
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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A patient, thrifty joint of topside surrendered to a low oven for hours, resting on a bed of root vegetables until the kitchen smells like the kind of Sunday that makes Monday bearable.
The butcher had topside on Saturday. Not the glamorous cut, not the one people write poems about. But it was a good piece, deep red, well-tied, and the price was honest. I carried it home in a paper bag and left it on the counter while I put the kettle on.
Topside gets a bad reputation because people roast it like sirloin and wonder why it comes out dry. It isn't sirloin. It's a working muscle, lean and tight-grained, and if you blast it in a hot oven it will punish you for the misunderstanding. But give it time, a low oven, and a little liquid to keep things kind, and it becomes something else entirely. Tender enough to carve thinly. Flavourful in the way that only a well-raised, properly rested piece of beef can be.
This is a cold-weather roast. November, December, January. The sort of cooking that fills the house with a smell you can't manufacture and wouldn't want to. Onions and beef and thyme and the slow, patient warmth of an oven doing its work while you read the paper or walk the dog. I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: topside, low and slow, Sunday. The leftovers made Monday sandwiches with mustard and watercress, and I remember thinking the second day might have been better than the first.
A recipe is a conversation, not a contract. Use the vegetables you have. Pour in whatever wine is open. Trust your nose. It knows before you do.
Quantity
1.2-1.5kg
tied by the butcher
Quantity
2 tablespoons
Quantity
2
quartered
Quantity
3
cut into large chunks
Quantity
3
cut into large chunks
Quantity
1 head
halved across the middle
Quantity
a few sprigs
Quantity
2
Quantity
200ml
Quantity
300ml
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
freshly ground
Quantity
to serve
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| topside of beeftied by the butcher | 1.2-1.5kg |
| beef dripping or olive oil | 2 tablespoons |
| onionsquartered | 2 |
| carrotscut into large chunks | 3 |
| celery stickscut into large chunks | 3 |
| garlichalved across the middle | 1 head |
| fresh thyme | a few sprigs |
| bay leaves | 2 |
| red wine | 200ml |
| good beef stock | 300ml |
| plain flour | 1 tablespoon |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| black pepperfreshly ground | to taste |
| English mustard (optional) | to serve |
Take the beef out of the fridge a good hour before you plan to cook it. Cold meat in a hot pan doesn't brown, it steams, and you want a proper crust. Pat it dry with kitchen paper. Season it generously with salt and pepper, more than you think, rubbing it into every surface. Set the oven to 140C/120C fan. Heat the dripping or oil in a heavy roasting tin or Dutch oven on the hob until it's properly hot, almost smoking. Lay the beef in and leave it alone. Two to three minutes per side until you have a deep, even brown all over. It should smell rich and savoury, like the beginning of something good. Lift the beef out and set it aside.
In the same tin, with all those brown, sticky bits still on the base, scatter the onions, carrots, celery, garlic halves, thyme, and bay leaves. Stir them around for a few minutes until they pick up a little colour and start to soften at the edges. Sprinkle over the flour and stir it through. This is your trivet. The vegetables lift the meat off the base of the tin, and they'll cook down into the gravy later.
Pour in the red wine and let it bubble for a minute, scraping up any caramelised bits from the base of the tin. Add the stock. The liquid should come about a third of the way up the vegetables, not covering them. Nestle the seared beef on top of the vegetable bed. Put the lid on, or cover the tin tightly with a double layer of foil. You want it sealed. The steam trapped inside is what keeps this lean cut from drying out.
Slide the tin into the oven and leave it alone. Three hours, perhaps a little longer for a bigger joint. Don't keep opening the door. After two hours, check that there's still liquid in the base. If it looks dry, add a splash of stock or water. The beef is done when it yields easily to a fork pressed into the thickest part, and the kitchen smells the way a Sunday kitchen should: deep, beefy, slightly winey, warm. If you have a thermometer, you're looking for about 60-65C in the centre for pink, or 70C if you prefer it well done.
Lift the beef out of the tin and set it on a warm plate. Cover it loosely with foil and a tea towel. Let it rest for at least twenty minutes, thirty is better. Resting isn't optional with this cut. It's what lets the fibres relax and the juices redistribute. A rested topside carved thinly is a different thing entirely from one hacked at straight from the oven. Be patient. You've waited three hours. Twenty more minutes won't hurt.
While the beef rests, set the roasting tin over a medium heat on the hob. Fish out the thyme sprigs and bay leaves. If you like a smooth gravy, strain the liquid and press the soft vegetables through a sieve, then pour it back into the tin. If you prefer it rustic, leave everything as it is and just mash the vegetables roughly with a fork. Let it bubble and reduce until it coats the back of a spoon. Taste it. Season it. Add any juices that have collected under the resting beef. This is your gravy, and it needs nothing from a packet.
Carve the beef thinly, against the grain. This matters with topside. Cut with the grain and you'll be chewing all evening. Against it, the slices are tender and yielding. Lay them on a warm plate, spoon the gravy over and alongside, and serve with whatever feels right: roast potatoes, something green, a dab of mustard on the side. There are few better feelings than putting a warm plate of this in front of someone on a cold Sunday.
1 serving (about 300g)
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