June 20, 2007
Roasted
When you comprehend the gist of this post, you will be thankful at the restraint I excercised in choosing a title. Really.
My old grill died of metal fatigue: the hinges that held on the lid snapped right off. So I’ve been on a quest for a new grill, and asking myself whether I wanted to be a charcoal purist or a far more serene and untroubled gas griller.
I decided to go for the convenience of the gas grill, and figured if I really hankered for the taste of something charcoal-grilled, I could buy myself a little hibachi.
The grill was delivered today, already assembled. (I bought the floor model.) With it I purchased a rotisserie, so that I could spit-roast meats the way God intended. I also bought myself a whole chicken, so that I could get started on the very first day.
The grille was delivered at nearly 6pm, and I hooked up the LP cylinder and started preheating. Then I began the business of assembling the rotisserie. It was only then that I discovered that assembly was not simple, and furthermore I had to assemble and bolt stuff to the grille, which was already hot.
I was hungry and didn’t want further delay, so obviously I needed another way to cook my chicken.
It was then that I bethought myself of Beer Up the Butt Chicken, in which an open can of beer is jammed up the chicken’s ventral orifice, and the chicken is cooked standing up. (About now you should be thanking me for my restraint in titling this post, as I predicted above.)
On the one hand, Beer Up the Butt Chicken sounds like a frat boy prank. But on the other hand, I’ve been told it produces a really good roast chicken.
I’ll cook anything once, nearly, but I decided to give myself some insurance, and rubbed the chicken inside and out with salt, garlic, and butter. Another problem showed itself: I had no beer. But I decided that Wine Up the Butt Chicken sounded at least as good, so I filled an empty soda can with white wine, inserted it, and then tried to balance the bird upright on my grille. No go. So I fetched a dutch oven from the pantry, stood the chicken upright therein, and put the whole thing on the grille. Eighty minutes later the chicken was beautifully cooked, the skin brown and crispy, and the juices sizzling. I took the chicken from the grille and grilled some vegetables, and also cooked some asparagus.
The chicken was wonderful: melt-off-the-bone tender, moist, and full of flavor. I ate far too much of it. And I’ll probably eat too much of it tomorrow, and the day after.
By which time I’ll have the rotisserie installed, and a series of grand experiments may begin.
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