Classic chicken fricassee made with all white meat.  The flavor will be deeper and richer if made with whole chicken parts, but the boneless skinless version is not without charm. — Classic chicken fricassee made with all white meat. The flavor will be deeper and richer if made with whole chicken parts, but the boneless skinless version is not without charm.

Everyone knows what a fricassee is; most just don’t realize it. Ready? The chicken filling in pot pie is a fricassee. A white stew—nice in pastry, but just as good without. Funnily, even the strictest version of the technique can be understood in three steps—sauté, deglaze, simmer—and yet the French name and confounding array of descriptions for what the procedure entails is, if not an immediate turn off, an eventual deterrent. Why frica—whatever, when we can make a casserole? Why indeed! Because the fricassee is a noble preparation found in fourteenth century recorded cooking guides, and, it should not be overlooked, an easy way to elevate a busy weeknight. Casseroles are neither.

I usually like to singe away the colorful comparisons and romantic allusions that grow like lichen and describe cooking techniques in clear, declarative statements. But the fricassee lends itself to a particularly helpful parallel—that of a brief braise. The steps between techniques are identical: Sauté meat in fat. Remove to plate. Add aromatic vegetables and herbs and sauté until wilting. Deglaze with wine/water/broth. Bring up to boil, reduce to simmer. Return meat and collected juices, cover and simmer. Those could be instructions for both a fricassee or a braise, the differences being the simmering time—twenty minutes for the former, three hours for the latter—and the amount of color on the meat in the initial step. These are important differences though; a braise is dark and deeply flavored, a fricassee is both lighter in color and flavor, a dish for intermediary seasons rather than the depths of winter. And it is the initial choice of meat that dictates the technique.

Because they are white, quick cooking and mild, chicken and veal are the classic meats for a fricassee, but not all are ideal. Save the older stewing birds for a dark braise; instead have a small fryer cut into eight pieces by the butcher. I don’t ordinarily suggest boneless, skinless chicken breast, but alongside the paillard, fricassee makes another good use of an otherwise unexciting cut. Veal is slightly more complicated. Traditionalists might disagree with me here, but a fricassee is a quick cooking dish, so tender, quick-cooking pieces of veal, like cutlets, filets and loin are the only real candidates. If you must use tougher pieces of stew meat they should be first simmered for an hour in seasoned water. Actually this isn’t such an imposition; the resulting veal broth is perfect for the fricassee.

Finally, a fricassee is significantly thickened—the aspect of the dish that seems to stumble most home cooks. I have seen recipes calling for egg and cream liaisons where yolks are first tempered and then carefully incorporated into the final stew, but the results I achieve with flour are satisfying. I begin by dusting the raw chicken, raw veal or simmered veal pieces in flour and sautéing in butter, careful not to brown. Some of the flour will come off in the hot fat, making the beginning of that most dependable thickening agent—a roux. Once the meat is removed, and if necessary (it usually is) I add more flour and butter, taking a minute or two to make a smooth paste. Then proceed as above: aromatics, liquid, return meat and simmer. This two-stage method all but guarantees a correctly thickened result. Serve over noodles, potatoes or in the cooking pan alongside crusty bread.

I took a swipe at casseroles earlier and I meant it. The problem isn’t the technique; casseroling is really just baking pre-prepared components in a serving vessel. Shepard’s pie is a casserole, and I would never put that classic down. The problem is with the genre, which values assembly over technique and cleverness of theme over good taste. While fricassees and casseroles don’t really share DNA, they seem to occupy the same compartment of the home cook’s brain, namely, an easy and comforting solution for a hurried weeknight meal. The difference is a fricassee doesn’t rely upon a layer of molten cheese and a snappy name; its good taste is derived from seven centuries of satisfied diners.