No, not this harissa-smothered chicken that I roasted and ate for dinner with caramelized parships and carrots that cooked in the roasting pan, sucking up all the chickeny harissa juices.
Although I’d totally understand if you did want to buy my chicken, because it was delicious. However, I am, in fact, talking about Chateau TNS. We’re blowing this popsicle stand.
And no, this is not an April Fool’s joke. If I were going to prank you, it would be more like, “Oh my god, Food and Wine contacted me about doing a column reviewing cookbooks!” or “Holy shit, I have Gonnorhea!”
I know you’ve always had dreams of moving to the big city, finding out how sick the rents are and settling in New Jersey; it’s what’s made us the most densely populated state in the union. Perhaps you want to be a hoofer on the Great White Way, but would settle for a daily ferry commute to your job as an administrative assistant to the 17th Associate Vice President of Global Financial Strategy and Run-On Sentences at PriceWaterhouseCoopers. Or you’re tired of working at the family business tending the tri-county tire fire and would prefer to be an out-of-work actor manning the tortilla warmer at a Chipotle.
Either way, you can’t afford to live in Manhattan. So why not buy a charming pied-a-terre in Jersey City, also called “The Sixth Borough,” “The Future Fifth Borough After Staten Island Sinks Into the Harbor Under the Weight of Ten Thousand Virgin Mary Lawn Statues,” or “I Can’t Believe it’s Not Brooklyn”™?
Here are some of the many features of this spacious two bedroom, one-and-a-half bath duplex apartment and its environs:
(In all honesty, it is a super-duper apartment and is pretty close to our dream space. Unfortunately, the mortgage that goes with it does not jive with our dream life, so we’re going to become lowly renters again.)
This week, we’ve been trying to clean the place up and fix all the random little things we’ve ignored over the past six years so we can get it on the market. By mid-afternoon, we were starving and it was all we could do to throw a chicken in the general direction of the oven. I managed to smear some homemade harissa on it and throw a bunch of root veg into the pan before the oven slammed shut.
Brian is normally the house Roast Chicken Master, so I followed his instructions (which are really Cook’s Illustrated’s instructions, but damned if they don’t work every time: Oven at 375. Chicken on its side in a roasting rack for 20 minutes, then its other side for another 20. Crank the heat to 450, flip the bird breast side up and cook for 30 more minutes, or until done.
Look at that skin, y’all, it is burnished. BURNISHED, I tell you.
While the cooked chicken was resting, Brian made a quick pan gravy with the drippings. I tossed together a quick salad and tried not to filch all the roasted carrots before Brian could get a crack at ‘em.
So, it’s no surprise that a well-roasted chicken is a thing of beauty and joy forever, and that adding the harissa factor just raises the ante. What we were not prepared for: the carrots. The god damn carrots. So sweet, so chewy, nicely browned, a little fatty, a little spicy. We scraped the pan clean, and I lamented that the “extra” carrots I thought I’d made were still insufficient. We both agreed that while we loved the original dish for which the harissa was prepared, these fricking carrots blew it out of the water.
I may have to put this chicken in the oven while we show the house, because surely, no one will be able to resist a house that smells like harissa roasted chicken and carrots. Bidding war, here we come!
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