Aunt Jean's Alabama Chicken Stew

I was not so familiar with the Alabama barbecue tradition when my father-in-law, Cloyd, took me to St. Florian (pronounced Floreen) Catholic Church in Florence, Alabama, to get in line. It was maybe five o’clock in the morning, and already there were probably a hundred people ahead of us.

Some fifty yards away at the church’s outbuilding was the head of the line, our destination the bright square of its open door. It was still dark, so that was about all there was to look at, but the profound aroma of hickory smoke and roasted pork was entertaining enough. Cloyd, who was a veteran of Normandy and the Battle of the Bulge, and getting on in years, was muttering and shaking his head. He was fretting that the line was so short. Nothing like it was a few years ago. Times were changing. “The line used to be twice as long,” he said, “this late in the day.”

As I said, it was five in the morning.

For decades, every Memorial Day and every Veterans Day, St. Florian Catholic Church had been administering magnificent barbecues - terrific pulled pork, Hot Slaw and Chicken Stew. Being from  Georgia, I wondered if this chicken stew was just some variant of Brunswick Stew. “Don’t know about that,” Cloyd said. But then we were pulled to the head of the line by old friends of his for a tour of the inner works. A long series of tables, manned by volunteers chopping and pulling pork, and a row of cast iron pots - veritable witches’ cauldrons, more than a few of them. In several hours they would be filled with bubbling chicken stew. Our guide explained that the law required washing these pots with hot water, which would simply destroy the “seasoning” they had acquired over the years. That would be a horrible waste, so the law was ignored, and the authorities looked the other way. I was charmed by the thought. 

I tried my first chicken stew that day, and loved it. I also had my first Alabama Hot Slaw, too - and loved that - but that is another post (click here for Alabama Hot Slaw).

I was raised on Brunswick Stew, I revere it, and I mean no disrespect; Alabama Chicken Stew is every bit as good, and I confess, I make it more frequently than I do Brunswick Stew. The fact that my wife is Alabaman and demands it is only one of many reasons.

A bowl of Alabama Chicken Stew, with a fresh biscuit, piping hot, floating in the middle, is like a chicken potpie turned inside out. And there is nothing less than wonderful about that. Think about it.

I was not to have chicken stew again for several years. One Saturday morning in October, while my wife peacefully slumbered, her left leg jerking fitfully as she murmured, as she does, “Roll Tide - Sic em” - it occurred to me that Chicken Stew would be quite the thing. It looked to be a cold, dreary day. There would be football - no doubt my wife was dreaming about it even then; something hot and hearty, and chock full of Alabama tradition was called for. But I didn’t know how to make it.

Aunt Jean was my wife’s - would be anybody’s - favorite aunt. No one knew my wife - or the mysteries of being Alabaman - better than she. I was sure she would know what to do. I called her and shared my thoughts. She told me I was in luck. It just happened that her Alabama Chicken Stew was probably the very best that ever was. But there was one condition I must promise to honor before she would give me the recipe. NEVER WAS I TO DIVULGE THE SECRET INGREDIENT. And so I swore.

INGREDIENTS

8 bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs

olive oil (enough in which to brown the thighs)

6 C chicken broth

3 carrots, sliced

2 stalks of celery, chopped

2 potatoes, peeled and diced

1 large onion, chopped

2 cans cream style corn

2 cans chopped tomatoes with juice

1 Secret Ingredient

1) Preheat oven to 350 degrees

2) Pour the broth into a Dutch oven, and put it on high heat.

  

3) In a large skillet heat the oil over medium-to-high heat, and brown the chicken five minutes or so each side. Do it in two batches. The main purpose of this step is to create a nice brown crust - the fond - on the bottom of the skillet; there should be a little room in that skillet so things won’t get too steamy. The fond will eventually flavor the stew. When the chicken is browned, put it into the Dutch oven with the broth.

4) Cook the chicken in the broth, covered, on medium heat, until it is absolutely done. When it can easily be pulled off the bone, remove from the broth, and set aside to cool.

5) Leave the broth on simmer.

6) Meanwhile, pour a splash more olive oil in the skillet, throw in the carrots, onion and celery, and sauté for about 10 minutes. Deglaze the bottom of the pan as you go, with your spatula scraping loose the brown bits from the skillet bottom, incorporating them into the sauté. 

7) Add the potatoes, cook for 10 minutes. You will be adding to the fond, so give it an occasional stir, scraping the bottom of pan.

8) Add the cream style corn and the tomatoes to the skillet, stirring well, and simmer for about 5 minutes - stirring and deglazing as you go. Once you get that far it's OK to turn if off.

9) When the chicken is cool enough to handle, remove the skin, and pull off the meat. Discard bones and skin (remember the humble dog). Tear the meat into bite-size pieces and drop it into the Dutch oven with the simmering broth.

10) Add contents of the skillet to the Dutch oven, blending thoroughly. Check for seasoning, adding salt, pepper and cayenne to suit yourself.

11)  Transfer the Dutch oven to the oven, and cook, uncovered, for 40 minutes. This not only continues the reducing and cooking, it browns the surface - so stir occasionally, and spread the joy. 

12) Remove from oven. It is time for the secret ingredient.

Aunt Jean died last year, and she’s been on my mind. I’ve discussed this recipe with her children, who laughed and said there was no secret to the secret ingredient - she told everybody. So it’s ok, I guess, to spread it around.

 

SECRET INGREDIENT: 

1 stick of butter, just blend it in.

This is best served over a hot biscuit. If more elegance is desired, consider fried grit cake, or a wedge of corn bread, or corn bread sticks on the side. Perfect accompaniment would be fried okra, or fried green tomatoes, something with a crunch. Or how about fried green tomato BLT’s, like they serve at Harvest Moon.

Pompano en Papillote

Sassafrass, the office cat, looks at a computer keyboard and thinks: “I could pee there.” I looked past the waiter at my wife’s Pompano en Papillote, and thought: “I could cook that.”

At least I do now.

I have had fish prepared en papillote here and there over the years, and it’s pretty neat - meal in a bag, French name, and all that; but when all was said and done, however nice the broth and herbs, it was to my Southern fried mind just steamed fish and vegetables.

Then the Pontchartrain Hotel reopened, and the Caribbean Room was back in business. My wife and I dined there one night, and she ordered the Pompano en Papillote. The waiter really made a big deal about it, but I got the duck, secure in my choice, and maybe a little sorry for my wife.

Then they brought out the Pompano. An inflated, oven-browned bag, radiating heat and the subtlest fragrance. Very cleverly - masterly, even - our waiter broke out the scissors and snipped the bag, fashioning a workable entrance which opened like French doors of crackling parchment. The steam rose and a marvelous aroma kicked in, and for the moment I forgot my duck. You could see the Pompano, gleaming between the leaves. The waiter stepped in with a china gravy boat, and, muttering ‘crab meuniere,’ poured a stream of rich, creamy crab-filled something right through the French doors - and I thought to myself it’s not just steamed fish anymore.

The duck was plenty good, but I resolved that next time I dined there, it would be the Pompano.

It had been a specialty of the Caribbean Room many years ago, in another lifetime. I came along too late for that, but people are still talking about those glory days, about the marvelous Caribbean Room and its renowned chef, Louis Evans. I’d even picked up a copy of the cookbook that was published just after his death.

And now I have picked it up again. Chef Louis’ Pompano en Papillote is in there. This son of a Mississippi sharecropper was no stranger to a fancy dish with a fancy French name - French cuisine was his stock and trade, and he was a master. Some (many) of the most famous people of his time - presidents, great artists, legendary entertainers - would dine at his table. It was his style to put the seafood sauce in with the fish before closing the bag. That might have its virtues, but I liked the drama of the china gravy boat.

Chef Louis prescribed what looks to have been a custard with crab and shrimp. And there were no vegetables to accompany the fish in the bag. (I believe there were vegetables in my wife’s, but I have to take her word for it, because she refused to share.)

Not so sure about the cookbook, either. Sometimes I suspect that fundamental instructions (which to wiser hands might be implied) are simply omitted - things like “reduce by half,” perhaps. And the listed ingredients don’t always square with the instructions. When six egg yolks are involved, a guy wants to be sure about the measurements.

But I can cut and slice, and I can make a sauce (or at least some of them). And I was pretty good with a pair of scissors
back in Vacation Bible School, before, you know, they kicked me out.

So I set about to find some Pompano.

And that turned out to be the hardest part.

The Picayune can take you only so far, and then one must resort to the internet. There were more than a few dead ends before I found the right place. Federal Express botched the first attempt, and was going to let me bear the cost (which they could have done legally, for I was stupid enough to waive signature receipt); but the worthy fish monger would not see a customer disappointed - they actually said that - and saved the day. I recommend these people wholeheartedly https://www.citarella.com/.

Surely, Tilapia at your local market would be cheaper; but it would not be Pompano.

Prepare the parchments. The standard width of parchment paper available in the grocery store is 15 inches. So a 15-inch length of parchment is a perfect square. Cut a thin strip, and you have a 15-inch standard to use as a measuring stick. Cut as many 15-inch lengths as you need, one for each serving. Fold each one in half, corner to corner. You will have so many triangles. Arrange them side by side on a large work space and open them up.

Prepare the vegetables. You will want between half a cup and a cup of assorted vegetables for each filet.

Take five or six interesting vegetables. Like a few rainbow carrots, a red onion, fennel bulb, some pearl onions, some grape tomatoes and green peas - frozen are fine.

Cut the carrot, as much as you will need, into thin strips, 2 to 3 inches long, and no more than a quarter inch thick, because they won’t have long to cook. Same thing with the red onion. Cut thin fan shaped slices from the fennel bulb. Peel your pearl onions - which will involve boiling them for three minutes, snatching them from the water to cool, then removing their jackets. Throw in some grape tomatoes and peas. Anything you want. You decide how much.

Do not mix them up; keep them in separate bowls.

Load the parchments.

Onto the center of each sheet of parchment, next to the crease, apportion like amounts from each bowl of vegetables, making a pile of half a cup, or a little more.

Lay a filet, its edge alongside the parchment crease, over each pile. If it seems too long for your sheet of parchment, cut it in two and stack the halves. Season with salt and pepper, Cajun seasoning, anything you like. Place pats of butter and lemon slices on top. Strategically position fennel fronds, sprigs of thyme and dill. Drizzle over all some olive oil, and a little white wine - not too much, maybe a teaspoon or two for each packet.

Sealing the parchment.

Fold the other half of the parchment sheet over the fish, and get the edges as lined up as you can. Videos aplenty are on the internet. There’s more than one way to do it. You can practice with the rotogravure. (It’s not every day you can use that word.) The usual method is kind of ad hoc, just a matter of taking a corner on the crease side, bending it inboard till its upper edge is against the mound in the middle, and then smoothing it down - really hard. 

Then move further down, a little at a time, adjusting the angle a bit each time so as to make the edge follow the outline of the mound, making a series of folds. When you finish you might have a half moon shape like mine - or if the filet isn’t very long, it might be more like a circle.

Judging by the pictures I took, I have no particular talent for sealing a parchment packet. I have done this a number of times now, but it seems there has been no improvement in my technique. When I look at those pictures, I say to myself, Jeez, even I could have done better than that. But therein lies the beauty. It still works. Maybe you can fold it any old way. Maybe any mistake can be corrected if you fold it in one more time and rub it down hard with the bottom of a glass. 

Or better yet (though I have as yet to stoop so low) - use a stapler.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees.

Make the sauce.

1/4 C minced shallots

2 sticks butter

3 T flour

1/2 C white wine

1 C fish or chicken broth

1 C heavy cream

1/2 t salt

1/2 t cayenne

1 C picked crab

3/4 lb peeled shrimp

In a 2-quart saucepan, melt a stick of butter. Add the minced shallots, 3 T’s of flour, and start whisking. Cook for at least a minute, maybe two. Then reduce heat to low and slowly add 1/2 C white wine (sweet or dry, whatever you like), give it another minute; then slowly add 1 C broth and the remaining stick of butter, whisking all the while. When all the butter is melted, slowly add (still whisking) the cream, the salt and cayenne. When the thickness suits you, fold in the crab, cook until it is thoroughly heated through; add the shrimp, and when they are nicely poached, you’re done.

Put the packets on a baking sheet.

Bake the parchments

Put the baking sheet with your parchment packets in the preheated oven. Set the timer for 20 minutes.

The packets will be inflated and browned.

Serving the packets.

Plate the packets. Then with scissors cut a short, wide “H” (with the middle bar of that “H” running lengthwise) in every packet, fashioning those French doors I was talking about.

Or, in the real world, you can stand idly by with your useless scissors as your guests ignore your instructions and simply open the packets with their fingers.

In any event, your assistant should be standing by to pour about half a cup of sauce into each packet as it is opened.

A New Orleans Spaghetti Bordelaise is a good accompaniment, for it really knows what to do with a Cajun cream sauce. You could in fact dump the contents of your packet on a mound of spaghetti and drench it in sauce. And don't forget the crusty French bread.

Which wine to pair with Pampano en Papillote is an easy choice, because, as a friend reminds me, and as Edward G. Robinson unforgettably explains (click below for dramatic illustration) -





 Champagne and Pompano - they really go together.

Artichoke Pirogues With Crawfish Cardinale

 

It happened when I was a kid lying awake one night listening to the radio. Maybe it was the first time I had ever done such a thing. The only station playing that late was out of New Orleans, with a program broadcasting live from a restaurant, of all things. It was just a DJ playing records, plugging the restaurant between selections from what we would later call the American Songbook. But it changed things for me, at least a little then; and more later. For that night marked the first time in my life I that I ever thought of cuisine as something apart from my mom’s menu. It was the first time I ever thought of myself even going to a restaurant.

We had restaurants in our county - from time to time. They never lasted long. Not even the one that sported that new fangled innovation the salad bar, though everybody would give it a try. One try, to be exact, and then it would go out of business.

But this restaurant was not in a little town in middle Georgia. It was in New Orleans, a place I knew just enough about to find intriguing. It was historic. There was the battle - the Johnny Horton song had educated me that much. Not to mention the movies. And there were actual culinary premonitions, sort of: Mom made a chicken and ham jambalaya.

Now I was listening to that suave radio guy describing the classic Creole dishes. Even that might not have been enough – But T. Pitarri’s also served Hippopotamus, Lion, Rhinocerus and Tiger (I’m not kidding) and that did the trick. I fashioned an image of the man I would grow up to be, and he was a man who had dined - at least once - at T. Pittari’s.

I managed that, years later - to dine at T. Petarri’s just once. But that is another story.

I have been to New Orleans many times since.

The older I got, the more cuisine meant to me. And the older I got, the more I learned how to cook it myself. So that is what this is driving at. It’s about cooking it.

New Orleans was sort of a beginning for me. So, since this first installment is by definition a beginning, let’s talk Pirogues.

There are pirogies. That’s different. Pirogue is the Cajun word for canoe. A little boat. In Louisiana Cuisine, a pirogue is a vegetable carved to resemble a canoe, then filled with something wonderful. It can be served hot and savory or cold and refreshing - it depends on what you want. And it is as flexible as your imagination.

The vegetable vehicle could be a squash - zucchini, mirliton, yellow squash, conceivably butternut squash; egg plant; or tomato (though admittedly not so canoe-ish); very easily an endive leaf; or - the most majestic of all, navigable in the most sluggish streams -- an artichoke.

Let’s start with this: a first course, a hot dish that would well precede something grand but simple, a roast of some sort, a rack of some kind, whole fish, a rabbit loin wrapped in prosciutto. Something with a very cool look.

So let’s do an artichoke.

A globe artichoke is not the best choice, with the too-rounded top a not-at-all-pointy bow for your little boat; though it’ll do in a pinch. But look for one of those artichoke varieties that are indeed boat like in shape.

You will trim them, boil them in scented water, and fill them with -- with Crawfish Cardinale.

There are many equally fine choices, but none better.

Cook The Artichokes

3 artichokes and a stockpot with enough water to cover them;

1/4 C good olive oil;

1 T black peppercorns;

2 bay leaves;

2 lemons, cut in half and juiced in the water;

1 t salt;

Do not cut off the tops of the artichokes. Most applications of fresh artichoke call for cutting off as much as an inch off the top, which is great if you are stuffing behind the leaves. (and if you are, the globe artichoke is your man.) But cutting off the top is not so good for a pirogue. You’ll lose a portion of the reservoir you hope to make. Not to mention the bow of your boat.

So don’t cut off the top.

 Do remove scraggly leaves, clip the prickly tips off all the other leaves - except those that comprise the very bow of the boat. When you look at it you’ll know what I mean.

Go ahead and cut off the stem (close to the bottom) - and save it.

Fill the pot with enough water to

cover the artichokes, put it over high heat. In that water there should be maybe a quarter cup of good olive oil, a handful of peppercorns, a couple of bay leaves, a few garlic cloves - don’t bother to peel but do cut them in half - a couple of lemons, juice and carcasses thrown into the pot, and maybe a teaspoon of salt. Bring this water to a boil first, then put in the chokes, along with the severed stems, cover, lower the heat, and cook for thirty minutes.

Then take the artichokes - and the stems (I often forget them) from the water and set aside to cool.

In the meantime…

Make the Crawfish Cardinale 

You’ll need:

5 T butter

1/3 C finely chopped onion, shallots, or green onion or a combination thereof;

1/3 C finely chopped red pepper;

1/3 C finely chopped celery;

2 T flour

1 C half and half

2 T tomato paste

1/2 t salt

1/4 t white pepper

1/4 t cayenne

1/8 t mace

1/8 t allspice

1/8 t ground cloves

1 bay leaf

3 T brandy

2 T dry white wine

1 clove minced garlic

1 C (this is about 1/2 pound) crawfish tails (well drained)

And two skillets.

In the first skillet place 2 T of butter, and on low heat, sauté the chopped onion, bell pepper and celery, till wilted - do not brown; turn off the heat.

By the by, you have just made the Creole “holy trinity,” or “Creole Mirepoix” (the original French Mirepoix is a combination of onion, celery and carrot.) It is the fundamental flavor base of Creole cuisine.

In the other skillet, melt the remaining 3 T of butter, add the flour, and, stirring constantly, cook until you’ve made a blond roux (at which my dear friend once cried - ‘made her do what?’)

ADD the sautéed vegetables to the roux, and still stirring, add the half and half, tomato paste, and the spices, blend well, cook a few minutes till it begins to thicken;

Now add the brandy, wine, and garlic, blend and cook a few more minutes;

ADD the crawfish - now it’s Crawfish Cardinale.

Take the artichoke stems, peel them down to the soft pale green flesh, and dice; stir that into the Cardinale;

Cook another five minutes - still on low heat - till desired consistency is achieved. It should be as thick as a pie filling. Or a dip. But not so thick dipping would be a drag.

Dipping is what you’ll be doing.

Make the Pirogues

Carefully cut each artichoke in half lengthwise.

Take an artichoke half, place it on the cutting board cut side up. In the center you’ll see the hairy choke, and above it the inner leaves - most of which are basically inedible. With a paring knife, trace around the margin of the choke, cutting into the smooth flesh around it. Do it again and again, a little deeper each time, until the choke is almost detached. You will surgically remove it. Take a spoon, gently dig it out, and with it some of the innermost leaves - and discard. That creates a cavity. Remove the palest inner leaves. You are enlarging the reservoir - fashioning a vegetable ramekin for the Crawfish Cardinale. Continue removing one inner leaf at a time until the reservoir suits you: smooth it out, scrape away any remaining fibers; you want enough room for about a half cup. 

Do the other five artichoke halves, and set aside.

Now they are pirogues.

Fill the Pirogues

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Arrange the pirogues in a baking dish or gratin dish - anything oven-proof that will contain them securely - and fill each pirogue with about half a cup of Cardinale.

Sprinkle with cayenne or paprika - there’s a reason it’s called Cardinale - it’s supposed to be reddish.

Place in the oven, and bake for 15-20 minutes, until the pirogues are browned slightly, and the sauce is bubbling.

When serving make sure your guests are clued in that the leaves are part of the game. Lead the way, demonstrating how useful an artichoke leaf can be, using each one as a spoon, gathering a bite of Cardinale, and as you pull it from your mouth, bite down on the leaf, scraping off with your teeth the tender flesh at the end.

(Our dog Jelly Bean is most adept at this; she bites down just hard enough to get the cardinale off the leaf as we pull it away, clamps down harder at the last second and gets every bit of the artichoke meat. She washes this down with a Californian Pinot Gris.)

Have a small plate handy to receive the used leaves.

When there are no leaves left, only the heart remains (what a phrase - I am humming Paul Simon’s The Boxer even now) - with a spoonful or two of Cardinale.

And that is the prize.

It is really a dish that finishes well.