
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 pork shoulder rubbed with fennel, garlic, and salt, then given to a low oven for five or six patient hours until the meat surrenders and the kitchen smells like the kind of day you want to hold onto.
The smell arrives in stages. First the fennel and garlic, sharp and insistent, when the oven is still hot and the skin is blistering. Then, as the hours pass, something deeper. The fat renders. The cider reduces. The onions beneath the meat dissolve into nothing. By the third or fourth hour the whole house smells of it, and everyone who walks through the door knows what's for dinner before they've taken off their coat.
This is not a weeknight recipe. This is a Saturday, or a Sunday, or a day when you're home anyway and the oven can do the work while you read the paper or dig over the garden or do nothing at all. The shoulder is the most forgiving cut on the pig. It wants to be cooked slowly. It wants time. Rush it and you'll get something edible but ordinary. Give it five or six hours and it falls apart under a fork, rich and sweet and impossibly tender. British pulled pork, long before anyone thought to call it that.
I make this when the weather turns and the evenings draw in. October, usually. Sometimes earlier if the September nights are cold enough. The fennel seeds are the thing, pounded with salt and garlic into a rough paste and pressed into the scored skin. They bloom in the heat of the oven and give the pork a warmth that sits somewhere between savoury and sweet. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract. If you want to add a pinch of chilli flakes, or swap the fennel for cumin, or use white wine instead of cider, your kitchen, your rules.
I wrote it down in the notebook years ago. Just three words: pork, fennel, patience. I haven't needed to add anything since.
Quantity
1.5-2kg
skin scored by the butcher or with a sharp knife
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
4 cloves
peeled
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
1
zested
Quantity
a few sprigs
Quantity
2 tablespoons
Quantity
2
quartered
Quantity
250ml
Quantity
250ml
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| bone-in pork shoulderskin scored by the butcher or with a sharp knife | 1.5-2kg |
| fennel seeds | 1 tablespoon |
| flaky sea salt | 1 tablespoon |
| garlicpeeled | 4 cloves |
| black peppercorns | 1 teaspoon |
| lemonzested | 1 |
| rosemary | a few sprigs |
| olive oil | 2 tablespoons |
| onionsquartered | 2 |
| dry cider | 250ml |
| chicken stock | 250ml |
Pound the fennel seeds, salt, peppercorns, and garlic together in a pestle and mortar until you have a rough, fragrant paste. Not smooth. You want texture, something that will cling to the meat and get into the scored skin. Add the lemon zest and a good glug of olive oil. Mix it through with your fingers. The kitchen will smell sharp and green and warm, and you haven't even turned the oven on yet.
Work the paste all over the pork, pressing it into the scored lines in the skin and rubbing it into every crease and fold of the meat. Be generous. Use your hands. If you can do this the night before and leave the shoulder uncovered in the fridge overnight, the skin dries out and the salt has time to work its way in. This makes better crackling and deeper flavour. But if you haven't planned ahead, half an hour at room temperature while the oven heats will do.
Set the oven to 220C/200C fan. Put the quartered onions in the bottom of a roasting tin and lay the rosemary sprigs over them. Set the pork on top, skin side up. The onions keep the meat off the base of the tin and will dissolve into the juices later. Roast for thirty minutes at this high heat. The skin will start to blister and crackle. The fat will begin to render. The smell will start to fill the house.
After thirty minutes, turn the oven down to 150C/130C fan. Pour the cider and stock into the tin around the pork, not over it. You don't want to wet the skin. Cover the tin loosely with foil, leaving the top of the skin exposed so it stays dry and continues to crisp. Now leave it alone. Five hours, maybe closer to six. Check it once, halfway through, to make sure there's still liquid in the bottom of the tin. If it's running dry, add a splash of water. Otherwise, shut the door and find something else to do.
When the time is up, the meat should be falling away from the bone. Lift it gently and press with a fork. If it yields and starts to pull apart, it's done. If the crackling has gone soft under the foil, remove the foil entirely and turn the oven back up to 220C for ten to fifteen minutes. Watch it carefully. You want it blistered and shattering under your fingers, deeply golden, almost mahogany in places. Trust your eyes. Trust your nose.
Take the pork out of the tin and rest it on a board for twenty minutes. It won't go cold. A piece of meat this size holds its heat like a stone. While it rests, pour the pan juices through a sieve into a small saucepan. Let the fat rise to the top and skim most of it off. What you have left is concentrated, savoury, deeply flavoured. Warm it through. That's your sauce. Pull the pork apart with two forks, or just use your hands if it's cool enough. Pile it onto a warm plate, spoon over some of the juices, and put it in the middle of the table.
1 serving (about 200g)
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