
Chef Thomas
A Proper Roast Chicken
A whole bird rubbed with butter, stuffed with lemon and thyme, roasted until the skin crackles and the kitchen smells like the kind of evening you want to sit down and stay in.
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Created by Chef Thomas
A slab of pork belly given hours in a low oven until the fat has rendered to almost nothing, the meat pulls apart, and the skin cracks like thin ice underfoot. An evening's patience, well repaid.
The cold has properly arrived. The kind where the windows are dark by four and the kitchen is the only room in the house you want to be in. That's the evening for this. Not a quick supper, not a midweek improvisation, but a slow afternoon project where the oven does most of the work and you do almost none.
Pork belly is a patient cut. It doesn't reward haste. What it wants is low heat and time, four hours or so, during which the fat renders quietly down through the meat, basting it from within, until the flesh is soft and yielding and the thin layer of skin on top has turned into something entirely different: crackling so brittle it shatters at the touchof a knife. The kitchen fills with a smell that is, I think, the closest cooking gets to a form of central heating. Pork fat and rosemary and something sweet from the onions underneath.
I make this through the winter months, from the first real frost until the clocks go forward. It's not a dish that makes sense in warm weather. You need the cold outside to justify the warmth of it. I wrote in the notebook once: "Pork belly. Sunday. Rain all day. Fed four. Nothing left." That's the highest compliment a roast can receive.
Get the best pork you can. A proper piece from a butcher who can tell you where it came from, with a good ratio of meat to fat and skin that's been scored properly. This is not the place for a supermarket shrink-wrap. The animal matters. The rearing matters. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, but the conversation starts with the ingredient.
Quantity
1.5kg piece
skin on, bone in or out
Quantity
generously
Quantity
for the skin
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
4 cloves
unpeeled, lightly crushed
Quantity
a few sprigs
Quantity
a few sprigs
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
2
halved
Quantity
2
halved lengthways
Quantity
200ml
Quantity
200ml
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| pork bellyskin on, bone in or out | 1.5kg piece |
| fine sea salt | generously |
| flaky sea salt | for the skin |
| fennel seeds | 1 tablespoon |
| garlicunpeeled, lightly crushed | 4 cloves |
| fresh rosemary | a few sprigs |
| fresh sage | a few sprigs |
| olive oil | 1 tablespoon |
| onionshalved | 2 |
| carrotshalved lengthways | 2 |
| dry cider or white wine | 200ml |
| chicken stock | 200ml |
Take the pork belly out of the fridge a good hour before you plan to cook it. Cold meat in a hot oven doesn't behave. With the sharpest knife you've got, score the skin in parallel lines about a centimetre apart, cutting through the skin and into the fat beneath, but not so deep that you reach the meat. The butcher may have done this already. If they haven't, take your time. A Stanley knife does it better than most kitchen knives, if you can stomach the idea. Rub the skin all over with olive oil, then massage flaky sea salt into every score line. Be generous. More than you think. The salt draws out moisture, and dry skin is the whole secret to crackling.
Turn the belly over and season the flesh side with fine sea salt. Crush the fennel seeds roughly in a pestle and mortar, or under the flat of a knife, and press them into the meat along with a few torn sage leaves. The fennel and pork is an old friendship. It works because the anise cuts through the richness, gives the fat somewhere to go on the palate. Flip it back skin-side up.
Set the oven to 220C/200C fan. Lay the halved onions and carrots in the bottom of a roasting tin, cut-side down. Scatter the garlic cloves and rosemary sprigs among them. This bed of vegetables does two things: it lifts the pork so the heat circulates underneath, and it gives you the beginnings of a sauce. Place the pork belly on top, skin facing upward. Make sure the skin is exposed and isn't touching the sides of the tin.
Put the tin into the hot oven for thirty minutes. This initial blast starts the crackling. The skin should begin to blister and puff. It won't be finished yet, but you'll hear it: a low, irregular popping, like something waking up. If parts of the skin haven't begun to bubble after thirty minutes, don't worry. They will.
Turn the oven down to 160C/140C fan. Pour the cider and stock into the tin around the pork, not over it. The liquid should sit below the meat, keeping the vegetables company, not touching the skin. Now leave it alone. Three and a half to four hours. The kitchen will start to smell like the kind of afternoon where nobody wants to leave the house. The fat will render slowly, the meat will turn soft enough to pull apart with a fork, and the liquid in the bottom of the tin will reduce into something deeply savoury.
After the slow roast, check the skin. If it hasn't crackled fully, and there are always stubborn patches, turn the oven back up to 220C/200C fan for a final ten to fifteen minutes. Watch it carefully. The line between crackling and burnt is a matter of minutes at this temperature. You want it golden, blistered, and brittle. When you tap it with the back of a spoon, it should sound hollow. That's when it's done.
Lift the pork belly out of the tin and onto a warm board. Let it rest for fifteen to twenty minutes. Resting isn't optional. The meat needs time to relax, to reabsorb its juices, to become the thing it's been promising to be for the last four hours. Cover it loosely with foil if you like, though some people leave the crackling uncovered to keep it crisp. Both work.
While the pork rests, set the roasting tin over a medium heat on the hob. The vegetables will have collapsed and caramelised, the garlic gone soft and sweet. Press everything through a sieve into a small saucepan, pushing the softened vegetables through with the back of a spoon to thicken the liquid. Discard whatever won't pass through. Taste the sauce. It should be savoury, slightly sweet from the onions, with a background hum of cider. If it's thin, let it bubble for a few minutes. If it needs sharpness, a squeeze of lemon or a splash of cider vinegar will bring it into focus. Season and taste. Then taste again.
Cut the belly into thick slices, letting the knife crack through the crackling. A serrated knife sometimes does this more cleanly than a chef's knife. Serve on warm plates with the pan sauce spooned alongside. This wants something green beside it, wilted greens or a sharp apple salad, and something starchy to catch the juices: roast potatoes, mashed, or good bread. Put the plate in front of someone you care about. That's the whole point.
1 serving (about 200g)
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