Bresse Is Best

 

[caption id="attachment_939" align="alignleft" width="155"] Official Mark Of AOC Poulet de Bresse[/caption]

Writing up the fried chicken recipe got me thinking about the quality of proteins and when to use them.  Although cheap chickens are perfectly fine for lots of meals, if you want a jaw-dropping, knock-your-socks-off poultry experience, then Bresse chicken is the one for you. They are raised in green meadows, with a minimum of ten square metres per bird.  They were the first (of very few) poultry to be honoured by an Appellation d'Origine Controllée (normally restricted to wines, cheeses and a few other specialities).  The legislation ensures that they are reared only in adherence to the time-honoured customs that earned them the honour back in 1957, including being raised on a diet of milk-soaked corn.

The first time we tried Bresse chicken was our first Christmas here in France.  Being only four for the Christmas table, we decided to splash out on quality over quantity and chose a fancy fowl over a tubby turkey.  Having heard how good Bresse chickens were, we ordered well in advance, collected the carefully-wrapped bird on Christmas Eve and gleefully stowed it in the fridge.

Christmas morning brought its usual lovely surprises and one rather horrible shock!  In my ignorance and naivety I had simply ordered a chicken for four people, not thinking to specify that it should be 'prêt à cuire' - 'ready to cook'. We had indeed got a whole chicken between the four of us. A WHOLE chicken, complete with head, feet and innards!

The children screamed and hid.  Husband and I supressed the urge to throw up, surveyed each other bleakly and spoke one word in unison: Google.

If our first Christmas in this lovely country of food and wine was not to be ruined then we had to pull ourselves together and deal with the damn chicken.  We duly googled up information on how to prepare a chicken, whilst downing several glasses of 'courage'. (It was Christmas - morning drinking is not only acceptable but practically compulsory.  Don't judge me.)  Husband tackled the head and feet, then I proceeded to 'empty' it (make sure you get the horrible green sac of disgusting stuff out with all the red bits or it will wreck the chicken).  There were gloves, plastic bags, and (almost) tears.

Despite  the trauma of it all, the chicken was outstanding.  No need to do anything fancy with it: a simple roast with regular basting in its own juices to ensure that you make the most of the oustanding flavour that pervades from the meat through the natural fat.

Shan't be having one this Christmas as we have a houseful, but I'm sure if I rack my brains I can come up with an excuse to order one. Prêt à cuire.