Wednesday, March 6, 2013
My new favourite prosecco. Villa Jolanda. Not sure of the name's provenance as the J is odd for Italy.
That's my kind of cork. Beneath it are exceptionally small bubbles. A fine mousse. A fine price, too. Found and purchased from the funny wine shop on Court Street which used to be wrapped in bullet proof plexiglass. The wine shop. Not Court Street. You arrived in a tunnel of it and paid through a hole.
Chicken breasts have not, historically, been my thing. Wings are. Wings are interesting. Breasts are...hunks o'white meat. Expensive white meat.
But in our struggle to find organic chicken in the hood the breasts seem to be the lonely pioneers. So I buy them. This time, I painted each of them with several tablespoons of smooth mustard and seared them in a little oil. I added many cubes of pancetta, let their fat run, added Meyer lemon juice, about a lemonsworth, and then deglazed with a slug of Noilly Prat while the breasts were still in the pan. Turned the heat down a little and cooked till just done. When is that? Tough one. My prodding finger tells me.
Removed chicken to a warm plate to rest, increased heat, reduced sauce, added some...CREAM!
Meanwhile, spinach was collapsing in its own steam and asparagus spears from California, where it has been spring for a while, were roasting in the oven.
Sliced breasts, returned them to pan to bathe in sauce, called the Frenchman to dinner.