Whole Chicken

If you’re bored with the same old roast chicken, try this one. The bird absorbs all the sweet and savory flavors of the marinade, and that’s what keeps the meat incredibly moist. And it’s still moist the next day—perfect for sandwiches and salads. This is a really easy recipe to double (as long as you have a big enough roasting pan). So I usually do, and enjoy my leftovers all week.

Tangy and sweet are the best words to describe this barbecue sauce. Make a double batch, take some to your next picnic, and you will thank me.

Authentic, fiery mole sauces from the southern region of Mexico take days to prepare. This is a relatively quick version of the chunky, spicy, and chocolatey, mole negro or “black sauce.” To experience the full flavors of peppers, native spices, and fresh chocolate, book a culinary vacation to Oaxaca, Mexico, the Land of Seven Moles, where you can explore a district known as the Trail of Chocolate. In the meantime, get fresh ingredients from your local farmers’ market. You can substitute jalepeños for the poblano chiles, but the dark dried ancho and mulato chiles are important to bring the sauce to its characteristic deep chocolate brown. This will make a large batch of sauce designed to thin and use for a meal, then freeze and thaw as needed.

Gina: Homemade chicken stock is our way of adding a little extra love to any dish, from soup to stew to rice pilaf. And it’s so easy to make: We throw a whole bird (yeah, the whole thing) in the soup pot, along with plenty of aromatics, and let it simmer for a few hours. This gives our stock plenty of taste. For an even richer chicken flavor, add the carcass of a roasted chicken to the stock as you are cooking it.

Poussins—young chickens that weigh about 1 pound each—are great for this dish. Figure on one per person, and cut them into pieces at the joints; there’s no need to cut them into smaller pieces across the bone. As good as poussins are, I made this dish using supermarket-bought fryer chickens, because I want to be sure you try this delicious recipe. The secret to golden-brown chicken pieces is to leave them be as they cook. They will brown better if you’re not constantly turning them or checking on their progress.

The caccia in cacciatore means “hunt,” so I guess this is chicken hunter’s-style. Somewhere along the line—probably on its trip from Italy to America—the hunter’s pheasant or guinea hen in this dish was replaced by chicken. If you don’t want to cut up a whole chicken, you can buy pieces—get all legs and thighs, if that’s what you like; they are very good in this dish. It can be made using only chicken breasts, if that’s your preference, but to keep the chicken from drying out, you should cut the cooking time in half, and reduce the wine to 1/4 cup and the tomatoes to 3 cups. Best of all, though, is to make this dish with an older hen. In that case, increase the cooking time by 20 minutes, adding more water or stock as needed to keep the hen pieces covered as they cook. When you cut up chicken, or anything for that matter, your knife should glide along. If you’re struggling, stop for a second and take a look at what you’re cutting; you should be cutting between the bones at the joints, not actually cutting through the bones. If you’re off target, just wiggle the blade of the knife to get a feel for where the joint is, then make another cut. With practice, you’ll get a sense for where the joints lie.

For this dish I prefer luganega, a thin (about 1/2-inch-wide) pork sausage seasoned only with salt and pepper and without fennel or other seeds. If that is unavailable, use the wider (about 1-inch-thick) sweet pork sausages, preferably made without aromatic seeds of any kind. Cut the smaller luganega into 1-inch lengths, and the wider sausages into 1/2-inch lengths. When I cook a whole chicken, or any chicken on the bone, I always salt it three times: in its raw state, when I first begin to cook it, and as it finishes cooking. It seems that the first two saltings are absorbed and somewhat dissipated, especially if you add more ingredients as the chicken cooks. The last salting should be to balance the whole act. Each time you salt, it should be done judiciously, to avoid oversalting and ruining the dish.

Like many other communities in France, the town of Annecy had few Jews living there until the late 1950s. Then, one day, the town’s mayor assembled the Catholic archbishop, the head of the Protestants, and the leader of the tiny Jewish community, who happened to be my relative Rudi Moos (see page 3), and asked them to welcome emigrants from North Africa. Rudi sponsored about forty Moroccan, Tunisian, and Algerian Jewish families and built a synagogue in this town that had none. Cécile Zana and her husband were one of these families. They left Tunisia and went first to the Congo, and then, in 1968, to Annecy, where they live today. And, perhaps not surprisingly in this small Jewish world, Cécile’s daughter married Rudi’s grandson. Cécile showed me how to make this delicious spring dish with lots of parsley and peas.

This is an oven-cooked version of the Indian classic Murgh Mussallam—a whole chicken cooked in a rich spicy sauce. Although Indians like their chicken skinned, partly to let the spices penetrate better, I have not bothered too much with that in this book, just to make life easier. But it would be good to do it for this recipe, as this is a dish for special occasions. You can ask your butcher to skin the chicken, but it is really not difficult to yank most of it off yourself. The wings are a bit troublesome, so I just leave them alone. I might go to town here and serve Black Beans, Yellow Basmati Rice with Sesame Seeds, and Sweet-and-Sour Eggplant. On the other hand, you could treat this as a spicy roast and just have parsley potatoes and fresh summer peas!

This Egyptian village dish usually made with pigeons (hamam) is just as good, and easier to make, with a good corn-fed chicken. Ferik is young green wheat which has been harvested before it is ripe and set alight between layers of straw. The moist young kernels are separated from the charred chaff and straw by threshing, then washed and dried and coarsely ground. There is a pleasant roughness and a lingering smoky flavor about this grain. You will find it (also spelled frika) in Middle Eastern stores. It needs to be washed in 2 or 3 changes of water.

There is something very comforting about this homely Turkish pilaf in which the rice is cooked in the broth of the chicken. For an Arab version with pine nuts, flavored with cinnamon and cardamom, see the variation.