I went down the street late this afternoon to buy a poulet roti (roast chicken) for dinner. I chose this one from the case in front of the butcher shop — the case from which the aroma of roast chicken rises all day, perfuming the air in front of the boucherie. I pointed to it, and the woman who helps her husband run the shop inserted a long fork into its cavity, and lifted it into a bag.
“Congratulations, Monsieur,” said the woman. “She is a beautiful one.”
Indeed she is. And Fred (this blog’s Paris bureau chief), Julie and I will eat her in about an hour. I love this city.
