You can tell a lot about people by how they roast a whole chicken. Do they do it like Laurie Colwin, low and slow at 250 to 300 degrees for two to three hours? With a good book and a glass of wine? Or are they like Barbara Kafka, a hot-and-fast, smoke-out-your-kitchen type who cooks it at 500 degrees for just under an hour? Maybe they grew up on the Food Network and they’re more like Ina Garten, whose “perfect” formula is 425 degrees for 1½ hours? Or are they paralyzed by choice, wanting the best of all worlds, so they start the bird in an inferno for the first few minutes to achieve crispy skin, then reduce the temperature for tender meat?
My own Goldilocks method has evolved over the years, but it ultimately always lands in the same measured spot: 400 degrees, about 20 minutes per pound. Just hot enough, and just long enough. To get truly succulent dark meat, you need to roast a whole chicken long enough so that the tough connective tissues can melt into tender gelatin.
I roast my birds on a quarter-sheet pan, which is 9 by 13 inches and just about contains a moderately sized chicken (no smaller than three pounds and no bigger than five). It allows for a steady breeze of hot air to circulate around the bird, thanks to the pan’s low sides, and more direct, even heat all over the skin.
I also salt my birds modestly — oversalting can lead to overbrining and an unpleasant deli-meat texture. Per pound of chicken, I go for ¾ teaspoon of Diamond Crystal kosher salt specifically, which is less salty by volume than table or sea salts. If using Morton coarse kosher salt, reduce that amount to a scant ½ teaspoon per pound.
I measure my salt ahead of time into a small bowl, to avoid cross contamination as I handle the raw chicken, but also so I can riff. Into that salt, I let my whims lead the way: For this particular version, I was feeling cinnamon, coriander and fennel seeds, which I realized smelled like a bowl of pho. I sprinkle this mixture all over the bird, focusing on the thickest parts, the breasts and the thighs.
I try to do this at least five hours in advance, usually the morning of the dinner, so there’s enough time to draw out moisture from the bird, which dissolves the salt on the surface. The salty liquid then absorbs back into the chicken. When you roast a dry-brined bird this way, the fibers of the meat are less likely to coil, toughen up and release moisture when cooked. The salt is, in other words, insurance against dryness.
After it brines in the fridge, I let the bird sit out at room temperature for at least 30 minutes so it can roast evenly. I melt just two tablespoons of butter in the microwave and brush that all over the chicken. In the oven, the butter melts off the chicken and into the pan with the aromatics — savory onion, sticky ginger and sweet cinnamon sticks — and you can baste the bird with that spiced fat to create a lacquer of bold flavor on the skin. This results in unparalleled aroma and even browning, so your dinner will look like a cartoon roast chicken.
I’ve really fine-tuned my method and can stand by it. In fact, an earlier iteration of this recipe landed me this job, so, in a way, you could call this my audition roast chicken.
Here’s my latest and most important addition: A splash of water in the sheet pan, just a ¼ cup, yields an initial burst of hot steam, which results in beautifully rendered chicken fat and evenly bronzed skin, with the tenderest pull-apart meat, reminiscent of Peking duck. It seems counterintuitive, but the moist environment seems to give you a rotisserie-quality result as if you’ve been rotating the bird on a spit over a fire.
More intuitive is the flavor pairing of this recipe. Perhaps it’s even meant to be since the birds we roast today are domesticated versions of the Southeast Asian red junglefowl. And there’s nothing better than eating this richly seasoned chicken with the kinds of fresh accouterments you would enjoy with Vietnamese phở gà, such as Sriracha, lime wedges and lots of fresh herbs. In the summer months, basil is an obvious choice, but have you ever eaten roast chicken with fresh mint? The combination somehow makes the meal feel not too heavy yet not too light either. It’s just right.
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