Friday, April 18, 2003

Let me introduce Pollo Fritto alla Fiorentina, or Florentine Fried Chicken. We have embarked upon a great adventure here, the Great Chicken Odyssey.  Eric has set out with foolhardy valor to vanquish the farflung kingdoms of a universal dish, and on this journey I am merely his bosom companion, his sous-chef, his dishwasher. I’ll be getting to that dishwashing part any minute now. I come home to find Eric watching his beloved Mishal Hussein, cool as a cucumber.  “Aren’t you cooking?” I ask. “Sure.” “What are you doing then?” “I made the batter.  It has to sit for two hours.  Relax.” This sitting around, this not running about like a frantic chicken, made me very nervous.  I looked in on the batter, sitting covered in a bowl on the counter.  It looked like batter.  Reading the ingredient list was an interesting experience.  The batter has in it two cups of flour, a quarter cup of extra virgin olive oil, two egg yolks, half a cup of white wine, salt and a grating or so of whole nutmeg. I had this initially disturbing conversation with my husband. “You added nutmeg?” (I asked this because I happened to know we’d recently run out of nutmeg.) “Yeah….  I don’t know though, it called for a whole nutmeg.  I didn’t add nearly that much….” “Eric.  “It did not ask for a whole nutmeg.  “Tell me now.  How.  Much.  Did.  You.  Put.  In.” I was picturing choking on Christmas tree-flavored chicken.  But no, it turns out what happened was, Eric bought whole nutmegs and tried grating one on our cheese grater.  He surprisingly got a little discouraged doing that, so hardly added any at all.  Thank jesus we don’t have a nutmeg grater. So two hours passed, during which time we peeled the skin off the chicken thighs Eric had bought.  Also, discovered that Eric had discarded the two egg whites he was supposed to beat into soft peaks and fold into the batter just before dipping the chicken in it.  Luckily, handy-dandy me had two frozen egg whites in the fridge, so no problem, just thawed those out. Also, discovered that Eric didn’t know what “beat into soft peaks” means.  When I suggested that he was going to have to get out the KitchenAid mixer, since we still haven’t replaced our hand mixer, he was shocked.  “What do you mean?  I’ll just use the whisk!” “Eric, believe me, you don’t want to try to beat the egg whites to soft peaks with the whisk.” “Why not?” “Don’t argue with me.  Watch.” I got out the KitchenAid, threw in the egg whites, let the thing run.  He kept trying to make it stop – “it’s so bubbly!”  -- but I made him wait until the soft peaks appeared. “Oh.  Shit.  I could never have done that with the whisk.” He folded it into the batter, bitching all the while about how much he hates the word “folded.”  Don’t ask me, I don’t know.  Then he dipped the chicken pieces in the extremely poofy batter before slipping it into the oil he’d gotten good and hot. Poofy chicken! This was like not fried chicken we’d ever seen.  It look more like, god, I don’t know, something you’d get at an inauthentic Chinese place, something you’d get on a stick at a fair.  Poofy!  It looked very cool.  Eric fried the chicken in batches for about twelve minutes, until they were a dark beautiful golden brown, then drained the pieces on paper towels before sticking them on a rack in a warm oven.  The last batch of chicken didn’t puff up quite as much, probably because he didn’t let the oil get hot enough before throwing it in.  But it still looked great. My husband and I had both independently had the bright idea to pursue our eggplant obsession by frying up slices of the stuff in the oil after we’d finished the chicken.  This is precisely the kind of thing Mr. Fowler, author of “Fried Chicken,” says not to do, because the chicken needs to be eaten as soon as possible.  Also, as it turns out, it isn’t very good.  I had tossed the eggplant slices in flour, which had no discernible effect.  The slices wound up mostly just absorbing about a quart of oil, and not getting crispy or browned at all.  Not a success. The chicken, however, was fantastic, especially with lemon juice squeezed over it.  Every time Eric took a bite, he smiled and said, “Foamy!”  The batter was thick but supremely light, with a light crunch to the teeth going in, an airy poof beneath, and then some perfectly done chicken meat beneath.  This is going to be great.  I am going to weigh four thousand pounds. So I’m late again, after sleeping late, probably due to the fourth piece of chicken that I ate, very unwisely.  But before I go, some thanks – to Jarrett, who gave me the Patricia Wells, “The Paris Cookbook”: Jarrett, I was a bit dubious about opening this one up in the midst of my current trials, but I took a look at it yesterday and am excited.  Goat cheese wrapped in bacon, mmmmmm….  And to those outrageously generous folks who have been contribute these crazy sums of money, money to sustain me through the last of the ducks and the first of the veal roasts.  Words cannot convey my gratitude. So, I'm contemplating going to Fairway for the first time ever today.  Fairway at five o'clock on Good Friday, just because I've heard a rumor they have fresh sauerkraut -- this cannot possibly be a good idea.  7:42:39 AM    comment []