Poulet Rôti and a French Rotisserie Chicken Salad Recipe
On a warm morning in late May, not too long ago, slightly out of breath from ascending up a steep stone staircase I arrived at Le Marché de la Croix Rousse. Lyon’s treasured 1km long bustling outdoor food market, packed with local vendors and eager shoppers. Both sides of the street lined with fresh produce, breads, pastries, seafood, cheese, charcuterie, and of course rotisserie chicken. A food lover’s fairytale, well worth the climb.
I’m sure I’ve come across rotisseries at state fairs, or caught a glimpse of them at butcher shops. Often purchasing a chicken in a warmed bag at my local grocery. All of which pales in comparison to my first French poulet rôti stand. A wall of whole rotating chickens, dripping juices onto a bed of potatoes instantly activates your saliva glands-triggering your inner carnivore. Julia was right, we must try the roast chicken.
Since moving to Bordeaux, poulet rôti has become a staple in my weekly food haul. Weather permitting, on Sundays I stand in line with a canvas tote— breathing in grease laced fumes as I inch closer to my takeaway chicken, ‘French style’. Affordable and delicious, at around 12€ each, they’re heard to pass up.
Another favored option for purchasing my crispy golden bird is at the local rotisserie shop, Le Poulailler d'Augustin Volailler Rôtisseur. A lovely boutique traditionnelle, with an array of poultry, prepared accompaniments and pantry items.
My first visit was..let’s say memorable. I walked by Le Poulailler’s front window rotisserie display for weeks before venturing in. Practicing my tongue placement pronunciation of ‘poule’ (hen) to ensure a notable difference from ‘pull’, as to not accidentally order a roasted sweater. And then remembering I could say, ‘poulet’ (poo-lay, chicken) before going inside.
Not many things can humble you quicker than trying to communicate your elementary level understanding of a different language to a person speaking fluently and rapidly.
Upon entering the shop, a stunning counter display of prepared meats greets you with small handwritten signs. Enthusiastic attendants ready to package your requests are next. “Bonjour”..Bonjour! “Vous voulez quelque chose?”…Oui, un poulet rôti, s'il vous plait. Whew, I did it, success!…NOPE!!
Just when I thought I could order without needing English, he asked me which type of rotisserie chicken I would like. In a panic, I read the sign closest to me with faked confidence. Perfectly wrapped in paper, I placed the chicken into my bag as my heart stopped upon hearing “cinquante-huit euros”. I paid with a smile as I was too far along to turn back now. “Meric, au revoir”. Merci bonne journée.
My husband waiting outside asked how it went, smiling with the support of a parent picking their child up from the first day of kindergarten. “Well, I just bought a 58€ chicken and we’re not going out for dinner.” Later that evening, laughing and devouring every bite—I proclaimed that pâté stuffed bird to be the best damn roasted chicken I’ve ever eaten. (rôti farci)
After several weeks of French lessons and a bit of experience, I can now more successfully order their thyme and citron poulet rôti without a hiccup.