by Ruth Reichl
Roast Chicken with Potatoes, Onions, and Garlic
Everyone makes a big to-do about roasting chicken, and as a food professional I know I ought to believe that one way to tell a great cook is by his or her roasted chicken. But you know what? I think that’s all a lot of nonsense. Nothing is easier than roasting a chicken. As in most cooking, it’s all about the shopping. The main point is to begin with a good farm-raised chicken that has some flavor. Once you’ve got your bird, all you really have to do is throw it in the oven and try not to overcook it. It’s hard to ruin this, but here’s my method:
1farm-raised chicken, about 3½ pounds
1lemon
Olive oil
3 or 4 smallish Yukon Gold potatoes (or any other variety except
russet), each peeled and cut into 8 pieces
1large onion, cut into 6 pieces
3 or 4 cloves garlic, unpeeled
Salt and pepper
Preheat the oven to 400°F.
Wash the chicken under running water and pat it dry. Remove and reserve the extra fat from the inside of the chicken. Very gently run your fingers between the breast and the skin, beginning from the neck end, loosening the skin from the breast on both sides. Being careful not to puncture the skin, place the excess fat beneath the skin (the chicken will then baste itself).
Puncture the lemon a few times with a fork, and place it inside the chicken.
Pour enough olive oil into a roasting pan to make a thin film over the bottom. Toss the potatoes, onion, and garlic into the pan and turn until they are covered with olive oil.
If you have a rack, put the chicken on it, breast side up, and place it in the roasting pan (you may have to jiggle things a little to fit it over the potatoes and onions). If you don’t, just put the chicken right into the pan. Pour a little olive oil over the chicken, and salt and pepper everything in the pan.
Roast for about 1 hour, or until an instant-read thermometer inserted into a thigh reads 170°F. Remove the pan from the oven and let the chicken rest for 10 minutes.
Carve the chicken into serving pieces, surround them with the potatoes, onions, and garlic, and squeeze the lemon over the top.
Serves 4
Pureed Watercress
This is one of my very favorite vegetables. Cooked like this, watercress resembles creamed spinach, but it is both easier (watercress is a snap to wash) and more flavorful (watercress has such an interestingly spicy bite).
Salt
1 medium potato, peeled and cut into 12 pieces
4 bunches watercress (1to 1½ pounds total) washed
½ stick (4 tablespoons) unsalted butter
Pepper
Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add a tablespoon of salt and the potato, and cook for 20 minutes.
Add the watercress to the boiling water, and when it has come back to a boil, cook for 1 minute. Drain in a colander, pressing on the vegetables to extract as much water as possible.
Put the watercress and potato into a food processor, and whirl until it forms a smooth puree. Add the butter and whirl again until it has been incorporated.
Add salt and pepper to taste, and serve.
Serves 4
Roasted Rhubarb
Rhubarb is America’s most underappreciated vegetable. I love its color, its bittersweet flavor, its ease of preparation. And I love the way it appears in the early spring, a harbinger of good things to come.
You can throw this in the oven while the chicken is roasting, and then eat it warm or cold, as it is or topped with a drizzle of cream, sour cream, or vanilla ice cream. In the morning, mixed with yogurt and some strawberries, it makes a great breakfast. And all by itself, it makes a fine accompaniment to any pork dish.
2 pounds rhubarb, sliced into 1-inch pieces
½ cup sugar
Mix the rhubarb and sugar together, put into an ovenproof dish, and roast in a hot oven (anywhere from 325° to 425°F will do fine) for about 30 minutes.
Serve hot, warm, or at room temperature.
Serves 3
Food Warrior
First there was the phone call. I was sitting on the floor, playing a math game Nicky had brought home from school, so relaxed that when the aggressive voice blared, I was surprised into holding the receiver away from my ear.
“Page Six?” I shouted back, bewildered. “The New York Post? Who?”
“Bryan Miller,” said the voice. It was a woman. “Are you aware that he has been sending scathing letters about you to your bosses?”
“Excuse me?” I shook myself, trying to get into the right frame of mind. “Letters?”
“Yes,” said the voice, “he’s been writing them for years. Have you seen them?”
“No.”
“Have you heard about them?”
“No,” I said again. I thought of a question of my own: “How did you get my number?”
“We’re Page Six,” said the woman, as if the answer were obvious. “So you don’t know anything about these letters?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t.”
“Let me read one to you,” she said. “I’d like to get your comments.”
“No thank you.” I had finally come to my senses. “I don’t want to hear it. And please don’t call again.” Then I did what I should have done the instant I heard that New York’s best-read gossip column was on the line. I hung up.
I immediately called Carol. “Do you know anything about Bryan’s letters?” I asked. The awkward pause was so eloquent that, even through the phone, I could sense the blood draining from her face. “How long has this been going on?” I asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“A long time,” she said in a whisper. “They’re really nasty. What good would telling you have done? Would you have wanted to know?”
Would I? I wasn’t sure. “Anyway,” Carol continued, “I tried to warn you. Don’t you remember?”
I had a vague memory of Carol, before I really knew her, telling me to watch out for Bryan. Thinking hard, I was able to conjure up Carol saying that the former critic was bitter about giving up the job. “Watch your back,” I remembered her saying, but I had thought she was speaking in a general way. Not once had it occurred to me that the warning was concrete. “Are there a lot of letters?” I asked now.
“A few.” She was clearly uncomfortable.
“What do they say?”
“I’m sure you can figure that out. Basically that you’ve destroyed all his wonderful work and they should do something about it.”
“What?” I asked.
“I think,” she said dryly, “the implication is that the something they should do is get rid of you.”
“And bring him back?”
“He never said that. At least not in any letter I saw. But I haven’t seen them all. I’ve just seen the ones they sent upstairs. There are probably more. Why don’t you ask Warren?”
“He’s in London,” I said, reminding her that Warren Hoge was now London bureau chief. Depending on how much you liked him, Warren had been moved either because he was a good writer or because he was a bad manager, but whatever the reason, he was now on the far side of the ocean.
“They have phones in England,” she said.
I looked at my watch. It was late afternoon. “What’s the time difference?” I said.
“Call him,” she said.
Warren picked up on the first ring. In a voice hoarse with fatigue, he said he’d just filed a story about six IRA terrorists who had been captured with ten tons of explosives. One of the Irishmen was dead.
Compared to Semtex my own concerns seemed silly, and I was sorry that I’d called. I hedged, asking about the bombing, reluctant to say that I wanted to ask about Bryan’s letters. But he already knew.
“Page Six called me too,” he said. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“But why didn’t you tell me about them?” I cried.
“You were new to the job,” he said. “When the letters first came, we discussed
whether to tell you or not. In the end we decided that it would not be useful knowledge.”
“Were there others?” I asked. “From other people?”
“Of course there were,” he said. “That happens when we get new critics. We expected it. But I didn’t think you needed that kind of pressure. We all thought you were doing a good job, and that’s what I told the people who wrote.”
“Thank you.” And then, because I didn’t know what else to say, I said weakly, “Good night. Stay safe.”
I put down the phone and sat down on the floor. “Are you okay, Mommy?” asked Nicky, stroking my hand.
“Yes, sweetie,” I said, “I’m fine.”
“Are you going out to dinner tonight?” he asked.
“No,” I said, suddenly making up my mind. “No, I’m not going out to dinner tonight. I’m going to cancel my plans and have dinner with you.”
“Yay!” he shouted. And then, “Can we have whatever I want?”
I nodded, knowing what was coming next. At the age of two my son had developed a passion for matzo brei, and for at least a year he ate it every night. He could not pronounce the words, so he gave it his own name. In our house “manna” was the ubiquitous comfort food, and now, with the unerring instinct of a child, he had zeroed in on exactly what I wanted. If ever there was a “manna” moment, this was it.
We went into the kitchen, and Nicky dragged a chair to the counter and climbed up. I got out the colander and handed him the box of matzos. With ceremonial solemnity, my son slowly broke the cracker into little pieces. With equal seriousness he ran water over them until they were damp, drained them, and put them into a bowl. Then, very carefully, he broke a couple of eggs into the matzos and gently mixed them with a fork. “See,” he said, “each matzo has some of the egg.” He held out the bowl for me to inspect.
I threw a lump of butter into a pan, and then threw in a little more. This was no time for restraint. Nicky slid over until he was next to the stove and picked up a long wooden spoon. “I can smell when it’s time to put in the matzos,” he said, sniffing the air. “Now!” I picked up the bowl and upended it over the pan. As Nicky stirred, the fine smell of butter and eggs slowly filled the kitchen.
Michael was still at the office, working on one of his more cheerful pieces; he had found an obscure rabbi in Brooklyn who seemed to be raising money for the man who assassinated Yitzhak Rabin. It was just as well, I thought, that he wasn’t home; his conversation was now peppered with references to the Yigal Amir defense fund, which was not exactly soothing. I set the table for two and got out the good silver and my Aunt Birdie’s gold-rimmed plates. I put candles into my grandmother’s silver candlesticks, and together Nicky and I lit them. I poured myself a glass of wine and filled Nicky’s glass with orange juice. Solemnly we clinked them together.
“I wish,” said Nicky wistfully as we ate our manna, “that we could have dinner together every night.”
“Me too, sweetie.”
Matzo Brei
2 matzo crackers
2 eggs
Salt
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
Set a colander inside a bowl (to catch the crumbs) and break the matzos into little pieces, dropping them into the colander.
Remove the colander from the bowl and hold it beneath running water until the matzos are damp. Allow them to drain; then put the damp matzos into a bowl.
Break the eggs into the bowl and stir with a fork just until mixed. Add salt to taste.
Melt the butter in a small skillet over medium heat. When the foam subsides, add the matzo-egg mixture and cook, stirring constantly, for about 4 minutes, or until the egg is cooked and there are a few crispy little bits.
Put on plates and serve at once.
Serves 2
The next morning I read Warren’s story. It was straight out of the movies—a sleeper IRA cell building bombs in a sleepy West London neighborhood. It was a good story, and Warren had written it well. Still, after I dropped Nicky at school I couldn’t keep myself from stopping at a newsstand to buy the Post. Opening it up I read, blazoned across the top of Page Six in giant type, “War of the Times’ Dining Divas.”
It was juicy stuff. Bryan said that I had “destroyed the system that Craig, Mimi and I upheld.” He claimed that people came up to him every day to tell him that they didn’t read the restaurant reviews anymore because they were “irrelevant and trite.” He claimed that, thanks to me, the Times was losing its clout, and that “it gets worse every day.”
“It’s just a lot of blah blah blah,” I told Carol when I got to the office.
“Maybe,” she said, “but people are eating it up. Good thing you didn’t comment; anything you said would have sounded defensive. They’ll call again, but no matter what dirt they throw at you, keep your mouth shut. Anything you say, they’ll twist.”
“Bryan talked to them,” I pointed out. “When they called him he actually had the balls to admit that he’d written the letters. I sort of admire him for that.”
“Who do you think sent them the letters?” she asked.
“It could have been anyone,” I said. “What difference does it make who it was? At least Warren stood up for me.” Warren, the Post reported, had said that Bryan was “dead wrong.”
“I guess you’ll find out how sincere that is,” said Carol.
“Meaning?” I asked.
“Weren’t you supposed to have lunch with Montorio today?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“If he cancels, you’ll know you’re in trouble.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Where are you going?”
“La Caravelle,” I said.
“If he’s still willing to go,” she said, “you’re fine. It’s so public, and he’s so political. He’d never be seen there with someone who was about to lose their job.”
All morning I waited for the call saying that John was canceling lunch, but it never came. In fact, as we made our way to the restaurant he never even mentioned Page Six. But I could feel his muscles tighten when we walked in and every eye looked up to survey us. The proprietor, a sweet-faced little man who always reminded me of a Shetland pony, came trotting forward to welcome John, and the room went still as he led us down the lane of pink banquettes to our table. In that adorable jewel box of a room, I had a sudden vision of the scene in the movie when Gigi walks into Maxim’s and the frame freezes. Then she smiles and moves forward and the action continues. Monsieur Jammet pulled out the table, John and I sat down, and the noise in the restaurant rose again until we were all snugly wrapped in a cozy cocoon of sound.
Notes: La Caravelle, 9/24/1996, lunch with John Montorio
It’s a great place to talk, simultaneously public and private. Sitting side by side on the banquettes is like being on stage; everyone eyes everyone else, avid for drama. It’s exciting. On the other hand, I have to crane my neck to see him, and by the end of the meal I feel like a crippled goose.
The prix fixe lunch, $36, turns out to be a good deal if you don’t drink. We don’t. With plain water the meal ends up costing about $100 for the two of us, with tip.
John starts with the foie gras and apples. It’s fabulous. (Try to find out where Renaud gets his foie gras. It seems creamier, richer than the Hudson Valley stuff.) He’s crisped it so that the outside becomes a crust and when you bite through it the interior comes rushing into your mouth with the silky urgency of marrow. The apples are a great contrast, both sweet and acid, but unlike the foie they resist the teeth. Lovely!
I start with the quenelles de brochet, because I feel like being self-indulgent and I love them so. Very few restaurants still make these ethereal dumplings, a marriage of air and ocean, and even fewer do them right. But as far as I can tell they’ve been floating out of Caravelle’s kitchen since Joe Kennedy used to come here with his cronies, and they never seem to change. They’re a ridiculous first course—so big, so rich, so sure to make the next dish a disappointment—but I can
never resist them. Imagine how magical they must have seemed before the invention of the food processor. I take a bite and the softness surrounds my mouth with the taste of lobster, of fish, of butter and then it just dissolves, disappears, leaving nothing but the memory in my mouth. And I take another bite, and another, and suddenly I’m floating on the flavor, and the world has vanished.
“You look different,” John says after the third bite, and I realize that the magic has kicked in, and I am peacefully suspended on clouds of quenelle. It is such a lovely sensation.
Unfortunately I come thudding back to earth with the vegetable ravioli. When I order the dish the captain makes it clear that this is not a good idea. It is brilliantly done; he doesn’t utter a sound, but his face goes oddly grim and his shoulders slump and all the smiling enthusiasm John got when he ordered the leg of veal disappears. I choose to ignore the warning and he’s so unhappy that he finally says, his French accent very strong, “It’s all vegetables, unh?” in a tone that makes his low opinion of vegetables very clear. And I say, stupidly, “But I like vegetables.” He shrugs with the air of a man who has done his best.
Still, he can’t help himself, and when I order the tomate confite for dessert he cries, “Wouldn’t you like a nice soufflé instead?” Once again I stupidly ignore this, so I guess I deserve the dreadful gingered tomato thing on a bed of fennel, with a tasteless quince sorbet on top, decorated with julienne of basil. It tastes so remarkably like the vegetable ravioli that if they had switched dishes I probably wouldn’t have noticed. John, wisely, sticks to sorbets: cas sis (refreshing), coconut (too sweet), and pear (perfect).
Do they know me? Probably; the service is too good. I suddenly remember Joe Baum telling me, years ago when I interviewed him as he was opening the Rainbow Room, that he always gave his staff instructions on how to behave when a critic was in the restaurant. The main point, he said, was to make sure that the service on either side was perfect. I look right, and sure enough the captain is hovering over a white-haired woman wearing pink Chanel and wreathed in clouds of gardenia, saying, “Yes, madame, the duck is very crisp. And yes, madame, of course we’d be happy to cook a duck and serve you just a half of it. I’ll eat the other half myself.” (Here he laughs heartily and her rubies twinkle with gratitude.) On my left he interrupts the two gentlemen of a certain age, engrossed in fifty-year-old tales of the publishing business, to suggest that they might prefer a plate of cold asparagus to a plain green salad. They do. The asparagus is beautiful—very fat, very green. The man sighs as he eats it, and says something about his grandfather’s gardener. As far as I can tell, a swell time is being had by all.