, the chicken is seared in a very hot skillet for about 4 minutes per side. Be sure you have some good, long-handled tongs and a trustworthy oven mitt, especially if you're using a cast-iron skillet - the handles on those things get crazy hot. The chicken is a bit unweildy and doesn't always want to sit the way you tell it to, so you might need to force it into submission with your tongs while keeping the skillet in place. Sear all four sides until the whole bird is a nice "burnished brown."

With fall officially here, we thought some parsnips and Brussels Sprouts would go well with the chicken; though potatoes, summer squash, onions, mushrooms - just about any bite-size veg would work beautifully here. We added them to the pan along with a bit of olive oil. It all goes into the oven, where it roasts at 450 degrees. The parsnips and rosemary released incredible aromas while we set the table and opened the wine.

 

  

Over several years of making this, Husband has developed a simple recipe for chicken jus that we love with the chicken and veg, so we made that while the chicken roasted.

 
Chicken Jus with Roasted Garlic
2 cups Chicken stock

1 sprig Rosemary

1 Tablespoon butter

½ of a head of roasted garlic (To roast garlic: Remove papery outer layers of garlic head. Drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Roast 40 minutes at 400 degrees. When cool, squeeze the cloves from their skins. Save the extra roasted cloves for another use.)

Place chicken stock, roasted garlic cloves, and rosemary in a saucepan and bring to a simmer. Continue to simmer until the sauce is reduced by half. Remove the rosemary and puree the sauce. Strain the sauce and return it to the saucepan. Reduce by half again. When sauce has thickened nicely (you should have about a half cup), whisk in the butter. Salt and pepper to taste.

After about 40 minutes, we checked the bird. It's done when the juices run clear and the meat is no longer pink. An internal temp of 155 degress is also a good indicator. It wasn't quite there yet, so we put it back in. Ours looked good, but if it's browning too quickly, just cover it up with some aluminum foil. When it was done, we carved it up. The chicken came out tender, juicy, and flavorful, with a nice crispy skin. The breast meat didn’t dry out (thank you, butter), and the vegetables were perfectly browned and tender-crisp. As always. The meal is homey and comforting, and so delicious, it’s amazing to think it’s just a humble chicken and some common vegetables. The key here is, of course, that the chicken was not the bargain basement, hormone-laden, mistreated variety, but a nice, organic, free range, happy bird. And the veggies were local and fresh. And that my friends, makes all the difference.

After more than ten years of enjoying simple (and not-so-simple) meals cooked by my Husband, I have come to appreciate him as a quality cook with skills that Julia Child would delight in. My advantage is that I sometimes get to cook for him, in return.