Best Food Writing 2010 Part 10

If you grew up anywhere but New England, you've probably never heard of a drink called Moxie, yet it is the oldest continually produced soda in America-and quite possibly the worst tasting, as well. Moxie inspires fierce devotion in its fans, which have included presidents, baseball stars, and a Pulitzer Prize winner, and confused disbelief among its detractors, who just can't fathom what anyone would see in the stuff. I discovered Moxie while doing a little routine Web browsing, and after reading its ill.u.s.trious history, I knew that I had to have a taste. I was particularly curious as to why, if Moxie really does taste like a telephone pole, as one Web site claims-or dirt, or battery acid-the drink has such a pa.s.sionate following.

Unfortunately, Moxie isn't sold in the Southeast where I live, so I turned to the Internet to try to track down a can. Several Web sites actually specialize in regional sodas and can ship you a case of Moxie or Cheerwine or Boylan Grape any time you get a hankering. The problem was that these specialty stores don't just give away the Moxie, and being thrifty on the best of days, and given the high probability that I wouldn't actually like Moxie, I was hesitant to place the thirty- to forty-dollar minimum order that the online soda merchants require. It occurred to me, though, that the folks who actually make Moxie must be quite proud of a soda that can produce such varied and extreme reactions among its drinkers; since only a few companies currently bottle Moxie, it stood to reason that one of them might be happy to send a can or two to a benighted, Moxieless southerner if he asked in just the right way.

A Proposition So, on a cold Nashville day in the winter of 2007, I composed the following letter and mailed it to the Catawissa Bottling Company of Catawissa, Pennsylvania, and to the Coca-Cola Bottling Company of Northern New England, Inc., both of which bottle and distribute the beverage in question: Dear Sir/Madam: As a southerner, I'm no stranger to the charms of a nice, cold soda pop, although we often just call it "c.o.ke," no matter what the brand. Until a few days ago, however, I was completely unaware of the existence of one of your products. It started innocently enough. A friend wanted to know what the state dog of Tennessee was (there isn't one). A few clicks on the Internet later, and we learned that the state drink of Maine is a mysterious brew called Moxie. Now, like everyone who's seen a gangster movie, I was familiar with the term, but not, as I've said, with the drink.

Not content to let it rest at that, and not anxious to go back to work, we dug deeper and uncovered a whole subculture of Moxie lore-stories, memorabilia, rumors, testimonials. A sample:

"They say it takes nerve to drink a Moxie. I learned you can throw all of your normal conceptions of soda out the window when it comes to the taste of Moxie." 2 2 "History has known only a few standards that cleanly divide Earth's population into irreconcilable camps. Moxie is one of these. No one is apathetic in the matter." 3 3 "I grew up in mid-coast Maine where Moxie was more beloved than mother's milk . . . and more widely consumed." 4 4

It's clear that Moxie is more than a drink, more than the longest continually produced soda in our great nation's history, more than the source of a great word for nerve, s.p.u.n.k, chutzpah. Moxie is the fluidic substance of the collective memory of a people, the taste of childhood, the pride of New Englanders, who know that not just anyone can suck down a Moxie and stick around to tell the tale.

Which brings me to my point. I would like to try my first Moxie-to be an initiate, to take a side. But, as you may know, none of the stores in my town of Nashville, TN, sell Moxie. I propose a trade-regional treat for regional treat. I will send you a box of Goo Goo Cl.u.s.ters (delicious blend of caramel, marshmallow, peanuts, and chocolate-my friends from New York City always ask for a box when I visit), a picture of Elvis, AND a bag of pork rinds, for a 6-pack of your finest Moxie.

Please consider my offer and respond via post or email. I hope you'll find my terms acceptable, but in any case, please keep doing what you do, and remember.... If you've got Moxie, you've got taste. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely, Robert T. d.i.c.kinson Since 1876 While I waited to see whether anything would come of my proposal, I went back to the Internet to conduct more research and found references to Moxie lurking in sources ranging from the New York Times New York Times to etymology blogs such as to etymology blogs such as www.word-detective.com. Americans have been drinking Moxie since 1884, although a similar drink first appeared in 1876 as a patent medicine called "Moxie Nerve Food." We're all familiar with moxie moxie as a slang term for nerve or s.p.u.n.k (e.g., "Say what you will about that Al Capone, the man's got moxie"), and when I discovered the drink, I could only a.s.sume that slang preceded soda, that Moxie's name was the result of a slick young marketing man bathing his product in the allure of the speakeasy. Surprisingly, however, it was the drink that was apparently so chockfull of bubbly refreshment that its name was later used to describe that indefinable quality of folks who just seem to know the score. as a slang term for nerve or s.p.u.n.k (e.g., "Say what you will about that Al Capone, the man's got moxie"), and when I discovered the drink, I could only a.s.sume that slang preceded soda, that Moxie's name was the result of a slick young marketing man bathing his product in the allure of the speakeasy. Surprisingly, however, it was the drink that was apparently so chockfull of bubbly refreshment that its name was later used to describe that indefinable quality of folks who just seem to know the score. 5 5 Until the early 1920s Moxie was one of the most popular soft drinks in America and was enjoyed by some of our finest citizens. The story goes that Vice-President Calvin Coolidge toasted his ascendance to the presidency with a gla.s.s of Moxie. E.B. White, Pulitzer Prize winner and author of Charlotte's Web Charlotte's Web, had high praise for the soda as well. "Moxie contains gentian root," White said, "which is the path to the good life." 6 6 Even Boston Red Sox legend Ted Williams, the Splendid Splinter, got into the act as a Moxie pitchman in the 1950s. Even Boston Red Sox legend Ted Williams, the Splendid Splinter, got into the act as a Moxie pitchman in the 1950s. 7 7 Despite such an impressive history, however, people in most areas of the country have never heard of Moxie, let alone tasted it. Moxie was once nationally distributed, but due to the vagaries of free-market economics, including compet.i.tion with Coca-Cola, the soda took a smaller and smaller share of the soft-drink market over the years until it became a regional curiosity, unknown to Tennesseans, even ones who are pretty well traveled. These days Moxie distribution is concentrated in New England, although Cornucopia Beverages, a wholly owned subsidiary of the Coca-Cola Bottling Company of Northern New England (itself a subsidiary of j.a.pan's Kirin Brewing Company), began selling Moxie in Florida through Sweetbay Supermarkets in October 2007. 8 8 As unknown as it is in most of the United States, Moxie has developed a fiercely devoted following in the areas where it is sold. Case in point: the Moxie World Web site (www.moxieworld.us). Here, devotees can find a detailed listing of retail outlets and restaurants that carry Moxie, links to collectors' sites, and lists of Moxie-related events, such as the twenty-sixth annual Moxie Days Festival held in July 2009 in Lisbon Falls, Maine. Fans even have a governing body of sorts in the Moxie Congress, a group of memorabilia collectors and Moxie connoisseurs whose mission is to promote and celebrate their favorite soft drink. Moxie displayed its real-life political clout as well when the Maine legislature made Moxie the state's official drink in 2005. 9 9 Curiously enough, however, a large contingent of naysayers holds the equally strong opinion that Moxie is, well, not very good. To wit: "The taste of Moxie is hard to describe, but if you have some really old sarsaparilla or birch beer around the house, mix it with a little battery acid and you'll get the general idea." 10 10 "Have you ever licked a telephone pole or railroad tie? That is about what Moxie tastes like."11 The phrase "acquired taste" also appears quite frequently. But for every slur against Moxie, you'll find a glowing tribute, a paean to Moxie's wholesomeness, a fierce defense of its good name: "It's not a syrupy fruit or cola, and it's not a trendy California dill flavored monstrosity-it's the grandpappy of all of those! It's been marketed as a health elixir, it is the reason we say 'that kid's got Moxie!' and it's history in a bottle. And I adore it!" 12 12 "There is nothing finer than smoking a fine cigar and having a snifter of Cognac, aged Scotch, a Tawny Port Wine, dry red wine, a harsh warm Guinness Stout or a cold gla.s.s of Moxie." 13 13 If nothing more, my research had shown that Moxie refuses to be lumped in with the ubiquitous carbonated sugar waters that fill our grocery stores and vending machines, and I was even more anxious to take my first sip.

Contact Less than a week after I made my offer, I received my first response from Paula at Catawissa: h.e.l.lo Robert, I really appreciated the letter you sent. I had to pa.s.s it around the office. I hope you don't mind. Our company has been in business since 1926 and often the barter system was used. So sure, I'll send a couple of bottles and cans of diet and regular.

We also make our own line of soft drink flavors and are known for our famous Big Ben's Blue Birch Beer, along with 16 other flavors. Samples will be included.

Respectfully, Paula Clark Catawissa Bottling Company Since 1926 True to her word, Paula sent the following to my apartment in Nashville: 1 can Moxie 1 can Moxie 1 can diet Moxie 1 bottle Moxie 1 bottle Big Ben's Sarsaparilla 1 bottle Big Ben's Birch Beer 1 bottle Big Ben's Cream Soda 1 bottle Big Ben's Ginger Beer Judging by my shipment, Catawissa seems to specialize in the quaint sodas of yesteryear-drinks that evoke first dates at the soda shop, zoot-suited gangsters, or old West gunslingers. Put another way, many Catawissa products are drinks that have little chance of grabbing a very large share of most markets. According to Beverage Digest Beverage Digest, a beverage industry trade journal, the Coca-Cola and Pepsi-Cola companies controlled a 75 percent share of the carbonated soft drink market in 2005, selling over 7.6 billion cases of soda. In the same year the Atlanta-based Monarch Beverage Company, which owned Moxie before selling the brand to Cornucopia in early 2007, commanded a 0.1 percent market share and sold approximately 9.8 million cases of all of its products combined.14 Nonetheless, Catawissa was clearly proud of its own carbonated wares, even if many of its products don't generate the same eye-popping sales figures as the corporate behemoths that it competes with for shelf s.p.a.ce. Nonetheless, Catawissa was clearly proud of its own carbonated wares, even if many of its products don't generate the same eye-popping sales figures as the corporate behemoths that it competes with for shelf s.p.a.ce.

The Coca-Cola Bottling Company of Northern New England also came through with a shipment of Moxie. The following letter was enclosed: Dear Mr. d.i.c.kinson, We are well aware of the regional distribution of Moxie and the pride this product instills in Maine. We are also well aware of the problems finding Moxie south of the Mason-Dixon line. s...o...b..rds commonly complain about missing Moxie during their winter pilgrimages down South.

Enclosed you will find not six cans of Moxie as requested, but twelve cans in a convenient "fridge pack" designed to help better fit in your refrigerator and enjoy this beverage ice cold. In return, we are interested in trying your favorite regional treat-if you want to send the mentioned Goo Goo Cl.u.s.ters, that would be outstanding.

Please let us know what you think of Moxie and thank you for your interest in our hidden gem!

Sincerely, Justin J. Conroy Coca-Cola Bottling Company of Northern New England Of course, a good southerner isn't one to back out on a deal. I had promised an a.s.sortment of Tennessee treats and was ready to make good on that promise. In the spirit of regional goodwill, I sent not one but two boxes of Goo Goo Cl.u.s.ters to the Catawissa staff-one regular (with peanuts) and one "deluxe," which replaces the peanut with the slightly more upscale pecan. I also enclosed a bag of Golden Flake pork rinds and a postcard of Elvis circa 1970 with full muttonchops, taken during a recording session in Vegas. Finally, the Catawissa folks got Polaroids of myself and two friends-one smiling, and one grimacing in pain after taking a sip of Moxie. To the Coca-Cola Bottling people I sent the same two boxes of Goo Goos and a photo of a young Elvis astride a motorcycle. I had had a change of heart about the pork rinds. They are, after all, pretty unhealthy. I'll have to hope that the younger, better-looking Elvis made up the difference.

The Tasting The moment of truth took place on Tuesday, January 23, 2007. At first sip, Moxie is reminiscent of a weak root beer. Not bad, but not memorable either. Then the bitterness takes hold. Like medicine. Like the tar on a telephone pole. Like the sludge at the bottom of the barrel that you're supposed to just throw away. But Moxie is a complex beast, and once the initial shock wears away, the bitterness mellows, and one is left with a bittersweet taste that isn't so bad and may even qualify as, dare I say it . . . pleasant. In the spirit of scientific inquiry, however, I was eager to get a more representative sample than just myself, so I decided to share a little ice-cold Moxie with my friends. Here are a few opinions:

DON: "It was like nothing I have ever sipped before. That says it all. It was OK, but that aftertaste was . . . " [he trails off here]

LAURA: "BLECH!"

JEFF: "Since I was a young man, I've tried to live my life the 'right' way, set my goals and life expectations on the straight and narrow path. Moxie was not the 'right' way."

PHILIP: "It's different, but I didn't think it was too bitter. I'd definitely buy a case occasionally if they sold it around here."

ELIZABETH: "It was awful. At first, you're like, this is fine, but then the aftertaste kicks in."

MATT: "I like the bitterness. It's good."

VICTORIA: "I don't think I'll be drinking the rest of this."

Overall, Moxie wasn't the biggest hit in my study group, but comparisons with battery acid and railroad ties may not be quite fair either; some of the group, after all, did enjoy it. My final a.s.sessment, therefore, is that Moxie is a soda, and, like other sodas, some people like the taste and some people don't. The cult of Moxie, however, isn't so much about taste as it is about history and place. In other words, drinking a soda isn't just about quenching your thirst and getting a caffeine fix. Just as much as an accent, what a person drinks is a badge of ident.i.ty. For someone raised on it, sipping a Moxie is a symbolic act, a performance of one's "Maine-ness." It's the Louisianian sucking the head of a crawfish. The debate over the relative merits of Memphis, Texas, and Carolina barbecues. The Tennessean pa.s.sing on an iced tea in a chain restaurant because it's not "sweet tea." I suspect that my trades with these companies were so satisfying because, in addition to swapping Goo Goo for Moxie, sweet for bitter, they were an exchange of two cultures and a recognition that these traditions have an intrinsic value that transcends the monetary values attached to a soda and a candy bar. Paula and Justin had mailed me a small piece of New England, I had offered a taste of my own heritage, and we had found the deal mutually agreeable.

Home Cooking

POTLUCKY.

By Sam Sifton From The New York Times Magazine The New York Times Magazine

Recently anointed as the Times Times' new chief restaurant critic, Sam Sifton also contributes this occasional food column for the Sunday magazine section-a frank, funny, down-to-earth dissection of one recipe and how to tweak it.

I was invited to cook dinner for Nora Ephron. This is what happens if you hang around New York long enough, writing about food and editing about movies. You end up at ground zero. The invitation was to a potluck. Guests were meant to bring food inspired by Ephron's career or by the woman herself. It was essentially high-stakes food charades. My draw was meatloaf. Ruh-roh. was invited to cook dinner for Nora Ephron. This is what happens if you hang around New York long enough, writing about food and editing about movies. You end up at ground zero. The invitation was to a potluck. Guests were meant to bring food inspired by Ephron's career or by the woman herself. It was essentially high-stakes food charades. My draw was meatloaf. Ruh-roh.

Ephron is famous for her meatloaf, a version of which is on the menu of Graydon Carter's new restaurant and clubhouse, the Monkey Bar. And cooking plays no small role in her new film, "Julie & Julia," which opens on Aug. 7. The movie, which Ephron wrote and directed, is an adaptation of Julia Child's memoir of learning to cook in France and then writing "Mastering the Art of French Cooking"-as well as of Julie Powell's memoir of learning to cook in Queens and then blogging her way through every recipe in "Mastering the Art of French Cooking."

Opinions about movies are for film critics; I hazard them at great personal risk. (I work closely with film critics.) But I can say that the food in "Julie & Julia" is beautiful. (Can't I?) The aesthetic of Ephron's sole is perfect. She may be to food as Scorsese is to bar fights. Just thinking about cooking for her, I felt sick and wondered if bringing a few bottles of cold Pellegrino or Laurent-Perrier Champagne would do instead. I've read widely in the literature. Nora Ephron loves Champagne.

But I got down to cooking. I started to grind. What was borne out by my experience I pa.s.s along as gospel: Do not make Nora Ephron's meatloaf for Nora Ephron. This is a sucker's play and remains true even if you're cooking for someone's aunt on a Sat.u.r.day night in Fort Myers, Fla.: Don't make a person's signature recipe for that person, ever. Instead, take it as a starting point. Move the ball along.

And practice. A couple of years ago, Ruth Reichl edited a huge cookbook that was built out of the recipe files of Gourmet Gourmet, the magazine she has edited since stepping down as the restaurant critic of The New York Times The New York Times in 1999. (How'd you like to cook eggs for her?) In it is a meatloaf recipe that combines beef and veal, pancetta and Parmesan, brightened with lemon zest and white wine. It's a luxurious feed, and I'd run versions through the oven before deciding to take it on the road. in 1999. (How'd you like to cook eggs for her?) In it is a meatloaf recipe that combines beef and veal, pancetta and Parmesan, brightened with lemon zest and white wine. It's a luxurious feed, and I'd run versions through the oven before deciding to take it on the road.

I made one additional change for Ephron. Instead of chopping a fine dice of pancetta as I generally do, I went to the store and asked for thin-sliced pancetta that I would roll and cut into chiffonade at home. Pancetta-studded meatloaf is delicious, of course. But I wanted the bacon really to melt into the meats; I was aiming for an ethereal loaf.

And I was working fast. So it wasn't until the meatloaf came out of the oven that I realized the nice fellow who was manning the meat slicer at my local market was also a dangerous and psychotic meal killer who had not removed the plastic wrap from the pancetta before slicing it into paper-thin rounds. I'd cut these rounds into fine ribbons that had cooked into the meat perfectly, except for the plastic parts, which didn't melt into the meat at all. There was a kind of stubble on my finished loaf-plastic pin bones.

I had two hours until dinner with Ephron. I felt a blaze of panic, the sort that awakens you from that dream in which you're forced to take an exam in a subject you've never studied. I stared at the fuzzy meatloaf for 10 seconds. Then I fed it to the children and started all over again. (It's all right. I gave them each a set of tweezers for the plastic. It was like a game to them.) Two new meatloaves resulted from this challenge round of cooking. The Gourmet Gourmet recipe, which I'd come to think of as fancy, was now unlucky, and I thought it wise to have a backup. So in addition to a new, nonplastic version of that, I cooked a huge meatball, drawn from a dish that Mark Ladner used to offer at Lupa, in Greenwich Village, before he went off to be the executive chef at Del Posto: turkey and Italian sausage, cut through with pepper flakes and rosemary, baked in a kind of soffrito.You could make the argument that it's perhaps more beautiful as a dozen meatb.a.l.l.s. But it's a marvelous single loaf as well: a fine-textured, surprisingly light dinner that pairs excellently with sauteed greens and the smallest portion of fresh pasta in b.u.t.ter and mint. recipe, which I'd come to think of as fancy, was now unlucky, and I thought it wise to have a backup. So in addition to a new, nonplastic version of that, I cooked a huge meatball, drawn from a dish that Mark Ladner used to offer at Lupa, in Greenwich Village, before he went off to be the executive chef at Del Posto: turkey and Italian sausage, cut through with pepper flakes and rosemary, baked in a kind of soffrito.You could make the argument that it's perhaps more beautiful as a dozen meatb.a.l.l.s. But it's a marvelous single loaf as well: a fine-textured, surprisingly light dinner that pairs excellently with sauteed greens and the smallest portion of fresh pasta in b.u.t.ter and mint.

With 30 minutes on the clock, I put my meats into serving pans and headed north to the Upper West Side, which is obviously where you'd have dinner with Nora Ephron if such a thing were on the docket.

"This is remarkable," she said in the end, brightly. I went to the hostess's study to enter the words in my notebook. She might just have easily given a small smile and patted me on the arm. That would have been devastating. But I don't believe it was that close. These are both excellent dishes to serve friends, and they make for good leftovers. Add a salad, some decent bread, a lot of red wine. Sometimes New York is the greatest city in the world.

Fancy Meatloaf Fancy Meatloaf Adapted from Gourmet. Adapted from Gourmet. Serves 6 to 8 Serves 6 to 8 loaf Italian bread, crust removed, torn into small pieces loaf Italian bread, crust removed, torn into small pieces (about 2 cups) 1 cup whole milk 1 pound ground beef 1 pound ground veal 2 large eggs, scrambled 4 ounces thinly sliced pancetta, chopped cup grated Parmesan 1 bunch parsley, cleaned and finely chopped (about 1 cup) 2 teaspoons grated lemon zest Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper cup extra-virgin olive oil cup b.u.t.ter 1 cup dry white wine.

1. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Soak the bread in the milk for 10 minutes.

2. Mix the beef, veal, eggs, pancetta, Parmesan, parsley and lemon zest in a large bowl. Season liberally with salt and pepper. Squeeze the bread to remove excess milk, then chop and add it to the meat. Mix gently until well combined, but do not overmix. Transfer onto a board and shape into a fine meatloaf, shy of a foot in length and 4 inches across. Loosely cover and refrigerate for 15 minutes.

3. Heat the oil and b.u.t.ter in a large, ovenproof skillet over medium-high heat. Add the meatloaf and sear without moving it until it is browned, about 5 minutes. Carefully slide a spatula under the meatloaf, then gently use another spatula to help turn it and brown the second side, again without moving it for 5 minutes. Transfer to a plate.

4. Pour out all but 2 tablespoons of the fat, return the skillet to the stove and raise the heat to high. Add the wine and deglaze the pan, sc.r.a.ping up the browned bits stuck to it with a wooden spoon. Return the meatloaf to the skillet and then transfer to the oven, basting occasionally with the pan juices, until a meat thermometer inserted into the center of the loaf reads 150 degrees, about 25 minutes.

5. Transfer the meatloaf to a platter and let stand, tented with foil, 10 minutes. Slice, pour the pan juices over the top and serve.

Turkey Meatloaf Turkey Meatloaf Adapted from Mark Ladner Adapted from Mark Ladner Serves 6 to 8 Serves 6 to 8 8 cloves garlic, minced 8 cloves garlic, minced 1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh rosemary Red pepper flakes 1 cup fresh bread crumbs of any provenance Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper cup whole milk 1 pound ground turkey 1 pound sweet Italian pork sausage, casing removed, crum- bled cup extra-virgin olive oil 4 ounces bacon, chopped 1 medium red onion, finely chopped 1 28-ounce can whole tomatoes, preferably San Marzano, seeds removed 1 cup red wine bunch mint 1. Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Combine 2/3 of the garlic, the rosemary, pepper flakes, bread crumbs and liberal amounts of salt and pepper. Add the milk and mix. Add the meats and mix once more to combine; don't overmix. Transfer onto a board and shape into a fine meatloaf, about 9 inches long and 4 inches wide.

2. Place in a baking pan with high sides, drizzle with about 2 tablespoons of olive oil and bake for 25 minutes, turning halfway through to brown evenly. Remove from the oven and reduce the heat to 325 degrees.

3. Meanwhile, fry the bacon in the remaining 2 tablespoons of oil until it starts to curl and its fat is rendered. Add the onions and remaining garlic, cooking until the onions are translucent, about 4 minutes. Add the tomatoes and wine and bring to a boil.

4. Pour the sauce over the meatloaf, cover tightly with foil and bake until a meat thermometer inserted at the center reads 150 degrees, 20 to 30 minutes.

5. Transfer the meatloaf to a platter and let stand, tented with foil, for 10 minutes. Cut into thick slices, spoon tomato sauce over the top and scatter with torn mint leaves.

ALL THAT GLITTERS.

By Janet A. Zimmerman From egullet.com

Thanks to the internet, a superb cook like Janet Zimmerman-a culinary instructor based in Atlanta, Georgia-can also be one of the mainstays of the eGullet culinary society, providing a constant lifeline of cooking technique to readers. There's more than one way to roast a chicken . . .

Students of philosophy (of which I was one) rarely get through school without a cla.s.s on the ancients, which often includes a day or so on the alchemists. If you're not familiar with these guys, here's what you need to know: they spent all their time looking for a magic element that would turn base metals to gold. Seriously. Sometimes this element is referred to as "elixir" but mostly it's known as the philosopher's stone. Today, this seems like a fruitless and frivolous pursuit, but for hundreds of years the best minds in science were certain that it was only a matter of time before the philosopher's stone would be discovered. Midas would be real.

I started thinking about the philosopher's stone after reading a post on Michael Ruhlman's blog about roasting a chicken. The subject of the post was that American commercial enterprise is conspiring to convince us all that it's too hard to cook from scratch so that food manufacturers can sell us processed food. He chose roasted chicken as proof that it's not hard to cook. With tongue ensconced in cheek, he wrote a set of instructions called "The World's Most Difficult Roasted Chicken Recipe."

"Turn your oven on high (450 if you have ventilation, 425 if not). Coat a 3- or 4-pound chicken with coa.r.s.e kosher salt so that you have an appealing crust of salt (a tablespoon or so). Put the chicken in a pan, stick a lemon or some onion or any fruit or vegetable you have on hand into the cavity. Put the chicken in the oven. Go away for an hour. . . . When an hour has pa.s.sed, take the chicken out of the oven and put it on the stove top or on a trivet for 15 more minutes. Finito."

Ruhlman is not the only one to champion roasted chicken as the quintessential easy meal. In the Les Halles Cookbook Les Halles Cookbook, Anthony Bourdain says: " . . . if you can't properly roast a d.a.m.n chicken then you are one helpless, hopeless, sorry-a.s.s bivalve in an ap.r.o.n. Take that ap.r.o.n off, wrap it around your neck and hang yourself.You do not deserve to wear the proud garment of generations of hard-working, dedicated cooks."

Bourdain's recipe for roasted chicken is, however, by no means easy. To start with, he has you lie down on the floor, bend your knees and bring your legs up, so you know how to position the chicken. Then, keeping that position in mind, you cut holes in your chicken and place the ends of the drumsticks in them (this so you don't have to truss). You smear herb b.u.t.ter under the skin of the breast, and fill the cavity with herbs, onions and lemon pieces. Place the giblets and some more onion in the bottom of a roasting pan and pour some wine over it. Finally, the chicken goes on top of that and into the oven. But wait! You have to turn the temperature up halfway through cooking. Oh, and you baste, and then you have to make a pan sauce. Now, I'm sure all that work produces a decent roasted chicken, but easy? Call me a sorry-a.s.s bivalve if you want, Tony, but I am d.a.m.n sure not going to lie down on the floor imitating a dead chicken. Not in this lifetime. I went back to Ruhlman.

I don't know if Ruhlman thought anyone would follow his directions; they seemed to be an afterthought to his post. But despite big gaps and some questionable instructions, I gave it a whirl and did exactly what he said, pretending that I knew nothing about chicken roasting. An hour and 15 minutes later I had a roasted chicken that was edible, so in that sense, it worked. It wasn't good: it was overcooked, the skin was too salty, and the thighs were soaked in chicken grease. It yielded a hot scorched lemon, which I threw away. However, it was easy. (It would have been even easier without having to find fruits and vegetables for the cavity. What is it about lemons that makes people want to abuse them so tragically? Here's a better use for a lemon: make a Sidecar and drink it while the fruit-free chicken cooks.) I understand why Ruhlman says it's easy to roast a chicken, why he wants-even needs-it to be easy. He's taken it upon himself to prove that cooking isn't hard. Chicken seems like a slam dunk. I also understand why Bourdain goes to such lengths in preparation. He thinks that all of those things make for a better bird, and since he starts out by ridiculing anyone who can't produce a good roasted chicken, he'd be in serious trouble if he couldn't deliver.

Other authors and chefs are not so quick to call roasted chicken easy, but neither will they come right out and call it difficult. They tend to be coy. In Mastering the Art of French Cooking Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Julia Child and Simone Beck say, "You can always judge the quality of a cook or a restaurant by roast chicken." Like those two dames de cuisine, most authors agree that a "perfectly roasted chicken" is a crown jewel of the kitchen, a feather in the cap of any serious cook. But no one admits the bare truth: you can't have it both ways. If it's easy, it can't be the hallmark of a successful chef. If it makes or breaks the reputation of a restaurant or cook, then-news flash-it's not going to be easy.

Paul Simon could just as easily have sung about 50 ways to roast a chicken (just slit it up the back, Jack; throw it in a pan, Stan; learn how to truss, Gus). Before you get that bird anywhere near an oven, you have to make decisions. Do you brine it? Salt it? Rub, b.u.t.ter or marinate it? If you b.u.t.ter, does it go on the outside, or under the skin? Plain or herbed? What, if anything, goes inside the chicken? Then comes trussing: you can tie the legs together loosely or you can draw them up tightly so they almost cover the breast. (Or do nothing.) Even putting the poor chicken in a pan is problematic. Deep or shallow pan? Rack or no rack? Vegetables under it, or not? Next, when you get it to the oven, what temperature do you use? Not only can you roast at high temperature or low, but you can start out low and turn it to high, or start out high and turn it to low. But you're not done yet: baste? Don't baste?

Whew.

You might think you'll get definitive answers if you turn to the experts, but agreement among them is as elusive as phlogiston. The recipe in Mastering the Art of French Cooking Mastering the Art of French Cooking has you salt the inside of the bird, b.u.t.ter the inside and outside, place the bird on a bed of vegetables, start it out at a high temperature, turning and basting for 15 minutes. Turn the oven down and continue to baste and turn. Somewhere in there, you salt the outside of the chicken. James Beard has a similar method of turning and basting, but before cooking, he has you rub the inside of the chicken with lemon juice, seal a chunk of b.u.t.ter inside, and sew the chicken shut. has you salt the inside of the bird, b.u.t.ter the inside and outside, place the bird on a bed of vegetables, start it out at a high temperature, turning and basting for 15 minutes. Turn the oven down and continue to baste and turn. Somewhere in there, you salt the outside of the chicken. James Beard has a similar method of turning and basting, but before cooking, he has you rub the inside of the chicken with lemon juice, seal a chunk of b.u.t.ter inside, and sew the chicken shut.

Alton Brown suggests building a "stone oven" from fire-safe tiles inside your real oven, heating it up with the oven cleaning setting, then enclosing the chicken in the tile box to roast it. (Yeah, right after I get up off the floor from my chicken-yoga exercise, Alton.) The lemons-in-the-cavity idea originates with Marcella Hazan. In her recipe, however, you don't toss the fruit in haphazardly. You must roll a pair of lemons on the counter and p.r.i.c.k their skins all over with a skewer, then pack them into the cavity as tightly as commuters on the 5:25 train. As the chicken cooks, the lemons heat up and spray the inside of the bird with hot lemon juice. Apparently, this is a good thing.

Heston Blumenthal trumps all others for length and complexity. He has you brine the bird for six hours, then rinse and soak for an hour, changing the water every fifteen minutes.You bring a pot of water to a boil and prepare an ice bath. Dunk the chicken into the boiling water for 30 seconds, then into the ice water. Repeat, as if you're trying to sober up a drunken sailor. Put your recovering bird to bed on a rack and cover it with muslin, letting it dry out in the refrigerator overnight. The next day, preheat the oven to 140F and cook the bird for four to six hours, or until a thermometer in the meat reaches 140 degrees (by some accounts this can take even longer-there are tales of cooking for twelve hours). Let it sit for an hour. Then brown the chicken all over in oil in a heavy skillet. Meanwhile, you've chopped up and cooked the wing tips in 100 grams of b.u.t.ter. The final step is to inject this chicken-flavored b.u.t.ter into the bird in several places.

Every cookbook author in the world, it seems, has a special way with roasted chickens. Some have more than one-Thomas Keller is on record with at least four methods, from "salt it, truss it, throw it in a hot oven" (wherein he says, "I don't baste it, I don't add b.u.t.ter; you can if you wish, but I feel this creates steam, which I don't want"), to the Ad Hoc Ad Hoc version of roasting the bird on a bed of vegetables-after rubbing it with oil. What? If Keller can't make up his mind about how to roast a chicken, what hope do we mere mortals have? version of roasting the bird on a bed of vegetables-after rubbing it with oil. What? If Keller can't make up his mind about how to roast a chicken, what hope do we mere mortals have?

In the French Laundry Cookbook French Laundry Cookbook, Keller says, " . . . even a perfectly roasted chicken will inevitably result in a breast that's a little less moist than one you would roast separately, which is why I always want a sauce with roast chicken. . . ." Had he ever taken a logic cla.s.s, he would have recognized the inherent contradiction in that sentence. For what he's said is this: "even a perfectly roasted chicken is not perfect."

And there we have it: there is no method that results in perfect roasted chicken. It's the philosopher's stone of the modern kitchen. All the lemon-stuffing, trussing, turning, basting, and temperature manipulation in the world won't change that. Blumenthal spends two days brining, rinsing, boiling, chilling, drying, cooking, and searing-and he still has to inject b.u.t.ter into the chicken meat. Lie down on the floor and become one with your chicken, build a citrus Jacuzzi inside your bird, or ma.s.sage it with b.u.t.ter like a pampered spa client. At the end of the day, you still won't have gold.

All those chefs know the reasons why. First, chicken thighs and b.r.e.a.s.t.s need different treatment, and any method that cooks them the same way, at the same temperature, for the same time, risks overcooking and thus drying out the breast by the time the thighs are done. Second, treatments designed to keep the breast meat moist, such as brining or cooking at lower temperatures, result in disappointing skin. And of course, the main point of roasted chicken is the crisp, brown skin. But you need to achieve it without ruining the rest of the chicken.

They know this and we do too, if we've put much effort into roasting chickens.Yet we persist. We keep trying to roast these birds whole, trussing and turning, brining and basting. Why?

It's the size. Chickens are small. Along with turkeys, they're the only whole animal most of us will ever cook in a modern kitchen.

If cows were the size of chickens, would we roast them whole, wondering all the while why those legs are so tough and the loins all dried out? Maybe so; maybe if cows were chicken-sized, we'd find a familiar myriad of misdirection: stuffing them with lemons, trussing them up, starting them on their stomachs, then flipping them udder-side up, swerving from high to low heat and careening back. But cows are not the convenient two- to four-pound size of chickens, so we cut them up and treat the parts appropriately.

On the other hand, if chickens were the size of cows, we'd know how to handle them. We'd butcher them and cook the various parts the way they deserve. We wouldn't roast a whole one. We'd put that search for the poultry philosopher's stone behind us.

I know what you're saying. "But a perfect roasted chicken is not impossible. I had one in 1997." I myself have had two roasted chickens that-if not perfect-were so close to perfection as to be indistinguishable from it. One was at Alain Duca.s.se's Ess.e.x House restaurant in New York. It was one of the special French chickens with blue feet (or so it said on the menu; it arrived at the table footless). It had shaved black truffles under the skin. It was breathtaking. The second I actually made myself. A friend showed me how to use the charcoal grill that had been abandoned in the backyard of my rental flat, and also showed me how to cut out the backbone to spatchc.o.c.k the bird. Brined and grilled, it was flawless.

But a major scientific principle is that results have to be replicable to count. If you can't get the same results from an experiment after the first time, then-scientifically speaking-your results might as well have never happened. And that's where all these philosopher-stone attempts fail. Yes, that first chicken I spatchc.o.c.ked and grilled was awe-inspiring. But the next time? It was good, but there was no comparison. I kept trying, but I never again reached that pinnacle. Anyone who's had a roasted chicken that neared perfection knows what I mean.

Oh, sure.You can fool yourself that because the chicken you had back in 1997 was perfect, it must have been the cooking method, and you can religiously follow that method for the rest of your life. You can pretend that all the subsequent chickens cooked by that method are as good as that first one. But you'd be lying. Perfect roasted chicken is more than the bird itself. It depends on a confluence of elements that only happens once. My ADNY chicken was perfect not just because of the quality of the bird and the truffles under the skin; it was perfect because I had it at my first visit to a really high-end restaurant, because I was with wonderful friends, because we stayed at the table for four hours while servers doted on us. My grilled chicken was perfect because for the first time in my life, I mastered a charcoal fire and spatchc.o.c.ked a chicken by myself.

So, maybe you have had a perfect roasted chicken. Dream about it and count your blessings, but don't ever expect it to happen again.

We live in the real world. Perfect roasted chicken moments may happen, but rarely more than once, and not to all of us. What are the rest of us supposed to do if we want roasted chicken?

Paul Simon said it best: The answer is easy if you take it logically.

Think of a chicken as a four-pound cow with wings. Get over the idea that roasting a whole chicken is a worthwhile pursuit and recognize it for the philosopher's stone that it is. Save your time and sanity: roast thighs, which really are easy, or b.r.e.a.s.t.s, which take a little more care and preparation but are still not difficult. Before you try lemons, trussing, b.u.t.ter, fire bricks, or a two-day brining-dunking-drying-cooking-sear ing-injecting binge, take a deep breath. Cut that chicken up and don't look back.

Get yourself free.

And yet.

That ADNY bird was incredible. So was my first grilled chicken. They weren't figments of my imagination. What's more, I made one of them. Why shouldn't I be able to do it again? It wasn't that difficult, really. Just brine, then remove the backbone. Start a fire.

Yes, I know what I said. The second time the magic was gone. But what if I'm just forgetting something, or what if one little change would elevate my next chicken to those heights? I'm sure I can do it. Maybe I could buy a blue-footed chicken and a truffle.

No. I won't get obsessed. Besides, simpler is better. I know that. I'll do what I did before, but I'll pay more attention to the temperature and the time, and that's it. If that doesn't work, I'll go back to roasting thighs.

Wait, I know-I could rub some b.u.t.ter under the skin. Everyone swears by that. But that's all I'll do. I'm not going to get insane over this.

But maybe I could dry it overnight so the skin stays crisp. What if I put some b.u.t.ter and herbs inside the chicken and then trussed it?

I have some lemons . . .