Poulet Roti

      After a successful stint at a high end chocolatier (former blog post), my desire to try new things continued.  While veggies were an easy solution to the oncoming dinner preparations, I instead put on my running shoes and shorts, grabbed a sweater (too much seizing of the moment to actually change my shirt and bra, and not laziness of course) and headed out the door, with a ziploc bag of keys, phone, and euros in one hand.  Halfway down the stairs, I realized I had left one vital object necessary for this trip to be a genuinely delicious: my bon maman jar.  I quickly ran up the stairs, grabbed the jar, and bolted out the door, sprinting up rue de chemin vert (street of the green smoke: what a great name, right?) to my destination: the poulet roti.

Corner of rue parmentier and rue de chemin vert.  Also the boulangerie that is open on sundays, a divine and rare  luxury in France

     

       The day before, I took a cold sprint in the rain up rue de chemin vert, trying to clear my head.  Although I tried to stare  hypnotically ahead to keep my face dry, my nose wandered.  First the boulangerie with their freshly baked bread for the evening.  Then the boucherie (butchery), with their giant rotating outdoor oven of poulet roti (roast chicken).  It was 6:30, and like the bread next door, the chickens were fully cooked and ready to be picked up.  With potatoes simmering and picking up the juices at the bottom of the glass case, I could not help but slow down and salivate a little. 

Le jus ou gravy

    Fast forward a day, and there I am, standing in front of the boucherie.  With one chicken left in the glass case, I quickly run inside and ask for a chicken in my broken french.  One of the butchers comes with me outside to describe the chicken I am about to partake in.  I nod and continue answering oui.  I had no idea if he was telling me to cook it some more, or if its mother was a goose, all I hoped was that “oui” was the right answer.  The only word that I actually committed to memory was “fermier”.  As the butcher opened the case to take out the last chicken of the day (yay mine!), he also noticed my empty jam jar.  "Pour le jus?" "Oui" I responded.  I took the advice of John: bring your own jar, and reap the benefits.  After grabbing the chicken and some yummy dripping soaked potatoes from the bottom of the case,  he generalously spooned the rest of the days drippings into my little jar.  Sealing it, he assertively stated "gravy".  "So I have an American accent?" I asked.  "A little bit" he replied.

Voila!

      After our English conversation dwindles, I paid,  said goodbye, and was on my way home with a delicious poulet roti.  Yes, I was responded to in English, yes, I did not understand the entirety of what I had just purchased, but I had I had been given a welcome to always return, and my attempts at communicating in French were understood enough to bring home a fermier (farmed I found out!) chicken.  Slowly this neighborhood is becoming my own.