‘More than anything, food is a feeling I want to share’

The beach had been a vacation from a vacation which sounds outrageous but frankly, so was the idea of two forty year old moms leaving their lives in the Midwest and taking up temporary residency in the City of Love for 30 days in the summer of 2022. Collectively, we had six kids at home, careers, and a host of adult responsibilities.

We were about half way through our trip and half way through our Paris to-do list.

The south of France had welcomed us with Aperol Spritzes, intense UV rays, umbrellaed naps by the Mediterranean Sea and yes, too many cigarettes. Dinner seemed insurmountable. So much so that both the possibility of sitting at a table for an hour or perusing grocery store shelves seemed torturous. I knew we had to eat.

We had cleared out the apartment refrigerator in preparation for our weekend away and there wasn’t even a baguette crumb or wedge of comte creeping up next to the leftover champagne in the door. Knowing my future-self would hate me, the one who would finally make it up to the apartment, open the beautiful mid-19th century windows, and slump into the tiny French couch.

If I skipped grabbing a bite now, I would never make it back down those steep, spindly stairs again.

I gathered the last of my energy and my couple French words, telling mon ami to go back to the apartment; dinner was covered. She looked at me curiously and took the bags.

I had spent the first two weeks enchanted by these chicken lockers that grace the front openings of most small grocery stores. They’d be positioned at the entrance causing tourists to stop and stare. In one sense it was a rotisserie chicken. That I’d seen before.

But, in another sense it was a large black and gold case, about six feet tall, with a windowed door and sides. Inside the whole chickens spun slowly in the heat, the skin developing that dark golden perfection that can’t be achieved in a standard oven.

I could feel it crackle beneath my teeth. The most exciting element of these lockers was the chicken fat dripping on the floor of the case, onto a bed of slowly roasting golden potatoes. I was mesmerized.

I buckled down, “Excusez-moi, je voudrais un poulet et des pommes de terre, s’il vous plait.” I think he may have asked if I wanted a half or whole. I smiled and nodded. He laughed and filled a wax lined white paper bag with several scoops of potatoes and one glistening chicken. I felt the weight in my arm, the warmth bleeding through the package.

In one swift motion I grabbed a head of lettuce and a couple handfuls of haricot vert.

My exhaustion squelched by my new acquisition, I skipped with child-like energy up Rue Lepic and took Rue Des Abbesses all the way home.

Within minutes of arriving, I had briefly steamed a pile of green beans and seasoned them with salt, pepper, and French butter. In the biggest bowl our Airbnb had to offer, I’d coated the greens in a slick of olive oil and lemon.

I tore large sections off the chicken, being careful to not remove the skin and added a pile of potatoes and chicken, greens, and beans to our two plates.

At this point we’d both taken off our shoes and replaced our travel clothes with boxers and big T-shirts. Very not French. We took our plates to the balcony and sat, resting on our tiny metal chairs.

“Sante!” we said as we clinked our sparkling waters.

Every moment was perfect, and maybe every bite was as well. Or maybe it was hunger and exhaustion. I know the chicken was tender and crispy, just as I expected.

The potatoes were rich with chicken fat and the greens were the exact thing needed to brighten up the forkful. But, I think it was less about the bite.

The air had a subtle breeze, still warm from the day’s sun. The streets were wild with shop keepers, delivery drivers, and tourists trying to see the last of the day’s charm in Montmartre. There was still light in the sky but as it continued to fade, it turned the sky an even more blue blue. I was with my very best friend, exhausted by a lazy weekend in the sun, the kind of unwinding that can’t even happen stateside.

Silently, I knew we were both drearily surprised that our expectations were once again being exceeded as we swallowed mouthfuls of crispy chicken skin.

The neighbors wandered out to their balcony and I thought, I want them to eat this, too. They were too far and it was too late but had it been possible, I would have asked them to join us.

This is a feeling I’ve been chasing since we closed those balcony doors. This is a feeling I reach to give to others through food, though I’m not yet sure how.

More than anything food is a feeling I want to share.

This was the best meal of my life.

“But First, Food” columnist Whitney Kling is a recipe developer who lives in Southwest Ohio with her four kids, two cats and a food memoir that’s ever-nearing completion. If she’s not playing tennis or at a yoga class, she’s in the kitchen creating something totally addictive — and usually writing about it.