At every outdoor market in Paris there’s at least one volaillier who has a constantly turning rôtisserie with long metal bars slowing spinning chickens until they’re bronzed…no, make that very well-bronzed, and unbelievably moist and succulent. If you can find ‘em, the poulet Portuguese are often called poulet crapaudine, a chicken that’s been split open, rubbed with lots of spices, raw garlic and more salt than one might think prudent. Then each bird is grilled until the skin is practically rock-hard and crackly-caramelized, which you pull off and enjoy in lick-smacking, crispy, salty bits.
One of the favorite roast chicken places in Paris is available only on Sunday at the Richard Lenoir market. (t the upper end of the market is a woman, the woman they call la Reine de Poulet, or the chicken queen, which is actually a title her daughter bestowed upon her which she carved on her old wooden cash box.
Wearing oversized glasses, short bobbed hair, and cackling like a mother hen, she shrieks out to all passers-by when the chickens are available; hot and ready-to-go. There’s always one waiting for YOU, just slid off the hot metal spit and wrapped in a crisp waxed paper bag. There’s all sorts of roast chickens available, but the crapaudine seems to be the favorite, BUT . If you’re one of those people that likes juicy, moist chicken, this ain’t the chicken for you. But for many of us, this is chicken candy.
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