The first Chicken Divan I ever ate came out of a battered oven in a basement teaching kitchen on West 22nd Street, in New York, on a Tuesday night in February. The instructor was a woman named Rosalind who had cooked hotel banquets for thirty years and had opinions about nutmeg. The room smelled of toasted flour and warm milk before it smelled of anything else.
I had signed up for the class almost by accident. I had a long layover turned into three nights in Manhattan, and a mid-century American cooking class was the only thing left with a spot open. I nearly cancelled for a wine bar instead. I am glad I did not.
What Rosalind Told Us About Chicken Divan
She started by taking the name apart. Chicken Divan sounds French and is not. It was born at the Divan Parisien Restaurant inside the Chatham Hotel here in Manhattan in the early twentieth century, and became the house dish there. Divan meant a meeting place, a great hall, which suited an upscale dining room of the era.
Then she told us the part I have repeated to people ever since. There is no authentic recipe. The original was guarded as a restaurant secret, never printed, and it effectively died with the chef credited with it, a man named Lagasi. Every version since, including hers, including mine, is a reconstruction.
She was polite about the casserole version most Americans grew up with. Polite, not warm. The condensed soup and mayonnaise casserole came later, in the fifties and sixties, once cookbooks began printing approximations and home cooks needed something that fed eight on a weeknight. The restaurant dish used a scratch Mornay with Gruyère and egg yolks. No cracker crumbs, no curry powder, which she pointed out is a later Southern addition and not part of the original at all.
Bringing It Back to My Kitchen
I made it the second weekend I was home. It was one of those flat grey mornings where the light through the kitchen window goes the colour of dishwater and you want the oven on for reasons that have nothing to do with hunger.
Poaching is the whole thing. Rosalind said it twice in class and she was right. You bring the stock to a bare simmer, the kind where a bubble breaks every few seconds and no more, then you cover the pan, pull it off the heat entirely, and let the breasts sit there for fifteen minutes or so. Chicken that has been browned goes stringy under a heavy sauce. I know because I browned it the second time I made this, thinking I knew better. I did not.
The smell at the roux stage is the one I look forward to. Butter and flour cooking together for two minutes, no colour taken, and it goes faintly nutty in a way that fills the whole apartment. Then the warm milk goes in and the whole thing turns soft and dairy-sweet, and by the time the Gruyère is melting in handfuls it smells like a hotel dining room in a decade I was not alive for.
What I Used
- Two pounds of boneless skinless chicken breasts, about four large halves
- Four cups of chicken stock or plain water, enough to cover
- A bay leaf and six black peppercorns for the poaching liquid
- A pound and a half of broccoli, cut into long spears with the tender stems left on
- Five tablespoons of unsalted butter, divided
- Four tablespoons of all-purpose flour
- Two cups of whole milk, warmed
- Half a cup of heavy cream
- Two large egg yolks
- Eight ounces of Gruyère, grated, divided
- Three tablespoons of dry sherry, fino or amontillado, never cooking sherry
- A quarter teaspoon of freshly grated nutmeg
- Salt and ground white pepper
The Parts Worth Fussing Over
The Gruyère matters more than anything else on that list. I get mine from the cheese counter at the farmers’ market on Sunday, the vendor who lets you taste before you commit, and I buy the block and grate it myself. Pre-grated cheese has anti-caking starch in it and the Mornay goes grainy. That is not snobbery, it is just what happens.
Temper the yolks properly. Whisk them in a small bowl, ladle in half a cup of the hot sauce while whisking hard, then pour that back into the pan off the heat. If you dump cold yolks into a hot saucepan you get sweet scrambled egg suspended in milk. Ask me how I know.
The sherry is not optional in my kitchen. It should pour, that sauce, not plop.
Dry the broccoli. Three minutes in salted boiling water, drained, then spread on a clean towel while you build the sauce. Wet broccoli waters the Mornay down and you end up with something thin and sad under the broiler. This is a broccoli chicken divan in the real sense, with the vegetable baked into the dish as a core component rather than steamed and set beside it as an afterthought.
Assembling and the Broiler Bit
Broccoli spears in a buttered nine by thirteen dish, stems all facing the same way, which is a Rosalind habit I have kept because it makes serving easier. Sliced chicken over the top, overlapping slightly so nothing shows through. Then the Mornay, worked into the corners, and the last of the Gruyère scattered over.
Twenty to twenty-five minutes at 400 F until it bubbles at the edges. Then the broiler for two or three minutes, and you do not leave the kitchen for those three minutes. That browned patchy top is what the restaurant was known for and it is also thirty seconds from being ruined.
Let it sit ten minutes. I never want to and I always do. The sauce needs that time to firm up enough to hold a spoonful, otherwise it runs across the plate and pools against the rice.
Variations I Have Tried and What I Think of Them
I have made it with sharp cheddar when I could not get Gruyère. It works, it is just a different dish, heavier and more American in a way that is not wrong but is not what Rosalind taught. Turkey after Thanksgiving is genuinely good and slightly better than chicken, which surprised me.
I do not add curry powder. Plenty of people swear by it and I understand why, it wakes the whole thing up, but it belongs to a later chapter of the dish and I like this version where it is.
You can assemble the whole thing a day ahead and refrigerate it. Add ten minutes to the bake. Do not freeze it, the Mornay separates and nothing brings it back.
Why I Keep Making It
There is something about a dish that has no authentic version that makes me less anxious in the kitchen. Nobody can tell me I got it wrong, because nobody alive knows what right was.
Cold leftovers the next day, eaten standing at the counter with a fork, straight from the dish. I think about that basement kitchen on 22nd Street every single time.
Chicken Divan
Ingredients
Equipment
Method
- Lay the chicken breasts in a wide saucepan in a single layer. Pour in the stock or water until it covers them by half an inch, then add the bay leaf and peppercorns.
- Bring the liquid to a bare simmer over medium heat, with only the occasional bubble breaking the surface. Never let it boil or the chicken will tighten and go dry.
- Cover the pan, pull it off the heat, and let the chicken sit in the hot liquid for 15 to 18 minutes, until the thickest part reaches 160 F. Lift the breasts out and rest them on a board for 10 minutes. Strain and reserve the poaching liquid.
- While the chicken poaches, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Drop in the broccoli spears and cook for 3 minutes, until the stems are just yielding but the florets are still bright green.
- Drain the broccoli and spread it out on a clean towel to dry. Wet broccoli waters down the Mornay, so give it a few minutes of air.
- Preheat the oven to 400 F and butter the baking dish with 1 tablespoon of the butter.
- Melt the remaining 4 tablespoons of butter in a heavy saucepan over medium heat. Whisk in the flour and cook for 2 minutes, stirring constantly, until the roux smells faintly of toasted nuts but has taken on no color.
- Pour in the warmed milk in a slow stream, whisking hard the whole time to keep it smooth. Cook for 5 to 6 minutes, until the sauce thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon.
- Whisk in the cream, sherry, nutmeg, salt, and white pepper. Add two thirds of the grated Gruyère a handful at a time, stirring until each addition melts before adding the next.
- Pull the sauce off the heat. Whisk the egg yolks in a small bowl, then ladle in about half a cup of the hot sauce while whisking constantly to temper them. Pour the tempered yolks back into the saucepan and whisk until the Mornay turns glossy. Do not return it to direct heat.
- If the sauce is thicker than heavy cream, loosen it with a few tablespoons of the reserved poaching liquid. It should pour, not plop.
- Arrange the broccoli spears in a single layer across the bottom of the buttered dish, stems pointing the same direction.
- Slice the rested chicken on a slight angle into half-inch pieces and lay them over the broccoli, overlapping slightly so the surface is evenly covered.
- Ladle the Mornay over the whole dish, working it into the corners and making sure no chicken or broccoli is left exposed. Scatter the remaining Gruyère across the top.
- Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until the sauce bubbles at the edges and the top is patched with gold.
- For the browned crust the restaurant was known for, slide the dish under the broiler for 2 to 3 minutes, watching it constantly. Let it settle for 10 minutes before serving so the sauce firms up enough to hold a spoonful.