BY ANDREW Z. GALARNEAU
Here's a passage from Sunday's front page story about New York's Swiss Chalet pilgrims, who cross an international border in search of sustenance.
Response to the story has been vociferous, and I'll be discussing the Swiss Chalet story on Shredd & Ragan (103.3 FM) tomorrow (Wednesday) at around 9:10 a.m. or thereafter, the radio boys say.
In the Montrose Road restaurant’s kitchen, the sauce is made pretty much like you’d do it at home. Powder is combined with water and simmered. The restaurant has invested in a steam jacketed stainless-steel kettle that holds gallons and will almost never scorch.
Beside the sauce kettle are the chicken cabinets, roasters holding rotating braces of seasoned birds. They’ll baste in their own fat jacket until the skin turns golden brown, in the way of all rotisserie chickens, and they meet the line cook’s machete-grade blade.
That fat, as it turns out, does more than keep the chicken moist. It’s the secret in the sauce, until you read the fine print. Chicken fat, in its powdered form, is fourth after cornstarch, salt and tomato powder. Anyone who’s transmuted pan drippings into a heart-stoppingly glorious gravy knows the truth: fat means flavor.
One American couple orders a soup bowl of it per person during their weekly visit, Hildebrand said. The sight of New Yorkers sipping from the sauce ramekin is no longer shocking.
Let's hear it for chicken fat, or is that too schmaltzy?
If you're still in denial, DO NOT SCROLL DOWN.
OK, I warned you.