My own roast chicken is precisely like the celebrated dish served at The NoMad restaurant in Manhattan in one way. It isn’t the ingenious stuffing (theirs, not mine) of brioche crumbs, black truffle and foie gras that separates the crisp and burnished skin from the supple and juicy breast. It isn’t the appearance of the chicken (theirs, not mine), which comes to the table with its clawed feet sticking in the air and a massive tuft of green thyme sticking from its cavity as if it were a confused Chia pet.
The similarity in the two chickens lies in the cooking method. Like me, chef Daniel Humm likes to roast his bird just to the point where the breast is at its peak but the legs are still pink at the bone and tough. He cuts the meat away and finishes it in a sauté pan to serve as a side dish to the breast. My technique is a bit more inadvertent. I carve into the chicken, realize the legs might send my family