Let's begin this story on friday at wine o' clock. I had gotten an email that my office was having a "spring picnic" after work. Now, at my last job this would have meant Entenmann's brownies and 2 liter bottles of lemonade, consumed in the parking lot, and it probably would have counted as a taxable benefit.
Let's just say that I think I made the right career choice by accepting my current job, if only because they take food and parties very seriously. The "picnic" was at Madison Square Park, and under a tent big enough to hold a Bon Jovi concert. But the kicker-- it was catered by shake shack, the legendary Danny Meyer burger joint that is known as much for its 2 hour waits as it is for the superb hot dogs and frozen custards.
This may not seem that incredible to you, but imagine being at a private party, getting served as many mini burgers as you want while you sip your free beer--in a tent with a bouncer, no less--right in front of these poor souls in line:
My favorite part of the party, though, was of course the Shack-ago Dog. As a Chicagoan and someone who takes hot dogs very, very seriously, this is the only hot dog that I will eat in New York (sober). Danny Meyer really got this one right, all the way down to the Vienna Beef, the S. Rosen's poppyseed bun, and the celery salt. I applaud, you. Mr. Meyer, with my mouth full.
Anyway, I digress. Slightly intoxicated by "hot dogs", I forgot to do the only thing I had to do on Friday night, which was to pre-salt my chicken. I have heard a lot about this so-called "Zuni Cafe Chicken" out of San Francisco, that has a pretty vocal cult following. Zuni (feminine? masculine?) relies on pre-salting instead of brining to bring out flavor and to get the skin crispy, a small bird, and very high heat roasting. Intrigued, I decided to make this for Saturday night, and right away forgot the most important step, salting (no thanks to you, Neil).
I woke up in a panic on Saturday morning, from a dream in which I was encrusted in salt and spinning on a rotisserie, and immediately smacked my head in disbelief. Lorenzo gave me that look that said, "This is what happens when you eat too many hot dogs."
I salted the chicken liberally inside and out, and paid penance by cleaning my apartment twice.
After a wonderful garden party to benefit the New Amsterdam Market (post coming soon), and celebrating Milan's victory over Germany in futbol with a nice rosé, I got back to the chicken experiment at hand. The recipe said I should hear the chicken sizzling in the oven, and if not, to raise the temp to an unimaginable 500 degrees. Well, I didnt just hear the chicken sizzle, it was screaming the beatitudes as if it was roasting in the scorching flames of hell.
Sure enough, the oven was spewing enough smoke in a few minutes to set off my fire alarm and convince my neighbors that there was an actual fire, against my repeated claims that I was just "cooking" and everything was fine. Yet another strike against me as a neighbor. To save face and support my claims that this type of "cooking" often involves screaming chickens and blaring alarms, I finally ripped the detector out of the ceiling, and put it out on the fire escape like a good New Yorker.
After that ordeal, I sure needed a drink...cue the white bordeax. Phew, now I felt up to cooking again. I whipped up some huge croutons from a leftover loaf of sourdough, toasted them, and dressed them with the chicken drippings, olive oil, and balsamic. Add a little arugula, sauteed scallions and pine nuts, and serve the chicken pices on top of the warm bread salad.
Viola. I have restored my good name, and don't have to worry about pesky fire alarms anymore.
Oh, and I also made some strawberry-rhubarb jam, and quickly threw together these little jam tartlets for dessert, but they were kind of anti climactic after this incredibly tasty, perfectly cooked chicken. What can I say? We can't all be winners. Thanks, Zuni.
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