They Serve Chicken In Heaven

SAYING GOODBYE TO PAUL BOCUSE, A DEAR FRIEND WHO SPENT HIS LIFE—LIKE ALL GREAT CHEFS—PERFECTING HIS POULET RÔTI.

- Daniel Boulud

Ask great chefs what they’re making for dinner at home on a Sunday night. The answer is nothing fussy or fancy: We do that all week long. Cooking for loved ones and ourselves, what we crave is food that’s familiar, elemental, homey. The thing we want, in other words, is a roast chicken—with nothing more complicated than a creamy gratin on the side and a decent glass of wine to complete the picture. Because the magic of a perfect poulet rôti is the art of the classic.

When I think of the satisfying pleasures of roast chicken, I think of lunches with my late friend Paul Bocuse. Paul was a legendary chef and restaurateur, the king of Lyon, whose three-star l’Auberge du Pont de Collonges has been a high temple of French cuisine for half a century. For all the luxury and finesse of his repertoire, Paul always enjoyed the most genuine and homey dishes. He hunted ducks on his land and cooked them himself. He loved pot-au-feu and lamb shoulder braised on the bone. You know you’re eating real food when it’s on the bone.

Going home to Lyon, I would always pay a visit to Paul. We’d sit in the dining room of his home attached to the Auberge— sometimes with our families, sometimes just the two of us—his chefs bringing food through a back door that connected to the restaurant kitchen. Poulet rôti is the taste we looked forward to. In the old days it was cooked over wood, turning slowly on a spit, potatoes underneath to catch the drippings. The smell was incredible.