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 When I
moved to France, Romain dubbed me “chicken man,” because I was always
ordering, or buying, chicken. It’s not that the French don’t eat or like
chicken, it’s just that it’s considering rather common fare, and not
really something that is given a lot of attention. Americans love
chicken, not just in our beloved fried chicken, but in lots of other
preparations. I’m not sure why we took to it with so much fervor, but I’m
guilty of liking it quite a bit. When I want something meaty, but not too
heavy or “beefy,” chicken certainly fits that bill.
There are a
few notable restaurants in Paris that serve roast chicken: at L’Ami
Louis, the poulet rôti
will set you back 95€. And no, I’ve not had it, for a variety of reasons.
(One of which, of course, is the price.) But few Parisians order roast
chicken when dining out because the spit-roasted poulet rôti you
buy at the markets and at butcher shops is so much better than what you
can make at home. And most butchers and volaillers know that if they put
that rotating spit outside their shop, it’s hard for passers-by to
resist going home without one. Although my butcher also has lamb’s heads
on the spit and they keep trying to convince me to try one of those
instead. For a variety of reasons, one being that I don’t feel
comfortable picking around teeth and jawbones to have my dinner. And I’m
not sure my other-half would be so happy if he opened the bag, expecting
a roast chicken, and instead was greeted by a lamb face staring back
at him.
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