Desert Island Seafood Stew

Click here and jump to the recipe if you're in that much of a hurry

Not to overwork the usual tired conceit employed by all imagination-starved editors and writers doomed to fill that day’s quota of prose for an impending edition—I don’t, after all, have any real deadlines but the self-imposed kind—but this particular “assignment” has a particular pertinence. My favorite sort of food, the sort I would want to relinquish last in one of those reflexive, and frankly silly if you ask me, thought experiments when forced to admit it, is seafood. I would eschew all avian and mammalian flesh, but please, give me fish any day.

If ever in the unlikely event I were stranded on a desert island, with nought but a pot and decent four-burner range, not to mention a small vegetable plot to supply the ancillary ingredients, and finally some fortuitously provisioned selected alcoholic decoctions, I could go a long way dining on a dish that has a certain universalized ubiquity. I am not a sufficiently well-versed, never mind properly schooled, culinarian as to know the full extent of the global variants, but I’d daresay that nearly every culture advanced enough to have what can accurately be termed a cuisine in any venue that has an oceanic border could be relied upon, without too much scholarly effort, to reveal at least one signature dish, consisting of a soup or broth festooned chiefly with fish of either or both the finny and shelled species, and variously accompanied by a generous, if not only merely a token, array of vegetal tidbits.

One of my favorite parts of the world is in France, and more specifically the southern bit known univerally as Provence—likely among the top ten destinations for a sojourn of whatever length. Not the least among the reasons for my druthers in those climes is the native cuisine. It’s at the basis for the now famous, though by now more establishmentarian than trendy, Mediterranean diet.

This particular stew, which I have termed a “marmite de la mer” naming it, as are so many dishes that are eponymously designated after the cooking utensil in which they are prepared, like the gratin and the paella. These are among a slew of other favorites of mine, which slot easily into this highly digestible, incredibly healthy regimen named after that sea that constitutes the oceanic basin that sits at the heart of the intercontinental ring of enchanted lands (each with its own distinctive and delicious cuisine) ranging from Morocco, and along the northern coast of Africa, to the bits of Asia that reach eastward with a kind of longing for the sea. How many of us regularly stop to consider that Israel, Lebanon, Syria, and Turkey are as steeped in brine as any New England state (but Vermont, the land-locked one; don’t ever accept an offer for a “genuine” seafood stew while basking in the beauty of the Green Mountains)? And then following around the eastern rim of the Mediterranean sea to encompass the glory of possibly innumerable modifications of the humble fisherman’s meal at the heart of this recipe of mine, and so many others—and who, after all, would want to choose a “best,” that other imagination-starved conceit of failing editorial sensibilities. Not from Greece, or Italy, never mind France and Spain, and yes, I’ve skipped a host of countries with their own versions of seafood delights, because technically they are on the Adriatic.

This stew of mine is reminiscent, as it says in the notes that follow this recipe, of Italian, more specifically, Ligurian, and French riviera antecedents, with a touch of San Francisco, by virtue of being cousin to the Genoese and Calabrese, who make a stew that is the likely origin of cioppino (of which this marmite of mine is not an exemplum).

I’ve skimped on the vegetables (though carrots, potatoes, and fennel stalks parboiled to tender, for example, before being added, are easy accouterments), and it’s a fish stock, not a tomato. And I’ve used saffron and pastis in the flavoring to make this solidly and unmistakably Provençal, pointing slightly west, while the rest of the dish points east to the Riviera.

Marmite de la Mer (Seafood Stew), with toasts and rouille
Prep Time
1 hrs
Cook Time
45 mins
Total Time
1 hrs 45 mins
Course: Main Course
Cuisine: Mediterranean
Servings: 4 people
Calories: 630 kcal
Seafood broth and fish
  • 1 cup carrots : chopped
  • 1 cup fennel : trimmed and decored, chopped : trim the stalks, and core the bulb
  • 1 cup yellow onion : chopped
  • 3 cloves garlic : skinned and chopped
  • 1 quart fish fumet (fish stock) : made from fish frames and heads, available from fish mongers, usually frozen
  • 1 quart filtered water
  • 1 bouquet seafood bouquet garni : rough chopped fresh parsley, tarragon, dill, and a large bay leaf, wrapped in cheesecloth and tied
  • sea salt : to taste
  • fresh ground black pepper : to taste
  • 1 tbsp Tomato Paste : use the double-concentrated sort, usually available in tubes
  • 1 pinch saffron threads : this could be anywhere from 1/4 to 1/2 a teaspoon depending on how loose
  • 2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
  • 3 tbsp pastis : 2+1 tablespoons for different stages of the broth preparation; use any national brand, e.g., Pernod or Ricard
  • 1/2 lb white fleshed fresh non-oily ocean fish, halibut : see fish note
  • 1/2 lb white fleshed fresh non-oily ocean fish, black cod : see fish note
  • 1/2 lb white fleshed fresh non-oily ocean fish, swordfish : see fish note
  • 1/2 lb fresh or previously frozen wild-caught shrimp, shell on : see fish note
  • 1/2 lb fresh or previously frozen, squid : with tentacles if available
  • 3 each plum tomatoes : very ripe, cored and roughly chopped : optionally skinned and seeded
  • 3 cloves garlic : roughly chopped
  • 1 pinch sea salt
  • 1/2-1 tbsp harissa seasoning : dry, ground spices
  • 1/2-1 tsp smoked paprika
  • 1 yolk large egg : separated, do this ahead of time and set aside in a glass or cup
  • ½ cup extra virgin olive oil : use a finer grade, as this will be ingested in its natural state as part of the sauce on the toasts
  • 1 loaf fresh baked baguette
Prepare the toasts
  1. As there are no carbohydrates added to the stew (which is a hint to give you some ideas about adding your favorite, say a pasta like orzo, or a grain, like barley or farro... but these are discussed under options and supplements) I like serving it with a borrowing from one of my favorite soups in the world. Soupe de poissons is a meal in itself (and requires about as much preparation) served in a bowl, and with some ritualistic accompaniments. For this more delicate stew, I suggest serving only the toasts made from fresh baguette, smeared with a generous helping of the rouille.

  2. The preparation is simple and should be done just prior to cooking the stew itself in earnest, between the prep work on the vegetables and beginning to make the mirepoix. Cut off the pointed or rounded end of the baguette (the shape will vary depending on the baker) and then cut at least two slices of about ¾" each for each diner. Cut these on an extreme bias (let's say about 30-40°) to maximize the surface area, creating long ovals.

    The most efficient way to toast these baguette slices is probably in a toaster-oven set to toast both sides at once to the lightest shade of brown. Once all the toasts are done, set them aside in the bowl or on the plate on which you serve them at table beside the stew.

    Also see the suggestions for further research for a brief discussion about serving bread and toast with some of the variants of this dish, as they are prepared and served in Italy and in San Francisco.

Prepare the Broth
  1. Begin with the mirepoix. This is prepared in the same marmite (covered casserole that can be used on the stovetop; one tradition is that it is made of enameled cast iron, which is what I use) in which you will prepare first the broth, and then the finished dish. Not being a fan of additional cleanup, and because the pans I use are quite handsome as well as functional, this can also serve as the serving dish on the table.

    One thing the experienced cook will notice about this mirepoix is that the mix of aromatics has been altered from the classic combination of onions, celery, carrots, and the proportions have been made equal, instead of 2:1:1 of onions to the other two vegetables. I've also added garlic. I've substituted (I prefer to think of it as elevated) fennel as the preferred member of the Apiacaea family (related to the carrot), and more deserving of the designation of aromatic, and most of all being a paradigm of the Mediterranean palette of vegetables, especially well utilized in the cuisine of Italy, just next door to the côte d'azur of France. The characteristic anise top notes of fennel are complemented and enhanced in this recipe with the addition of a shot or two of pastis, the French national drink, and the favorite aperitif in Nice and neighboring Provence.

  2. Start the marmite on medium heat, and add two tablespoons of EVOO. Heat gently until the oil starts to shimmer, and add the onions, fennel, and carrots in any order. Salt and pepper the vegetables and stir occasionally for about a minute. Add the chopped garlic, and stir further.

    Stir occasionally, and adjust the heat, usually downward, so the vegetables are cooking slowly, but not coloring in any way. When they begin to soften, lower the heat to low, and cover the marmite.

    Check the Marmite occasionally, and stir the mirepoix. The mixture should soften slowly, but progressively. Keep it covered while it cooks, in between checking and stirring. When bits of carrot have softened noticeably under pressure from your stirring utensil, raise the heat under the marmite slightly to low-medium. Add the tablespoon of tomato paste and stir thoroughly. Cook an additional minute or two to blend and begin to cook the tomato paste.

  3. Raise the heat to medium high, and after a half-minute or so, add the two tablespoons of pastis, and stir to mix and loosen any bits of fond that may have formed on the bottom of the marmite. Cook for a minute and no more than two, to burn off the alcohol. Add the 1/4 cup of chicken stock, and again, stir to mix and loosen the fond, and keep mixing until the liquid has evaporated so the mixture is thickened, but is not sticking to the pan.

    Add the two pints of fish stock, followed by the two pints of water, and mix thoroughly. Adjust the heat slightly and watch carefully until the liquid just starts to simmer, and lower the heat. Drop the bouquet garni in the heated liquid, and submerge with the stirring utensil until thoroughly soaked and the bouquet floats beneath the surface.

    Cover, and watch carefully to make sure the broth doesn't boil. Stir occasionally. While the broth is simmering and extracting optimal flavor from the mirepoix and bouquet garni, place a large pinch (holding the spice gently between the fingers) of saffron threads in the bowl of a mortar. Crush the threads gently into a coarse powder with the pestle, and set this aside.

  4. After at least 10 minutes, and preferably for no more than 20 minutes, remove the pan from the heat. With a fine sieve placed over a large clean glass or stainless steel bowl, strain the broth into the bowl. Scrape the pan well so all contents are in the sieve. With a large silicone rubber spatula, gently press the mirepoix (having removed and discarded the drenched bouquet garni) to extract more liquid. Be careful not to press the cooked vegetable dregs through the sieve. You want to extract as much liquid as possible, but no solids. Discard the vegetables. Pour the strained broth back into the marmite, and replace on the burner.

  5. Reheat the broth gently. With a large cooking spoon or a small ladle, spoon a small amount of broth into the bowl of the mortar with the crushed saffron and swirl gently so the saffron powder is suspended in the liquid. Pour this mixture carefully back into the marmite of broth as it warms up. Repeat this last step, and you may also use a small silicone rubber spatula to ensure you have scraped all fo the saffron residue into the broth. The mortar and pestle may be set aside to be cleaned for making the rouille while the broth reheats.

  6. When the broth reaches a simmer, add the remaining tablespoon of pastis and another ounce of rosé or white wine. Simmer for three or four minutes to boil off the alcohol. Reduce the heat under the marmite to a very low simmer and cover.

Prepare the rouille
  1. While the broth is simmering one last time, just prior to adding the fish and tomatoes, as described in the next section, prepare the rouille. There is a fresh uncooked egg yolk in this emulsion, and it should not stand for too long before being served. If you prefer preparing the rouille ahead of time, be sure immediately to refrigerate it in the bowl in which you will serve it, covered.

    In a clean dry mortar add the chopped garlic cloves and sprinkle with a pinch or two of sea salt. Crush into a smooth paste with the pestle. Add the yolk you set aside, and mix the paste and yolk together with the pestle until they form a uniform emulsion. Add the EVOO about a ½ teaspoonful at a time and mix thoroughly between dollops. As you mix the mixture should thicken more and more into a smooth unctuous sauce that approaches mayonnaise in consistency. Pause and add the harissa and paprika and mix thoroughly and uniformly into the sauce. It should take on a ruddy hue. Depending on the brand and mix of harissa spices, there may be darker individual specks; this is normal. Rouille is the French for "rust" and the hearty sauce is called this for the color. Keep adding oil in small dollops until it reaches a spreadable consistency, short of stiffness.

  2. Scoop the finished sauce into a small serving bowl, scraping up the mortar with a silicone spatula. Set aside the rouille, to be served alongside the stew for diners to spread on individual slices of toast.

Finish the stew – Adding the fish
  1. Take the cover off the simmering broth, if you have not already done so, and turn up the heat slightly to bring it to a more vigorous simmer. Adding the fish, which is done more or less in very short order, will lower the overall temperature significantly and it will take a few minutes once again to reach the simmer.

    First, before the fish, add the chopped tomato, stir, and then allow the broth to return to the simmer.

  2. Add the shrimp to the broth before the other fish. Then add the finny fish chunks in small lots (rather than trying to add all the fish at once). The squid bodies are added last.

  3. Watch the stew from this point fairly carefully. It will taste best if served when the fish are just done. Aside from not allowing the fish to cook in broth that is simmering too vigorously (it should absolutely not be allowed to boil), the other caution is not to allow the fish to cook for too long a period, even if the temperature is kept low. Cooked too long and the fish will at once fall apart, and the shrimp and squid, as well as certain species of fish, will toughen.

    Once the stew has once again achieved the simmer, you can let the fish cook for another three or four minutes. Then remove the pot from the stove and place, covered, on the dining table on a trivet or hot pad. Have a small ladle ready to serve the guests in turn from the bowl.

Recipe Notes

Fish Notes – Fish Fumet / Stock

As far as the high value protein portion of this dish is concerned, your best friend will be either the local fish monger, or the regular counter folks at a larger urban supermarket fish department. Most local sellers will prepare things like fish stock in their own kitchens and pack it and freeze it for sale in standard units, usually pints. You should expect to spend about $7 a pint for this ambrosia.

I used to make my own fumet, when fish mongers and larger fish markets and supermarket fish departments still butchered their own whole fish and could offer trimmings, mainly the heads, tails and whole fish frames to the first person to ask, or for some very nominal amount. But those days are gone, and the only way to get these invaluable fixings is buy several whole fish from these sources, and ask them to pack the trimmings—all the trimmings—separately. It's only fair, as you're paying for them by weight anyway. Making fish fumet is a wholly separate subject, and likely the topic of at least another stand-alone blog essay.

In the meantime, find a retailer that sells fish stock, and stock up. Most likely it's already frozen, and if you love seafood, it isn't a bad idea to keep two or three units in your freezer, ready for defrosting.

In a pinch, there are packaged fish stocks and broths available from a few different brands. The one that I've used with some reliability is Kitchen Basics brand "Seafood Cooking Stock," and it will do in a pinch, especially in this recipe, which calls for diluting the stock at the intermediary cooking stage. The problem with all commercial preparations, pre-packaged for retail shelves, is they are laden with far too much salt, so the sodium level is too high (Kitchen Basics is not too bad, in that 1 cup has 600 mg of sodium, which is about 1/3 the absolutely sane maximum any adult can afford to eat daily. Choices dwindle rapidly however, when you consider that most other fish stock commercial products appear on the shelves as bouillon cubes, and the less said, the better.

In another pinch you can engineer a pretty good substitute playing with bottled (not canned) clam juice, which is what the vernacular styles as the liquid produced by steaming whole clams (and other bivalves) and capturing the brine and steaming liquid. Unfortunately, the steaming liquid is highly salted fresh water, and you're stuck with how to reduce the sodium, without so diluting the flavor that it adds nothing.

The best alternative to retrieving fish trimmings, heads and frames is to save all the shells you remove from your steamed shrimp and lobster dinners, and packing these in freezer bags, freezing them, and breaking out the lot and making a stock from scratch—the flavor is different, but it is genuine and it is seafood. But, as I indicated, this is the subject for a whole dedicated piece on preparing your own fish/shellfish stock.

Find some fish stock at the fish monger's and then proceed with the recipe.

The Fish

The recipe here specifies the fish I used the last time I made it. I don't mean to suggest you go hunting up these particular species of fish. At least one of them, if not all of them, is seasonal and hard to come by.

The chief recommendation I make is that you use mainly non-oily fish. If you use three (or more) varieties, it's possible one of them can be, for example, tuna or salmon. The problem with the non-white, ocean fish that tend to have a higher fat content is that they are very distinctively (and more importantly) strongly flavored. They are certrainly hardy enough, that is, firm-fleshed, not to fall apart even with the minimal cooking time the recipe calls for.

I recommend, if you can find them, fresh (or, at worst, previously frozen) wild-caught ocean species of fish. There are not, as yet, a large number of essentially ocean-based species, but there are some, that are being farmed. Issues of genetic modification aside, I find the fish that are now being exploited for their qualities that make them more easily suitable for farming – species like tilapia – is that they are too bland (and I do make a distinction between delicate and bland) and many of them too chewy, both of these being qualities making them suitable for cuisines that call for fish in highly spiced native dishes, or for battering and deep-fat frying, techniques that call for fish that will withstand the stresses of these kinds of methods of preparation.

Unfortunately, the best fish for this stew are also the most expensive species, being in increasingly short supply, and also harder to fish in open water. Game fish, like halibut and swordfish are always a good choice. But there are other sports fishing targets that are excellent eating and will work nicely, being firm-fleshed. A fish like striped bass is a perfect example.

Certain species, not only dwindling in supply while remaining highly popular, because of their mild flavor and their high adaptability to several methods of cooking – I'm thinking particularly of cod and haddock - are not wholly suitable, at least for esthetic reasons. They cook quickly and then, in a word, disintegrate. One feature of this stew is that the fish bits are cut bite-size and remain whole in the stew, providing a sophisticated quality of toothsomeness to the dish.

Some of the native variants of this stew, the dishes on which, in part, this recipe is based (at least in spirit) like the Ligurian ciuppin traditionally were made from the spiny species of fish that abound in the Mediterranean, and which are less popular because of the innate difficulty of getting at the flesh of the fish. In a manner similar to the Provençal soupe de poissons or, as I've seen it called, soupe de pêcheurs, a lot of otherwise less marketable fish, either for their size or their physiognomy (they are bony and/or spiny), the fish are cooked to tenderness along with the vegetables used to flavor the stew or soup and then the whole mess is forced through a food mill and the bones and spines and other inedibles are discarded. For this more robust kind of dish, less desirable species, usually also cheaper (though in France, the species used for soupe de poissons have also become immoderately costly) and with a coarser texture when the flesh is whole.

Options & Supplements

I made mention of adding some of your favorite pasta or a grain to this stew. It's certainly permissible, and entirely a matter of personal taste.

I do tend to give myself more work than many other people in similar circumstances feel is absolutely necessary. So, with that proviso, I would recommend cooking the pasta (maybe spaghetti, or linguine – probably the thinner types – broken into bits about ½ or ¾ of an inch long), separately, draining and rinsing the pasta (presumably al dente) and then adding it to the finished stew with a stir, just before serving.

I certainly do recommend cooking any grains, and by grains I mean the whole grain varieties that are more and more available these days, like farro or barley or wheatberries ahead of time. I would cook them to chewy doneness, rather than very soft, as this helps retain a nutty flavor and is a nice counterpoint to the more yielding flesh of the fish.

Cooking the grains ahead of time is a logistical necessity, as they generally take longer to cook to a finished state (and even the type that has been "pearlized," that is, parboiled to diminish the cooking time) that make the time to add the grains to the broth particularly tricky given the workflow of the rest of this recipe. Cooking the pasta ahead of time, for me, is an esthetic decision, as the cooking pasta, no matter what, will release starch into the liquid in which it is cooking. This will make the broth cloudy and will change the consistency of it.

Finally, be advised that as there is saffron in this broth, which gives a wonderful distinct flavor note to the broth and renders the fish in this recipe a wonderful golden hue, any starchy additions, like paste or grains, will also be highly colored by the spice. Not a bad thing, but some people might consider this not a good thing, necessarily.

Nutrition Facts
Marmite de la Mer (Seafood Stew), with toasts and rouille
Amount Per Serving
Calories 630 Calories from Fat 153
% Daily Value*
Total Fat 17g 26%
Saturated Fat 3g 15%
Cholesterol 369mg 123%
Sodium 1972mg 82%
Potassium 1383mg 40%
Total Carbohydrates 45g 15%
Dietary Fiber 4g 16%
Sugars 4g
Protein 62g 124%
Vitamin A 114.3%
Vitamin C 18.2%
Calcium 28.2%
Iron 28%
* Percent Daily Values are based on a 2000 calorie diet.
some references for further research:

Certainly all of the countries that have a coast on or near the Mediterranean offer many variants of their own versions of seafood stew. These suggestions for further reading online are just a start.

About ciuppin the Ligurian fish soup, which sort of combines features of the soupe de poissons discussed in the recipe and the San Francisco seafood stew, invented at the start of the 20th century, with its name derived from the humbler native dish and called cioppino:

And while you’re at it, you should check out cioppino, just mentioned, as it’s a cousin to this recipe that I’ve concocted. One major difference is that cioppino is a tomato-based broth (and there’s a nod to this origin in my recipe), whereas this marmite is, obviously, fish based, hence lighter and more delicate. Cioppino also traditionally has a far greater number of shellfish, especially bivalves. These can of course be added optionally, as additions, to the marmite recipe. See here:

For even deeper research into the whole subject of stews, soups, and other large pot melange main dishes made from seafood, you should check out cacciucco, from Tuscany, which is related to ciuppin (above), combining its milled component to create a thicker base for whole chunks of fish and other ingredients:

The Italian versions of these seafood stews are served over bread or toast, which is placed in the bowl first, and the soup added. Cioppino, the San Francisco adoption of these dishes, is served with the bread alongside. There is, I understand, a Calabrese version, served over toast which is garnished with fresh garlic (in France, garlic cloves are served with the toasts, and the diner is expected to rub the clove on the sharp edge of the crust to their liking).

Home fries With a Side of Steak and Eggs

Breakfast with steak eggs and home fries
Home fries with sides

There’s nothing harder to cook well than comfort food. And no more difficult way to do it than home cooking. The emphasis is on the qualifier, “well,” as in everything in life. Nevertheless, it’s inherent in the idea of comfort food that execution is not paramount. Indeed, as most comforts reside in that Proustian reflex that is triggered by the first mouthful of whatever (usually) childhood favorite that even approximates the product of the exertions of one’s favorite cook—usually a parent or older relative—during some critical period in one’s upbringing, the chronological limits of which are no doubt to be determined at some future date by a credentialed culinary or food studies specialist with the usual two or three degrees after his or her name—a discipline that didn’t exist as few as 25 years ago, but is a serious thing, so stop giggling. It is immaterial the essential, dare I call it the absolute?, quality of the dish as “cuisine,” bearing all the weight and pretense and pomp of that term. And there’s the problem for me.

I at least make a big show of brooking no compromise, even in the homeliest and simplest of dishes. In practice, of course, what it boils down to is that the real mother of invention is compromise. I say all this just to set the stage for what’s coming. Trust that I know the horror of eating those “mashed potatoes to die for” that “we always had on the holidays” and that actually taste like papier maché that has been oversalted and made from newsprint from which the ink has not been removed, and leaves a faint aftertaste of margarine and milk less than a day from going bad, and yet I acknowledge the perfect seriousness with which we must always regard comfort food, because such is its status in the enchanted mind of everyone you know. Everyone.

I recognize what comfort food is. I recognize the aura of sanctity it bears in the minds of virtually everyone who is free to decide what they eat, when they eat it, and where and how—in effect, every able-bodied adult capable of mashing hard-cooked eggs, along with the most haphazardly minced scallions or chives (likely wilted) and a large dollop of Cain’s or Hellman’s or, even better, cheap store-brand mayonnaise. Add a secret ingredient or two—ah, but, forget it… there are no secrets to be revealed here, there are no Dinin secrets, not about egg salad [disclosure: I have no heirloom recipe, designated, of course, as “the best in the world” handed down by my bubbe, the last of my two forebears of that sex having died two or three years before I was born]—and do not stand between the result and the person, likely in some straitened state of emotional disequilibrium, suffering the neeed for a fix of comfort of the consumable variety, and of course, the absolutely fundamental condition of being hungry, at least as hungry “as the wolf felt.” Between two slices of very fresh sourdough bread.

But, for all that, I honor and respect the mythic status of such a dish in the mind of he or she who craves it, like a former lover who suddenly pops into your head when you’re having intractable problems with the current model, or the urgent need for your favorite alcohol when suddenly it’s the moment you realize everything has turned to shit on a critical project for work and you’ll have to start all over from scratch.

Comfort food takes all the edge off when the stakes are high—or has all the calming of a sedative when you’re too keyed up to relax and too exhausted to think straight. So, of course, it doesn’t matter if it’s made with the platonic compulsion of Escoffier or the scientific precision of Charlie Trotter. Given. It can be made by just as mediocre a cook as your mother in actuality was, and to you it will taste just delicious, and fill your brain with a flood of endorphins.

Nevertheless, I say, why settle for third best when there’s absolutely nothing about the homeliest of foods that demands any less than to reach for excellence?

A lot rides on the skill of the home cook to bring it home with dishes as important as those that comprise the vast menu of comfort foods. Likely few of these soul-satisfying dishes has universal appeal. One man’s mac ‘n’ cheese may leave another woman feeling queasy. There’s no predicting any one person’s favorites.

However, I’d venture to say that no meal provides the potentialities for comfort as well as breakfast—the matutinal repast long positioned, and long derided, as the most important of the day. I won’t enter that debate, not here. And I won’t predict the degree of proximity to unanimity on which daily meal truly fits that bill, but I do know that I love my breakfast. And I know very few people who skip it, however meager. Perhaps there aren’t enough of those types happy with a cup a’ joe and a pop tart in my life, but for that I merely count myself lucky.

I could get easily sidetracked on the vast subject of just exactly which baked goods as well as the breadth of choices from which I have been fortunate to be able to choose satisfy my longing for a good first meal of the day, before venturing to my encounter with the rest of it, and all that it will bring. But I won’t. Not now. Baked goods deserve a whole series of posts and having built the place to put them, I’ll just say, they will come.

Rather I come today to write of the potato, that estimable, yet at the same time lowly if venerated, tuber. And to address particularly the dish that is its quintessential manifestation at the morning meal. I’d even dare to say, to embellish that superlative, that the home fried potato is singularly appropriate upon which to dine only at breakfast. Consider all the cafes, diners and bistros that offer breakfast, not to mention lunch and dinner. It is only on the breakfast menu, including that which is “served all day”—leaving aside the ontological perplexities of such a concept—that one discovers the choice of home fries, assuming they are offered at all. More pointedly, there is the question of what exactly is on offer when the preparation in question is designated with that soubriquet. Before quitting this paragraph I’ll merely note that Barbara Haber, deep in the bowels of her canonical From Hardtack to Home Fries: An Uncommon History of American Cooks and Meals, notes casually, almost en passant, having just described one revered African-American woman cook’s time-honored Christmas breakfast, “‘thin-sliced skillet-fried white potatoes,’ more commonly known as home fries, a comforting dish that can turn up at any meal.”Haber, Barbara (2010-05-08). From Hardtack to Homefries: An Uncommon History of American Cooks and Meals (p. 187). Free Press. Kindle Edition. But who are you going to believe, a world-famous librarian and curator of the world’s most comprehensive collection of cookbooks, or me? I get around this conundrum by merely pointing out that it’s an age-old tradition, that of “breakfast for dinner” or any time. And what makes breakfast but home fries?

I put it to you that the home fry is a particular concoction, not to be confused with other versions of the fried potato, too often erroneously designated as such when, in truth, what is delivered to your place is some perhaps grand, perhaps desultory dish more precisely designated as hashed potatoes, or hash browns, or grilled (or baked or roasted, but not all the oils of Araby will make a potato stuck in the oven a fried potato, never mind a home fried potato). You might even be served, in the right venue, at the right moment, and likely the right locality, potatoes dauphinoise—and who does not love them for what they are?—but they would not be home fries. You will most likely be served what are called “home fries” by the New York Times current poobah of food (whose claim to fame used to be that he had written a cookbook unselfconsciously entitled How To Cook Everything, while at the same time accepting the crafty nom de cooktop, belying the obvious intent of this self-coronation, of “The Minimalist”). I mean Mark Bittman who, since he courageously and largely for reasons of health (the best reasons in the world) shed significant excess personal avoirdupois and almost, seemingly simultaneously, began reading, apparently for the first time, discovering a world beyond the kitchen, the editorial pages of his employer for so many years, has re-branded himself as a foodie/advocate, and he writes eloquent, reasoned, and deceptively impassioned pleas about how the entire planet or the entirety of mankind (take your pick) should eat sensibly, cost be damned, or we are all doomed.

What Mr. Bittman thinks are home fries are, indeed, telling from the exertions and offerings of most home-style restaurants, diners, and “breakfast all day” eateries, small chunks, cubes and wedges, approximately three-quarters of an inch in any dimension, of red-skinned potatoes, washed, but not skinned (and readily supplied as such, no doubt, by the likes of the empire of food supplies to the commercial food industry, Sysco, in mammoth polyethylene bags, ready to be poured in the desired quantity onto a well-oiled or greased griddle) to be cooked in fat, preferably vegetable oil, on all sides until browned, and then cooked a little further to add the requisite all-American crispiness. Well, I say, “bushwah.” I say, the lazy man’s fried potato, and lacking in some essential qualities for a home fry (or any other fry, most notably a proper pomme frite or what we call in the U.S. a french fry—but once again, what constitutes “proper,” although alluded to further along, is, in the case of the pomme frite, a rather complex subject and tricky undertaking in execution, and so will be taken up in some future post. The chief virtue of the Bittman home fry is that it can sit in the pan, or even out of it, until the diners are ready to consume them so the cook can readily re-heat them, and re-heat them, and re-heat them, again and again and again, without much damage to the consistency with any modicum of attentiveness–until they become rather limp, characterless shadows of their already unremarkable selves.

The home fry as I propose it to you can be, indeed is, a course in itself, and yet is served, likely, best as accompaniment to other components of the meal. In our house, we almost invariably have home fries at breakfast, and, given the predilections of the participants, this usually means eggs, usually scrambled, soft, but dry, and a breakfast meat, from sausage to bacon to steak, if one of us (the meat eater) is feeling particularly atavistic, or hungry to the point of ravenous. The eggs are not a big deal, and even a steak (always grass fed, and usually one of only four or five cuts: strip, filet, hanger, flank, or skirt) requires only to be watched closely as it sears on both sides in a cast iron pan. The steak may be finished entirely on the stovetop, or in a very hot oven, after being seared for a minute or two on each side in the pan before inserting the meat and its cooking vessel directly into the pre-heated oven.

Here’s what’s needed for the home fries.

Howard’s Home Fries

The best potato for this is, in fact, the Russet, of which there are small number of usually available permutations. Provenance is of little regard, Maine or Idaho (or even Florida or California). Just make sure it’s fresh, doesn’t show a clear and unambiguous green hue showing through the skin, has no burgeoning shoots or root buds growing from where the otherwise inconspicuous “eyes” used to be, bears no bruises or dark spots, and shows only the slightest, if any, marks of the spade (deep nicks, divots, gouges, and scars).

Why is the Russet best? Because it is of the mealy (so-called) variety, as opposed to the waxy (which most red and gold skinned potatoes are). Mealy potatoes are called that because the significantly higher starch content renders them of a particular texture when cooked, giving them a “mealy” quality in the mouth. What all this means is that the potato, in fact, is capable of a significantly higher uptake of moisture, in the form of added liquids, such as the various fluids and semi-fluids and fats added to baked or boiled Russet potatoes to make mashed potatoes, a dish for which the species is optimal.

What happens scientifically when the Russet is cooked is this, according to Professor Diane McComber (Iowa State University, retired;J. Agric. Food Chem. 1994, 42: 2433- 2439) “Russet Burbank potatoes were observed to absorb more moisture while less of the moisture in the lower-starch waxy potatoes was absorbed by the swollen starch granules leaving more free moisture. This explains why mealy potatoes are perceived as dry while waxy potatoes are characterized as moist.” The scientific underpinnings of my preference for Russets are amplified by the remarks of Mr. Harold McGee, everyone’s favorite kitchen scientist.

Mealy types (russets, blue and purple varieties, Russian and banana fingerlings) concentrate more dry starch in their cells, so they’re denser than waxy types. When cooked, the cells tend to swell and separate from each other, producing a fine, dry, fluffy texture that works well in fried potatoes and in baked and mashed potatoes, which are moistened with butter or cream. In waxy types (true new potatoes and common U.S. red- and white-skinned varieties), neighboring cells cohere even when cooked, which gives them a solid, dense, moist texture, and them together in intact pieces for gratins, potato cakes, and salads. [McGee, H. (2004). On food and cooking : the science and lore of the kitchen. New York, Scribner. pp.302-303]

The result of these responses is that, via a three-step cooking process, the Russet potato is transformed into the optimal manifestation of the home fried potato as sought, I would venture universally, as a quintessential. This recipe produces a result that has integrity, solidity, and an ensemble of mouth feel experiences, accompanied by complementary layers of flavor that is almost musical, if of a particular American genre of interwoven textures and harmonies. And here’s where the “proper” alluded to above comes in, as the same generic combination of textures—crisp on the outside, soft and tender on the inside—applies to the quintessential pommes frites.


(for 2 servings)

  • 1 large (approximately 1/2 pound) Russet Potato, skin intact, thoroughly rinsed and brushed lightly with a vegetable brush
  • 1 Tablespoon of 100% organic virgin coconut oil; you may substitute butter in the same amount, but if you’re trying to avoid saturated fats, I don’t see the point, unless you have a flavor preference; coconut oil and butter have the same melting and flash points, so the difference is in the flavor, with the coconut oil having the edge of neutrality—but choose your favorite; although highly saturated in fats, coconut oil and butter allegedly each have other components that makes eating them in moderation possibly even salutary
  • 1 Tablespoon of 100% organic canola (or other high flash point vegetable) oil
  • 1/2 small to medium yellow onion
  • coarsely ground black pepper to taste (I like Tellicherry)
  • a pinch of Celtic sea salt, fine ground (a pinch is generally understood to be 1/16 to 1/8 of a teaspoon; it is the amount you can hold comfortably between the tips of your index finger and thumb)
  • 1 stiff-bladed (with an offset) turner, at least six inches long
  • 1 11-12 inch seasoned cast iron skillet
  • 1 Adjustable vegetable mandoline-style slicer (I like the French-made Bron™, worth every penny as it will last forever)
  • 1 Knife-resistant Kevlar™ cutting glove, to fit (this allows you to hold what you’re cutting in your fingers, instead of using clumsy and hard-to-control food safety carriages, all without cutting your personal flesh)
  • 1 small or medium pair of chef’s stainless steel spring-loaded tongs
  • 1 large pan lid or cover sufficient to cover the pan and contents without allowing steam to escape
mandoline, glove and cutting board
Bron™ mandoline and Kevlar™ cutting glove, and a cutting board

With a very sharp bladed 8″ to 10″ chef’s knife cut the potato evenly in half lengthwise. Set aside.

Set up the mandoline slicer over a large wooden chopping board, to catch the slices. Adjust the straight blade of the mandoline to produce slices approximately 1/8-inch (3+ mm) in thickness; slight deviations in measurement are not critical.

First slice the half onion into slices, holding the onion in your gloved hand as you pass it through the cutting edge. Slice the entire onion.

Now (and this will go much more smoothly and rapidly than the onion, so be extra careful, even using the glove), slice one half of the potato entirely, and then the other half.

You will end up with a pile of potato slices covering a smaller pile of onion slices. Make sure any strays have been placed back on the board.

Trader_Joe_96070-organic-virgin-coconut-oil.pngOver a medium burner setting on the stovetop, heat the cast-iron skillet, and right after turning on the burner, drop the coconut oil into the pan, immediately followed with the tablespoon of vegetable oil. Swirl them both around in the pan once the coconut oil liquefies.

When the surface of the oil begins to shimmer, but not smoke, add all the onion and potato slices at once (I usually just slide them off the cutting board into the pan; but whatever method satisfies your own esthetic for operational detail, go for it). Immediately sprinkle the contents of the pan with the pinch of salt and a turn or two (or three) of the pepper mill set to coarse. Using the tongs, mix up the slices evenly, potatoes and onions, well in the pan, and let them sit in the heat to get an initial sear on some of the potato slices.

potatoes and onions in the pan
Potatoes and onions in the pan, tossed and turned for even coating.

When the ingredients have begun to sear, mix them again with the tongs, also turning them, in sections, so all surfaces are coated in oil and some optimal number of slices get exposed to the cooking surface. Sear some more, very lightly.

The onions and potatoes should only be getting very lightly browned. Don’t allow anything to burn, and, using the turner, make sure no ingredients, but especially the potato slices, stick to the bottom of the pan.

After about seven or eight minutes of cooking and turning, begin to gather the slices into a low mound toward the center of the pan. Cover the pan fairly tightly, so no steam escapes. The cover should not be touching any of the ingredients. Lower the heat of the burner to low, or even very low. Using a cast-iron skillet means there will be a signicant amount of retained heat, which will continue to cook the potatoes and onions until the temperature of everything drops.

Low mound of potatoes and onions
Potatoes and onions lightly seared and gathered in a low mound just prior to covering and lowering the heat.

Covering the pan will ensure, among other things, that the moisture escaping from the onions and potatoes will be trapped and will drip off the lid onto the ingredients for a braising effect. Trapping the moisture will also ensure that the starch granules of the potato will be absorbing it, becoming engorged and softening—essentially the body of the potatoes will cook at the temperature of the water vapor, just about that of steam, and so they will cook gently, making them very tender. The surfaces of the potatoes touching the pan surfaces will also begin to brown nicely, but not too much as a result of lowering the cooktop heat.

From time to time, for a period of at least another ten minutes, lift the lid to allow any trapped water to flow back into the pan, and to ensure, inspecting by eye, that nothing is getting overly browned or even blackened—the temperature should be low enough so as to preclude the possibility, but turning everything every so often, will make the cooking more even throughout and help avoid the possibility of over-browning too many surfaces.

The next stage of cooking, the third one actually, is ready to commence when the slices of potato noticeably adhere to one another, as a result of the engorged starch granules acting as a kind of glue. Using the turner, assemble the ingredients into a round cake in the middle of the pan, about eight inches in diameter. Press this cake flat gently. It should be even more obvious that the slices of potato are adhering to one another. As you begin to gather the slices into this cake, turn up the heat under the pan to slightly more than medium low.

While this potato “cake” is cooking, you may attend to other components of the meal (scrambling eggs, toasting bread, etc.). Watch the cake in the pan, and be especially mindful of signs of burning. After about five or six minutes after having removed the cover from the pan—and all this while you may, and should, be adjusting the cake, to keep it round, and to make sure “stray” slices are adhering to the main body of it—try turning the entire cake at once to cook it on its other side. In a perfect world, which this is not, there will be no strays or bits falling off, but there is no harm if they do. Simply scrape them onto the cake, onto the sides and the top, and press, so the “glue” of the potato starch makes them adhere. The surface that was on the bottom should be a deep golden brown, with some lighter and darker spots.

Browned potatoes and onions
Home fries almost finished. Seared and browned on one side and turned. The whole mound has become a cake. In another 4 to 5 minutes, it will be done.

Allow to cook for another four or five minutes. The idea is to form a crust, which will provide that mouth-satisfying crispiness or crunch, to blend with each mouthful of the soft, “mealy” interior. The home fry should have some of the texture or mouth feel of a dryer version of mashed potatoes (without all the added calories of butter or cream that are usually added—there are enough fat calories in the oils used to fry the potatoes for this dish). Try turning the cake again. It should hold its integrity and remain whole on the turner this time, turning like a big fat pancake. If both sides are fairly well browned, the heat can be turned to very low, or even off, as the retained heat of the pan will keep the home fries at the right temperature for serving. As you get closer to bringing all the dishes to the table, turn off the heat altogether for sure. There is no reason to cover the pan, as doing so raises the risk of making the home fries, especially their outer “crust” a little soggier than most people prefer.

One potato, as in this recipe, will provide two servings to be divided as you like (slicing the home fries, as a potato cake, down the middle is the simplest and most equitable way of creating the portions). Any leftover home fries (a most uncommon occurrence) can be reheated once, successfully, especially in a hot oven or on the stove top, just long enough to heat it through, and resurrect some of the original crispiness of the surface.

When served and eaten, it really shouldn’t need any corrective seasoning, unless the individual diner’s preference calls for it.

Real French Roast Chicken

Roast chicken
Roast chicken, prepared as described. Serving suggestion; results may vary [photo by M.Goldthwaite]

[Important message: This post is taken from the archives by the same author and blog meister, and appears in virtually the same form as posted on the date noted in 2014 on a different blog he maintains on subjects far more catholic in their variety and focus. Since posting this recipe, meant to be canonical in its own way, repeatedly tested and vetted, I have made one change in kitchen protocols—as applied to all practices for any recipe, anywhere, whatever the provenance of the ingredients, and especially as applied to poultry.

In short, contrary to the directions below about washing the chicken and drying it, prior to preparing it for final insertion in a roasting pan and into the oven, please carefully not the following:

Because of the extreme risk of cross-contamination, even in a home kitchen, from poultry to other foods, cooking surfaces, and cooking utensils and prep areas—thereby significantly increasing the risk of infecting your guests and loved ones with serious illness, but in particular those caused by salmonella and campylobacter, DO NOT WASH the chicken, or any other poultry. Aside from the general rule of handling it carefully, washing all cooking tools, utensils and surfaces touched by the poultry, including your hands, you should make it a habit to wash your hands frequently when handling poultry. I will post a list of more comprehensive tips, plus a list of official and quasi-official links to government Web pages devoted to the subject, from the governments of the U.S.A., the U.K. and New Zealand in the very near future.

I have also added a note into this recipe, below, with alternative directions on handling and preparing the chicken for the oven.]

There are two things said about roast chicken with regard to the French. One, this is one of those quintessential dishes of French cuisine. No one in France, least of all a professional cook, can call him or herself that without being able to make a perfect roast chicken, and in less than 90 minutes. I said, “perfect” and I said, 90 minutes.

Second, there is sometimes only one test of the chops of a cook, in France, or anywhere else (unless it’s certain parts of China, where I believe they have their own magic ways with chicken), and that is, to roast a perfect chicken.

Here’s how it’s done. At least here’s how I do it. Works every time. I’ve done it dozens and dozens of times. The stove is immaterial, as long as it works, and it can reach at least 450 degrees fahrenheit. Forget convection. Forget broilers. Forget any prep, except a sink big enough to rinse the chicken with clean cold water.

You need:

1 3-4 pound chicken, preferably free-range, with no additives (no hormones, no drugs), but fresh air, sunshine, and whatever chickens naturally eat, which includes insects, grubs, and their larvae. Don’t use a smaller chicken or a larger one.

I currently get my chickens from Lancaster County farmers, who raise them entirely naturally and slaughter them humanely and get them to market very quickly after they’ve been knackered.

2-3 Tablespoons of vegetable oil. You can use EVOO, but what a waste. Use canola, or even better grape seed, oil, either of which add no flavors of their own to adulterate the natural fats of the chicken that will render out as it cooks.

Semi-coarse sea salt (Celtic salt from France is best; really, no kidding). Get the unadulterated kind, with no additives.

A good adjustable pepper grinder, set to semi-coarse, and filled with a good kind of peppercorn. You can never go wrong with Tellicherry. And it’s food, for God’s sake, and you don’t use much, so spend a little money on it.

2 Cups of chicken or vegetable broth. Use any of the really healthy brands from, say, Whole Foods Market (their own brand is cheapest). Best to use low-sodium or no sodium versions, but no really big deal if you don’t. If you buy a brand that says it’s “organic,” you’ll be safe. Rachel Ray also markets broths that are amazingly good, and as far as I can tell, not hazardous to your health. Who knew? I can’t attest to the rest of the celebrity/tv chefs with their own brands. Avoid Swanson, Campbell, or any of those huge conglomerate vendors. They’re packaging chemicals in a can. In fact, don’t use it if it comes from a can. Look for those hermetically sealed boxes that hold about a liter of broth. Incidentally, “broth” or “stock” on the label makes no difference for our purposes.

A bulb baster

[optional] instant reading mini roasting thermometer (analog or digital… doesn’t matter); “roasting” means it has a probe that you can stick into roasting meat or fish

That’s it for ingredients.

Set a rack in the middle of the oven, with no racks above it. Preheat the oven to 475 degrees. Even if you’re not certain it gets to that temperature, use that setting. You’ll be cooking by looking (and touching), plus, if you’re really a very careful person, using a small instant reading thermometer, so too much precision is not called for. If your oven can’t reach 450 degrees, no crime either, it will just take longer and won’t turn out quite the same way, in which case you can tell your guests or family it’s “nearly perfect” chicken. If your oven can’t reach 350 degrees (and you’re unaware of this obvious deficiency) you shouldn’t be cooking.

Put the two cups of chicken broth or stock in a saucepan on the stovetop and bring to a simmer, and then set to very low heat. You’re just keeping it hot, but not too hot. Don’t boil it.

Rinse the chicken inside and out under constantly running cold water in the sink. Remove all objects, including those the chickens was born with, but separated from by the butcher, from the inside of the chicken. Set aside all these residual objects. You don’t need them to roast the chicken. Pat the chicken dry all over with paper towels, and set on a bed of paper towels on the counter.

[Substitute the following directions for the above paragraph, stricken out. It is important not to wash the chicken, as splashes and water droplets can travel as much as three or four feet and cause cross contamination of the kitchen in places you may not at first be aware of. Also, be careful to be mindful whenever you handle the chicken with your bare hands (I keep a box of latex gloves, usually used by health and food prep professionals, in the kitchen, which makes it a little easier to prevent contamination; nevertheless, wash your hands with soap and water after every time you handle the poultry and before touching any other surface, utensil, tool, or object, with or without gloves. If you’re allergic to latex, use one of the many latext substitutes readily available; it’s a common sensitivity).

Place the chicken breast side up, on a rack or not as you prefer, directly in the pan. Reach into the chicken and remove any packet of parts or loose parts: internal organs, including the liver, gizzard, heart, and often the neck, left there by the butcher and safely set aside, either for disposal or for use in other dishes or preparations (like a stock or sauce). Between the prececding step and after each of the following steps, wash your hands with soap and water, and dry them on a clean towel or paper towel. It’s a pain in the ass, but having no one get sick—and no one for whom I’ve cooked has, fortunately, ever been sick that I know of, in nearly 50 years of working in the kitchen—makes it worth it. Nothing ruins a great meal like having a guest in the bathroom retching.]

First salt and pepper the inside of the chicken through the cavity in the rear end. While you’re doing this you can pull away from the carcass all extraneous gobbets of chicken fat, and set them aside with the goodies the butcher stuffed inside.

Turn the chicken over, breast side down, and drizzle about a tablespoon of oil on the chicken and then rub it all over the bottom. All surfaces. Turn the chicken over, and set it down on the paper towels and repeat with the breast side up. You should end up with a fully oiled chicken, including all crevices.

Salt and pepper all readily accessible surfaces of the chicken, top and bottom.

In a low-sided metal roasting pan, large enough to accommodate the chicken with at least an inch or two around it, but no more, on all sides, put the remaining oil and spread it on the inside of the pan. Place the chicken breast-side up in the pan, more or less in the center.

Place the chicken in its pan in the oven, in the center of the rack.

From this point on, unless preparing other dishes for your meal that may present a risk of contamination, you may relax your vigilance about keeping things, especially your own hands and apron, towels, etc. from getting contaminated. This is also a good place to say, perhaps redundantly, to start being mindful of how important it is that chicken, or any other poultry, is completely cooked through before serving it: which means maybe that thermometer would be a good necessity, rather than an option. Wash your hands with soap and water one last time and wipe them dry on a clean towel.

Ideally, in about five minutes you should begin to hear sputtering sounds emit from the oven.

Fifteen minutes after you started the chicken, remove the pan to the stove top, and then pour in enough of the stock (careful it will spatter a little at first) to surround the chicken in about an inch, or a little more, of the liquid. With the bulb baster, quickly baste the bird all over the top with the liquid. Replace the pan in the oven, and once you’ve closed the door, lower the temperature of the oven to 450 degrees.

Every 12-15 minutes, without fail, open the oven, and if you can do it with the pan in the oven, baste the bird all over. If not, take the pan out, close the oven, and baste it on the stove top. If the liquid goes below the one-inch level, add some more from the saucepan.

The chicken will brown very quickly and evenly (unless your oven is a total disaster), and will have started visibly to do so the first time you take the bird out to pour in the broth. After about an hour (you should have basted it by this point four to five times), grab hold of the leg and move it using the thigh joint as a fulcrum. If the bird is done (which is possible, but unlikely) the joint will feel kind of loose. If it’s not moving at all, the bird is not done. Go ahead with the basting that’s due at that point, and put the bird back to cook some more.

After another fifteen minutes, the joint should feel loose, especially compared to the first time you tried. If so, or even if not, this is when you should use your thermometer. Carefully insert the probe into the fleshiest part of the thigh, and try to avoid touching a bone. Inserting it about an inch is sufficient. The bird is ready to remove from the oven if the temperature is at least 160 degrees (for you sticklers, I’m aware that USDA safe minimum recommended temperature is 165°, it will reach that temperature). In all events, the bird should not cook for more than another five minutes.

Remove the pan to the stove top and place a tent of aluminum foil over the top of it.

After five minutes, remove the bird and its tent to a serving platter or cutting board. In the process of removing the bird from the pan, you will discover that there are cooking liquids that have accumulated in the cavity. Upend the bird as you move it and allow these to pour into the pan with the rest of the juices.

Using the bulb baster, one of those special fat skimming cooking spoon, or even, if you want to get fancy, a fat separating graduate [this is a good one, also available from other online retailers, and most kitchenware stores:]. remove all but about 1-2 tablespoons of fat from the liquid left in the pan. Put the ban on a burner and turn it to high, and the liquid should be boiling turbulently in about a minute. Add a bit more of whatever stock or broth is left, and add, maybe, an ounce or two of dry white wine. Let the added liquids boil off and allow the sauce to reduce until it coats a spoon, all the while scraping with a heat-proof (wood or silicone) spatula or flat whisk. You should end up with ½ to ¾ of a cup of sauce.

And you’re good to go.

If you’re really good, I’ll tell you how to prepare some pan roasted potatoes at the same time the chicken is cooking, potatoes that you might just consider perfect, of their kind, as well.

I can’t swear that an American chicken, even as good as those in Lancaster County, will measure up to a Poulet de Bresse, but as far as my taste memory serves, it will be as good as any other chicken I’ve roasted in France.

Eat it while it’s warm. And as the wait staff at a local restaurant back in Philadelphia, kids with not an apparent ironic molecule in their bodies, insists on saying, “bone appeteet!”