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It wasn’t getting a freshly plucked rooster for my birthday that made it so memorable. It was the realization of what a real chicken tasted like.

It was early spring. Michael had just driven down from the Finger Lakes to the city. Hopping out of his prematurely aged Hyundai, he walked toward me with a lopsided grin and a clear plastic bag. “Happy 40th,” he said thrusting a naked bird forward in the chilly night air. I took the bag and inspected the tight, vibrant flesh in the streetlight, noticing a few pin feathers attached to the lower leg, revealing this was home-grown fowl.

“I have a recipe from Julia,” Mike said, pulling out a folded sheet of paper his neighbor across the swamp had given him. The handwritten note, labeled “Coq au Vin,” called for two bottles of wine and four hours roasting time.

“I’ve never cooked a bird that long or with that much wine,” I said skeptically.

“The breed is a standard Cornish Cross, which is 99 percent of the chicken that’s raised. But this rooster lived outdoors for nine months, so the meat is more flavorful and muscular than a chicken that spent its short life crammed in a cage,” Mike explained. “It needs a lot of wine and time to make the meat tender.”

The next day, after a night of warm company and greasy good Chinese food, I assembled the ingredients – rooster, wine, onion, carrots, celery, herbs, olives. After cutting up the bird, I heaved my ginormous cast-iron skillet on the stove and gently browned the thick-skinned legs and breasts in a little vegetable oil. This technique drew out fat, while developing deep, rich flavors. The prep time was quick, a little chopping, and the cooking required little effort, other than my presence to check its progress. After sticking the skillet into a hot oven with the veggies and wine, I retired to the living room. The apartment filled with chicken and wine aromas.

I pulled it out after two hours, but the meat was still tough. “Wow,” I said. “I guess Julia was right.” Back in the oven it went. But after another hour, the bouquet and my hunger proved too much. I pulled it out. The sauce was velvety and plum-colored. The meat was delicious, but needed more time. No matter. I tore into a leg. It was the best-tasting poultry I ever had, better than organic poussin (young chickens) raised in Quebec and sold in New York gourmet stores.