by F. L. Fowler
He’s at the front burner of the Wolf sweating onions and peppers, his apron hanging off his hips in that special way. He pours himself a little wine and sways to music only he can hear. I feel loose-limbed, my bones like jelly.
My stars. The onions aren’t the only thing he’s sweating.
chicken fricassee with prosciutto, tomatoes, and sweet peppers
SERVES 4
1 (3½- to 4-pound) chicken, cut into 8 pieces, patted dry with paper towels
2 teaspoons coarse kosher salt, plus more to taste
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 cup dry white wine
6 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1 teaspoon pure chile powder such as New Mexico
1 teaspoon sweet paprika
½ teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, more as needed
2 ounces chopped prosciutto or other cured ham
2 small red onions, each cut into 6 wedges
2 red bell peppers, cut into ½-inch-thick strips
6 plum tomatoes (1½ pounds), halved lengthwise or quartered if large
1 cup unsalted chicken broth or water
Fresh basil, for serving
1 Rub the chicken with the salt and pepper, and let it rest in a baking pan. Mix together the wine, garlic, chile powder, paprika, and red pepper flakes and pour over the chicken. Cover with plastic wrap and marinate overnight in the refrigerator, turning the chicken once.
2 Preheat the oven to 325°F.
3 Remove the chicken from the marinade, reserving the marinade. Pat the chicken dry. Heat a Dutch oven or very large cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat and warm 1 tablespoon of the olive oil. Add the prosciutto and sear on all sides until golden brown around the edges, 1 to 2 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the prosciutto to a plate and set aside. Add another tablespoon of olive oil to the pan. Add the chicken and sear in batches on all sides over medium-high heat until golden brown, 8 to 10 minutes (add more oil if necessary). Transfer the chicken as it browns to a plate.
4 Add the onions and bell peppers to the pan and cook over medium heat until tender, 7 to 10 minutes. Add the reserved marinade and, over high heat, reduce the liquid by half. Return chicken and prosciutto to the pan and add the tomatoes and broth. Cover and bake until the chicken is tender, 50 minutes to an hour, uncovering the pan after 30 minutes. If the sauce is thin, transfer chicken and vegetables to a platter and tent with foil. Bring sauce to a simmer on the stove. Reduce until thickened (this could take 20 to 30 minutes). Season with more salt if needed. Pour over the chicken and garnish with basil.
Pulled Pullet
Have you ever wondered what’s on the other side of your limits?” he asks. Without waiting for an answer he punches something into the stereo remote. Holy fuck, what’s he going to do next?
A stormy surge of strings issues from unseen speakers, while Blades pinches gently at my flesh. It’s just a little tickle at first, but as the music builds, so does he. Suddenly, sharply, he pulls a strand of dark meat from my drumstick.
“B’gawk!” I cry out. It takes me by surprise, but I find I like how it feels. It tingles. He does it again, harder.
As the music surges on, his fingers dig more deeply into my flesh, stripping morsel after morsel of my body in perfect time with the music. It’s a sweet agony, as he strips me down with his masterful fingers. I am drawn deeper into my most hidden desires by the delicious sensation and the otherworldly harmony of strings and winds.
The music stills a moment and so does he. Then a second musical theme emerges, less stormy than the first—in my mind I see the motions of a hen as she crosses a country road. Something dangerous and irresistible pulls her toward the storm on the other side. The birdlike warble of a single oboe floats over the strutting strings, as Blades’s deft fingers continue to ravish my pulchritude … pluck and pluck again … but the music, transporting me … his fingers deconstructing me…Yes, I get this. I’ve navigated into a dark and carnal place. When at last the music drives for its climax, so do I, churning and flying apart like a blender on liquefy. Wow.
“What was that music?” I groan incomprehensibly as I recover.
“The allegro from ‘The Hen’—Joseph Haydn’s Symphony No. 83 in G Minor,” he says. He inserts me between two soft buns. “For some reason I’ve always wanted to cook to it.”
The vision of the country hen comes to me again. It’s so mysterious. But I think I know now why she crossed the road.
barbecued chicken sandwiches
SERVES 6
FOR THE BARBECUE SAUCE
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 large onion, chopped
3 garlic cloves, minced
¾ cup light molasses
⅔ cup white wine vinegar
3 tablespoons tomato paste
1 teaspoon coarse kosher salt
1 teaspoon Tabasco or other chile sauce, plus more for serving
½ teaspoon dry mustard powder
½ teaspoon ground coriander
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 fully cooked rotisserie chicken
6 soft buns, toasted and buttered, for serving
1 sweet onion, thinly sliced (optional)
Shredded cabbage or lettuce, for serving (optional)
Pickles, for serving (optional)
1 To prepare the barbecue sauce, in a large saucepan over medium-high heat, warm the oil. Add the onion and garlic and cook, stirring, until the onions are soft and browned, about 15 minutes. Transfer the mixture to the bowl of a food processor or blender. Add the molasses, vinegar, tomato paste, salt, Tabasco sauce, and spices and puree until smooth. Return the mixture to the saucepan and cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until the sauce has thickened slightly, about 15 minutes.
2 Gently pull apart the chicken, taking care to gather every bit of flesh, wresting it from the bone; chop any large pieces of skin into bite-size morsels. Toss the chicken bits with just enough of the barbecue sauce to coat it. Taste and stir in more of the hot sauce if you want it even hotter.
3 Stuff the pulled pullet into the hot, buttered buns and top with onion, cabbage, and pickles, if using. Enjoy.
Basted Bird
I’m dripping and fragrant as he helps me out of the basin—white stoneware, egg-shaped, and very stylish. A scent of thyme and expensive oil clings to my skin as he sets me on a clean white kitchen towel. I consider how I must look. I still can’t believe this prince of the kitchen wants a pale, underweight ugly duckling like me. Surely there’s been some mistake.
“Hey,” he says, jolting me back to the present. “You’re a gorgeous, perfect bird, a beautiful swan of a chicken. Don’t droop your neck like that.” He tilts me up to let the last of the marinade flow out of me. His eyes are soft and warm. He quirks his mouth into a smile. “Trust me?” he asks in a low voice.
“Yes,” I breathe, unsure but unable to say anything more. Deep longing oozes in the marrow of my bones.
“Good,” he says. “I have plans for you.” He’s holding something in his hand, but I can’t quite make it out.
He turns me away from him, leaving my backside totally at his mercy. Slowly and gently, he pushes something deep inside me. It’s a lemon from the marinade. It fills me deliciously, as he simultaneously slips two long, knowing fingers within me. They trace slow circles reaching nearly all the way inside, and then back to the opening. Holy fuck, his fingers are so deep inside me. Those stunning hands are caressing my most secret parts, seasoning me to the point of eruption.
My inner goddess is running fast from side to side of her chicken run, as if she has lost her head.
The Wolf is already preheated and waiting—as always, he’s planned ahead. He places me on my back in a shallow bath of water. I feel a wet heat suffuse me, penetrating everywhere inside and out. I am melty and delectable.
It’s not long before I feel my doneness build, an
d when it comes it’s one of the most intense yet. My inner goddess bolts madly across her run.
The sky is falling, the sky is falling!
roasted chicken with carrots, celery, and onion
SERVES 4 TO 6
1 (4½- to 5-pound) chicken, patted dry with paper towels
½ cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 lemon, thinly sliced
1 small bunch of fresh thyme
2 teaspoons coarse kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
3 medium carrots, peeled and halved lengthwise, then cut crosswise into quarters
2 celery stalks, cut crosswise into thirds
1 large onion, peeled and cut into 1½-inch chunks
1 Cradle the chicken in a large bowl. Add the oil, lemon, thyme, salt, and pepper; toss well, making sure to caress the inside of the cavity, coating it with seasonings. Cover tightly and transfer to the refrigerator to rest overnight.
2 The next day, let the chicken warm up at room temperature for 30 minutes while you preheat the oven to 450°F. Remove the lemon slices and thyme from the marinade and press them deep inside the chicken’s cavity. Scatter the vegetables over the bottom of a roasting pan. Pour just enough water into the pan to moisten the bottom. Arrange the chicken, breast side up, on top of the bed of vegetables.
3 Transfer the pan to the center oven rack; roast for 20 minutes. Baste the juices all over the bird, and continue roasting, basting every 10 to 15 minutes for 35 minutes more (if the chicken is not golden brown all over at this point, continue to cook for 10 more minutes). Reduce the heat to 325°F. Finish roasting, without basting, until the chicken is cooked through and the thigh juices run clear, 20 to 35 minutes longer. Let the chicken stand for 5 minutes before carving. Serve with the pan juices and vegetables, if desired.
Cock au Vin
The lists are getting more frequent and more overbearing. He plies me with aromatics, rubs me with oil, flecks me with spice. My vitals clench deliciously as I recall his deft hands, the slow, low heat, even his fussy way of making dinner.
My unconscious clucks at me. Not making dinner. Cooking, she cackles. I ignore her as best I can, but she’s awfully shrill.
She has a point. I know he needs more than just white and dark meat with a bit of crispy skin. He craves spice, not sustenance. And I crave him.
I’m distracted from my musings by the pop of a cork. Blades is opening a bottle of fine red wine. He’s wearing his usual white apron that hangs, in that way, off his hips. Holy cats.
“Burgundy okay with you?”
“You know I know nothing about wine. I’m sure it’s great.” My voice cracks as I speak. There’s already a heady smell of bacon wafting from the gleaming cooktop. It’s discombobulating. He’s planning something special, but what?
There’s a loud hiss as he pours some of the wine into the hot pan. He fondles my drumstick with his strong fingers.
“You are mine,” he says softly. “Mine alone. Never forget it.”
I prevent myself from clucking, but merely make a low sound of assent. Though I might resist the thought, I am his.
“But tonight—I’m having a dinner party.”
Holy fuck.
“And I—?”
“Why, you’re the main course, Miss Hen.”
braised chicken with red wine, mushrooms, and onions
SERVES 4 TO 6
4 ounces bacon (about 4 strips)
20 pearl onions, peeled, or 1 large white onion, sliced
1 (3½- to 4- pound) chicken, cut into 8 pieces and patted dry with paper towels
1¼ teaspoons coarse kosher salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Olive oil, if needed
6 garlic cloves, smashed and peeled
2 cups unsalted or low-sodium chicken broth
2 cups red wine
2 bay leaves
4 fresh thyme sprigs
6 fresh parsley sprigs
10 ounces cremini or white button mushrooms, roughly chopped
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
Chopped fresh parsley, for garnish
Egg noodles, for serving
1 In a Dutch oven, brown the bacon. Transfer to a paper towel–lined plate, keeping the fat in the pan. Crumble the bacon.
2 Add half the onions, half the chicken, skin side down, and half the salt and pepper to the pan. Brown the chicken on all sides, about 10 minutes. Transfer to a plate, and repeat with remaining onions, chicken, and salt and pepper, adding a little olive oil to the pan if needed.
3 Add the garlic to the pan and sauté until golden, 2 minutes. Spoon off any excess fat. Add the chicken broth, wine, and herbs. Return the bacon and chicken to the pan. Lower the heat to a simmer. Cover and cook for 20 to 25 minutes, until the chicken is cooked through. The white meat will cook faster than the dark. As each chicken part finishes, transfer it, along with the onions and garlic, to a clean platter. Discard the bay leaves and herb sprigs.
4 Add the mushrooms to the pan and turn the heat to high. Bring to a boil and reduce the liquid by three-fourths, about 15 minutes. Meanwhile, in a small bowl, mix the butter and flour. Lower the heat and whisk in the butter mixture. Simmer until the sauce is thick, 2 to 5 minutes longer. Return the chicken and onions to the pan to reheat. Garnish with parsley and serve on a bed of egg noodles.
LEARNING THE ROPES
If your chicken deserves a reward for especially pliant behavior, consider replacing the commonplace creminis with something more enticing. A mix of exotic mushrooms—oyster, chanterelle, shiitake—gives the sauce a richer flavor.
Before you can agree to be my Ingredient, you’ll need to understand the recipes.”
Recipes? “Do you really need those?” I cluck coquettishly. “I thought we might just wing it.”
“No, Miss Hen,” he says as if I were an errant chick. “I’ve told you, I don’t just make dinner. What I do requires intricate steps, precise preparations, and careful plating. I hope you’ll want to do it too.”
He drags out a large cookbook. He opens it to some elaborate recipes, illustrated with shocking and explicit photos of ingredients, raw and cooked, in all kinds of appalling positions. This goes way beyond trussing. I’m simply speechless. Is this what he does—he tortures food?
“You’re a sadist?”
“I’m a Foodie.” His eyes burn with dark craving.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to my recipes. This is what it means to truly be my Ingredient. I want to manipulate your texture, layer your flavors, Chicken. I see you as a foam, a fricassee, a gelée … a modern craft cocktail …”
I don’t understand any of this. Cock tail? I think I’m in shock.
“I want to finesse you, very much.”
His words from our first meeting come back to me. It’s all about finesse. I look around the kitchen. Suddenly the knife rack and the spice cabinet seem way more sketchy than before.
“Were there others?”
He closes his eyes. “Yes. But not like you. You’ve proven yourself both resilient and versatile. Which is why I think that each part of you can be cooked separately to get the doneness right, to make flavors penetrate deeper. In the end, roasting you whole leaves your breast a little less moist than if I cook it separately. These recipes will show us the way.”
Separately? He means cut apart. It’s not just about taking me whole; now he wants to flavor me limb by limb. Am I ready for more of that? My subconscious picks up the phone to call a taxi.
“I can’t keep up … why are you like this?” I say.
“Ah, that’s a long story. When I was still just a boy someone showed me what cooking could be. Like they do it in Europe. She showed me that cooking wasn’t just warming something up. It’s the discipline of turning raw ingredients into transcendence. She was the turning point for me.”
&nb
sp; “She? She who?”
“It doesn’t matter, baby. I had a tough introduction to food. As a child I ate nothing but TV dinners and ramen. I was inexperienced. And that’s when an older woman took me under her wing and introduced me to the lifestyle.”
I am devastated at this image of little Shifty, just a child. And I’m appalled that Mrs. Child-temptress, Mrs. Child-warper, this—this evil old Mrs. Child-whatever figure was allowed to fuck him up so badly. It’s because of Mrs. Child he’s unable to just make dinner like everyone else. A boy who knew only Salisbury steak and Tater Tots, then some herb-crazed tart shows up with a chicken chasseur and has her way with him. The thought depresses me.
“Is that the reason for your shifty moods?” I ask quietly.
“Oh, Chicken, I’m fucked up and shifty as hell. But I’m hungry for you.”
Hungry for me! My Shifty Blades hungers for me.
Flattered Breasts
Holy Hell Wings
Skewered Chicken
Jealous Chicken
Steamy White Meat
Bacon-Bound Wings
Dripping Thighs
Chicken Strip Tease
Sticky Fingers
Thighs Spread Wide
Chicken Thighs, Stirred Up and Fried Hard
Hashing It Out the Morning After
Go Get the Butter Breasts
Red Cheeks
Pound Me Tender
Inner Green Goddess Chicken Salad
Whipped Livers
Blushing Parts
Flattered Breasts
How many were there?”
“What?”
“How many Ingredients were there, before me?”
“Do you really want to rehash that conversation again?” He’s becoming ruffled.
“Yes! I think I have a right to know.”
