Chicken Fricassée

There's a good chance you've already made a fricassée without realizing it. At its core, fricassée (often spelled fricassee) is meat gently cooked in liquid and finished in a velvety sauce. Strip away the French name, and it looks a lot like the kind of weeknight skillet dinners many American home cooks make all the time.

Many cuisines have a version of this formula: meat simmered in broth or wine, paired with vegetables, and finished in a sauce that pulls it all together. In France, it's fricassée. In your kitchen, it may have been a creamy chicken skillet or a coconut braised chicken. Different names, same basic technique—and one that's endlessly adaptable, whether you're working with chicken breasts, thighs, a whole bird, or even other proteins. My version leans on boneless chicken breasts gently poached in a mushroom- and cream-enriched sauce, with a few pantry additions—smoked paprika or Aleppo pepper and fish sauce—that quickly build deep, savory flavor.

What Is Fricassée?

In classical French cooking, fricassée is a hybrid between a sauté and a stew. The technique dates back at least to the 16th century. François Pierre de La Varenne, often credited as one of the founders of modern French cuisine, included recipes for fricassée de poulet in his 1651 cookbook Le Cuisinier François. The word itself comes from the French fricasser, meaning "to fry and break into pieces."

Traditionally, a fricassée was defined as a white stew. Unlike a braise, in which meat is deeply browned, in early versions, the meat was cooked gently in fat so that it stayed pale, then simmered in stock and/or wine, and finished with a liaison of cream and egg yolks. Later adaptations introduced flour and butter as thickeners, but the hallmark remained the same: a velvety sauce that clings lightly to the meat without overwhelming it.

Though chicken is the version most cooks know today, historical French tables saw fricassées of rabbit, veal, lamb, and fish. By the 18th century, it was common enough to be considered a staple of bourgeois cooking—refined but not overly elaborate.

When the dish crossed the Atlantic, it evolved again. In the United States, particularly in 19th- and early-20th-century cookbooks, chicken fricassée was often made with mushrooms, onions, and cream sauces thickened with flour. For instance, Fannie Farmer's 1896 Boston Cooking-School Cook Book includes a version finished with a flour-thickened cream sauce and butter, a far cry from the egg-yolk liaison of classical French cooking. Many American cooks also began browning the chicken more deeply at the start, creating a hybrid that borrowed from both classic fricassée and standard braises.

At its most basic, though, the definition hasn't changed. Fricassée is meat gently cooked in a flavorful liquid that's then finished into a smooth, rich sauce.

The Best Cuts for Fricassée

For this version, I wanted to highlight how forgiving fricassée can be. In my recipe, I use boneless, skinless chicken breasts. To be honest, it's a cut I usually avoid. But if there were ever a time and place for them, this is it.

Chicken breasts, when cooked at high heat or left in the oven for too long, can quickly become stringy and dry. But when they're gently browned and then poached in a flavorful sauce, they stay moist and tender. The velvety cream-based finish in this recipe makes them taste richer than they are, and pounding them to an even thickness before cooking ensures they cook through evenly.

That said, if you prefer dark meat, thighs or drumsticks are naturals for this dish. Just adjust the timing: Bone-in thighs will need closer to 20 minutes to finish cooking in the sauce, while bone-in drumsticks may take even longer. A meat thermometer is your friend—160°F for breasts, 175 to 185°F for dark meat for the most tender texture.

Layering Flavor in the Fricassée

The success of a fricassée depends not just on how you cook the chicken, but on how you build flavor in the pan. It starts with a quick sear on the chicken that leaves behind a light fond—those browned bits that form the backbone of the sauce. From there, mushrooms are cooked until they begin to brown and turn savory, then woodsy aromatics, including shallots and thyme, go in.

A dusting of flour thickens the sauce, giving it the classic fricassée texture: not gravy-thick, but velvety enough to coat the chicken and cling to a spoon. White wine adds acidity and brightness to balance the richness, while chicken stock rounds out the body of the braising liquid.

Then come two additions that aren't traditional but show how adaptable fricassée can be: smoked paprika (or Aleppo pepper) and fish sauce. The paprika lends warmth and subtle depth, while Aleppo pepper offers a slightly fruitier profile with a gentle kick of heat. Used sparingly, fish sauce disappears into the background, boosting savoriness without ever tasting "fishy." Together, they make the sauce taste like it's been simmering for hours—even though the dish comes together in under 45 minutes.

Finishing the Dish

The hallmark of a good fricassée is its sauce. After the chicken finishes cooking, the liquid reduces slightly and thickens. A splash of cream and Dijon mustard are whisked in at the end, transforming it into something silky and balanced. The cream rounds out the flavors, while the mustard adds just enough sharpness to keep it from feeling too heavy.

The sauce is easy to manage. Because cream is a relatively stable emulsion, and mustard acts as an additional stabilizer (it's an emulsifier after all), it can simmer gently with little more than the occasional stir until it reaches the right velvety consistency. There's little risk of it breaking, which makes the finish low-stress even for weeknight cooking.  Fresh herbs—chives or tarragon—finish the dish with brightness.

The result is a classic fricassée—chicken nestled into a rich but not too heavy sauce that's comforting yet elegant. Serve it with crusty bread, rice, or egg noodles to soak up every bit.