What Poulet Roti Taught Me About Quality
Or how my love affair with bad chicken is coming to an end.
I’m riding ligne 14 clear across town from the deep 12eme to Saint Ouen. It’s a Sunday afternoon, and the metro is filled with people lugging large shopping bags and chariots with them; market day. The metro car is filled with an aroma that everyone present immediately recognizes. Arguably one of the best smells in the whole world: roast chicken.
I usually hate the smell of food on a metro, also the impulse that would lead anyone to bring strong-smelling food into a confined public space—rude. But roast chicken gets a pass. I watch the faces of my fellow riders to see if anyone is bothered enough to make a fuss about the scent; everyone seems to be at peace with the odor, no scrunched noses or grumpy glances. I begin to scan the bags and baskets of those aboard to try to identify who the lucky luncher is going to be, but whoever purchased the chicken has it well hidden from view.
As I search for the fragrant poultry, I realize that I’m not loo…
