Chicken stock—the inarguable empress of the kitchen, the golden panacea, the magical elixir—is a vital pillar of cuisines all over the world. It’s a near universal centerpiece of celebrations, of convalescences, and of holidays—including Thanksgiving dinner, where it is called upon to deepen gravies, baste turkeys, and add a savory jolt to casseroles and gratins. It’s also a substance of nearly limitless combination. Stocks vary in flavor, color, and character depending on the age, size, and butchery of the bird; on whether the chicken goes into the pot raw or roasted; on the proportion of white meat to dark meat to bones; on the temperature and mineral content of the water; on the size and shape of the pot; on the intensity and duration of the cooking process. All this is before the addition of any aromatics—onion, garlic, ginger, star anise, peppercorns, carrots, celery, lemongrass, and the like—which add rich counterpoints of flavor (not to mention regional and cultural character).
In a traditional stock preparation, these aromatics are key. An infusion of chicken and water alone may fill the kitchen with the rich aroma of fat and fowl, but the actual liquid in the pot will remain thin and insipid, hot water with a fading memory of having once said hello to a chicken. One might think of chicken stock, in that sense, as something that requires two parts to be whole. But the downside of stock made with a riot of herbs, spices, roots, and vegetables—sweetness from carrots and onions, bitterness from celery or parsnip, the brightness of parsley and citrus rind, the mellow fire of ginger, peppercorns, and dried chiles—is that the chicken can get lost, a silken singer performing in front of a ten-piece band.
To bring the chicken-ness of stock to the fore, you can reduce the liquid by half, boiling it down to a murky richness. But I prefer to make what is known as a double stock—in culinary-school terms, a fortified stock, or, Frenchily, a consommé, which classically refers to a clarification of the broth, and perhaps also the meat of more than one species. Whatever name you assign to it, the preparation can be summed up like this: when making stock, use stock as a base instead of water. The result is the most magnificently rich liquid, a concentrated essence of the sort that makes people sink, at first slurp, into a sighing surrender.
The simplest way to make a double stock is to repeat the same recipe twice, using the first batch as a base for the second—a straightforward poultry recursion, with or without aromatics. (The “China Moon Cookbook,” a nineties classic by the chef Barbara Tropp, is most famous for a delicious double stock infused at both stages with a combination of Chinese and Jewish aromatics: ginger, Sichuan pepper, carrot, celery, and more.) But you can also mix things up: use fresh chicken wings alone for the first stock, and roasted legs and a handful of peppercorns for the second, or catapult my grandmother’s onions-and-carrots-and-a-whole-bird concoction to new heights by giving the strained broth another hour with a few pounds of crumbly ground chicken thigh.
Since my obsessive stock-making began in earnest (which, not coincidentally, was when I acquired an electric pressure cooker—the simplest and most foolproof stock-making tool there is) I’ve experimented with dozens of permutations. Even the version I think of as “lazy double stock” is fantastic: simmer whatever remains of a picked-over, store-bought rotisserie chicken for an hour in two quarts of low-sodium boxed stock. (The only rule, with any double-stock recipe, is to avoid adding any additional salt until the very end, because the liquid often ends up naturally more saline than you’d expect.)
Yellow-bronze, slicked with fat, smelling like comfort itself, this liquid is exquisite woven into a stew or sauce, or as a foundation for the most luscious Thanksgiving gravy. But a true double stock is a culinary showpiece, an investment of time and ingredients that is worthy of its own spotlight. A version made with a leftover turkey carcass, especially roasted wings and bones, would be ideal for post-Thanksgiving upcycling. (If you happen to have a duck nearby, go for a third round—a triple stock—and rejoice in the obscene carnivorous glory of a turducken broth.) Let the deep brown, intensely savory liquid shine on its own—as the glimmering broth in a noodle soup, topped with a chiffonade of herbs, or (how I like it best) simply sipped out of a mug, with a tiny pinch of salt and a squeeze of lemon juice, or a drizzle of chili oil. There is no greater feast.
Thanksgiving Double Stock
Makes 10 cups
Ingredients
4 pounds roasted turkey parts (bones, skin, and meat), or roasted whole chicken thighs
10 cups high-quality chicken stock, preferably homemade and without salt, chilled
Kosher salt
Directions
1. Place the turkey parts in an electric pressure cooker, slow cooker, or heavy-bottomed pot. Cover turkey parts with the cold chicken stock and secure the lid on whatever vessel you’re using.
2. If using a pressure cooker: Set the cooker to the highest pressure. Once the pot has reached pressure, cook for 90 minutes. Allow the pressure to decrease naturally.
If using a slow cooker: Set the cooker to high heat and cook for 4 hours, or cook for 7 to 8 hours at low heat.
If using a soup pot: Bring the stock to a boil over high heat. Lower the heat to low or medium-low, so that the stock is just barely at a simmer. Cover the pot again, leaving just a tiny crack for steam to escape, and simmer for 3 hours, replenishing with water or additional chicken stock if the volume of the liquid substantially diminishes.
3. Uncover the stock and use tongs to lift out the solids and place them in a sieve or colander over the stock, pressing down on the turkey parts with a large spoon to extract as much liquid as possible. Use a slotted spoon to lift out any smaller bits of meat and bone and place them in the sieve. (The bones will probably be very soft and falling apart. That’s good! It means the stock is as rich as it can be.) Let the stock cool to room temperature.
4. Transfer the stock to airtight containers and refrigerate until chilled. (The stock may thicken into a gel; it will re-liquefy when warmed.) Remove the solid layer of opaque fat that forms at the top of the container. (This fat is magical stuff; store it in the fridge and use it to sauté greens or roast root vegetables.) Once the fat is removed, return the stock to the refrigerator and use within 5 days, or freeze for up to 2 months.
Sourse: newyorker.com
