Consummatio Cena

You will, I hope, forgive my poor grasp of Latin. I “studied” the gone-but-not-forgotten language in University and passed the subject only by employing a complicated system of begging and bullshitting. As far as my subsequently limited understanding goes, the above can read a number of ways, two of which are as follows: “Final Supper” and “Consummate Meal.”

I have no impending intentions of munching my last, please understand. I have, however, thought about what I would choose, were I forced to. I’m not alone in this macabre mind meal; 50 chefs recently contributed their final dinner choices in an aptly titled cookbook “My Last Supper.” I haven’t read the entire book but, of what I have read, there are some extravagant requests contained therein.

I, on the other hand, do not want lobster, nor foie gras, or Perigord truffles. My last meal, my consummate meal, the meal I cook whenever I am exceptionally hungry, or a bit down, for a celebration, eating alone, on rainy nights, entertaining friends, feeding my loved ones, or when I just don’t know what else to cook, is so achingly simple. It is nothing short of perfection.



My Roast Chicken

1 whole chicken
2 large lemons
1 clove garlic, peeled
6 sprigs thyme
3 tablespoons butter

Heat oven to 200º C (400º F). Pick a nice, organic, free range chicken. Not that crap you usually buy. Dry the bird inside and out with a towel. Crush a clove of garlic and place it inside the cavity along with a couple sprigs of thyme and lashings of sea salt and cracked pepper. Wash and quarter the lemons and, using whatever force necessary, insert them into the cavity of the chicken. Truss the bird (though not absolutely; the second you completely truss a chicken they turn on you, mark my words).

Massage room-temperature butter into the skin of the chicken. It won’t stick at first; persist with the rubbing and eventually it will form an even coat. Liberally salt and pepper the entire skin of the bird.

Place the bird on a roasting rack on one of its wings. Roast 20 minuets. Flip the chicken onto its other wing and roast another 20 minuets. Turn the fowl onto its breast for an additional 20 minuets. Finally, place the chicken on its back and roast until the skin is dark and crisp and, when pierced at the thigh joint, the juices run clear.

Remove from oven, sprinkle with leaves of thyme stripped from three sprigs, and rest 10 minuets in a warm place. While it is resting you can make a bit of gravy out of the pan juices, but I prefer to just squeeze some of the roasted lemon over the meat. Carve, and, whilst doing so, be sure to flip and retrieve the two chicken oysters for yourself. Cook’s treat. Don’t know where the oyster is? Boo-hoo. More for me.

Serve with whatever the hell you want. I sometime grill medallions of polenta, or steam some greens, or roast some potatoes and whole garlic cloves and shallots in their skins under the bird to catch all those chicken-fatty, lemony delectables. The point is the chicken is the main event. Don’t fuss over the rest; no one cares.

Also, don’t bother with cutlery. This is a bone-gnawing, sticky-palm affair. Fork-wielding sissies need not apply.

So, that’s the only thing I plan on asking for when one of my oft-abused dishhands finally snaps and, brandishing a spatula and an oyster knife, corners me in the bleary-eyed cleanup hours, cowering amongst the wooden spoons and ladles. A simple roast bird is all I need.

Oh, and a bottle of Bollinger 1981 R.D. Just for fun.