BEFORE there was the stove, there was the rotisserie. And although there's no denying that progress has its advantages -- can you imagine spending a summer afternoon tending a live fire in your kitchen? -- there's no disputing that there also has been a cost. Put simply, there is no better way to roast meat than on a rotisserie.
Cook a chicken in the oven and it's fixed in place, tight within the claustrophobic confines of a steamy metal box. Roast it on a rotisserie and the bird slowly revolves, alternately drying in the open air and basting itself both inside and out with all of those lovely juices.
The superiority of the rotisserie has long been known. In "The Epicurean," Charles Ranhofer's seminal 1893 book on fine American cooking, he has pages of diagrams of rotisserie contraptions, complicated-looking arrangements of chains and pulleys and counterweights that were the heating heart of every 19th century restaurant. "In large kitchens [it is] the only roaster possible," he concluded.
About 100 years later, in "Chez Panisse Cooking," Paul Bertolli goes so far as to say of the rotisserie: "There is no better way to cook whole animals, large roasts, and poultry. With a well-made fire and a spit that turns with a slow regular rhythm, heat penetrates gradually and consistently, producing self-basted meat that is moist, redolent of burning oak or fruit wood, and cooked evenly from the center to the exterior."
On a more prosaic level, consider the number of rotisserie chickens sold in supermarkets these days. Any cooking method so foolproof that it can be done well by grocery chains certainly has something to recommend it (now, if they'd just start using better chickens).
A better bird
Indeed, it was the quest for a better bird that drew me to the rotisserie. It was one of the first things I picked up after I bought my last charcoal grill. (For some reason, the rotisserie for my basic Weber kettle grill costs as much as the grill itself -- about $100. No matter, it's well worth it.)
As soon as I got the rotisserie home, I hooked it up, started a fire, skewered a chicken and trussed it tight, then roasted it, seasoned with just a little salt and pepper. The bird was golden brown and so moist that when I stuck the thermometer in its thigh to check whether it was done, the juice spurted several inches.
