The Case of the Missing Coq au Vin

"We learned that time in Provence is a very elastic commodity, even when it is described in clear and specific terms.  Un petit quart d'heure means sometime today.  Demain means sometime this week.  And, the most elastic time segment of all, une quinzaine can mean three weeks, two months, or next year, but never, ever does it mean fifteen days."
   –Peter Mayle, A Year in Provence






The Felicites could be seen just through the kitchen window which now shone like a bright painting against the sun slowly ducking behind the Pyrenees.  Well, what better way to gain a bit of

hospitable feedback on his cooking, Merle thought, than to invite two experienced judges in for a little taste of the Fricassee.  Merle cut up his fryer into pieces, seasoned them generously, then threw them into a pot quickly browning them, placing them on a plate

then walking outside to invite the elderly couple in a for a bite.  Mssr. Felicite seemed absorbed in orchestration of instruction to a row of grapevines which likely had not budded at a pace to his liking.  The French, Merle had observed, were not particularly concerned about time when it was they themselves on the hook to get to work, but oooh la la, Nature herself, whether it be the rise of the sunshine in spring, the bud on the branch, or hopeful exit of the Mistral winds, had better fall into line rapidement! Madame Felicite carried both a glass of red and the bottle itself in one hand while petting one of the pointed out limbs in the row with the other.

Would they be so kind as visit the kitchen for a family meal, Merle asked.  Yes, yes, absolutement, they replied accompanied by a French grin which could kindly be interpreted as "well, we shall see about this. Typical Americains.  As they arrived back in the kitchen, Sandy and the children had taken their stations in an assembly line of sorts – clearly a plan that had been in the works for some time as they returned from outside.  Fresh produce rose in small piles along the back end of the counter, asparagus sprigs, which Junonia was cutting down the stalks, Marche de Paris carrots, peeled and chilled by the efficient hands of Josh,  and Jess sinking the morel mushrooms into a buttered pan.

Merle's eyes widened at the very scene itself.  It was as if a fully regulated 3-star kitchen was in place, the stern faces of serious sous chefs reaching down closer to inspect their tidy workstations.  He looked back at the elderly French couple, whose lips had puckered and eyebrows raised with slight nods to each other in a reluctant French face of approval.  Merle entered into the kitchen fray and whispered something to Sandy, not wanting to disrupt the flow of the well-oiled machine.

He took the morels, tossed them in the large stove pot, tossed a pinch of flour over them, then swirled in a portion of this glass wine and chicken broth.  At the broth, he could see the Felicites commenting on, he assumed, the authenticite of the chicken stock itself – had it been correctly calibrated?  Was it from the store?  Hmmmm, they shall see.  The girls had already constructed the thyme and parsley sprigs and he quickly dropped these into the heating stew broth before replacing the chicken and bringing to a boil.  The 40-minute cooking time would give them a chance to ask what the Felicites thought about the 'Case of the Missing Coq au Vin.'

Weeknight Cooking

We've found a couple of burgers we like at Burger Fusion at the mall of La Crosse.  One is the Kansas City, which combines burger and pork with a topping of coleslaw and bbq chips right on the burger.  Nothing wrong with this combo!  The burger Julia likes is the black bean burger made, I found out later, with black beans only, no meat.  When I decided I wanted to make my own version, I found a

recipe that also only called for the black beans themselves, a variety of spices, including oregano and thyme, some bread crumbs and some yellow cornmeal.  What might happen, I wondered, if the black bean portion was simply added hamburger?  I glossed over the recipe, picked and chose the ingredients I knew we would like, then added that to a pound of my standard selection of 1/2 burger, 1/2 turkey.

To this I added one egg to 'fuse' all the ingredients, rolled the burgers into balls then flattened them with a slight palm dip in the center.  Because of the density of the burger (beans especially, but the cornmeal and bread crumbs too), this burger does not cook quite the same as the normal burger that crusts on the outside then darkens as it moves to the center.  This ends up a very solid burger and takes awhile longer to cook; but the fried bean, herb and spice combination packs in little pockets of flavor that the normal burger can never match.  Two sliced pickles across the top, a flat leaf of romaine, ketchup on the both sides, a dash of mustard, all on a slightly crisped sesame bun, and this is one of the great burgers we've ever had.

Periwinkle

"When the wind was in the east a smell came across the harbour from the shark factory; but today there was only the faint edge of the odour because the wind had backed into the north and then dropped off and it was pleasant and sunny on the Terrace." 
    – from Old Man and the Sea





What was it about the sound of the Willet Sandpipers against the soft crash of waves?  All other sounds had faded away.  This was the sound of something quite natural and to the human ear in this day and age 

so unusual that in its primitiveness, its simplicity, it was unusual.  The Grandfather had watched the set of ten or so sandpipers scuttle up and down to the beach line as the crystal waves lapped up onto the sodden sand then back again.  It did not make him sleepy but instead opened up daydreams of their first visit to this part of Florida at Lighthouse Beach at Sanibel, just around the corner from here at the refuge island 

of Caya Costa.  He formulated an image as his granddaughter built up a working mound of periwinkles.  "I know now our next project.  Do you see the color of the horizon," he asked her, who had now become the beach itself, knees coated by hot sand, only the jewels of the world in mind.  He answered for her, "it is orange and therefore time for a fire. Would you mind if we used your periwinkles?"  
    "This is a treasure pile for somebody who comes here next time," she insisted, rolling out, with a swoop of her hand, a pile, flattened, jingling down into the sand.  "Many years ago we were shown something with the periwinkles.  Did you know many of them were still living?"  This seemed to surprise the granddaughter considerably. She picked one up and examined close to the eye as if a jeweler checking for carats.  

The air cooled some against their backs.  The willets now, like a little tribe, marching away against the orange of the moving horizon line.  "I have a way that we could keep the shells but."  He stopped here momentarily, as if to test the proposition before it even came in her eyes.  They asked.  "At Sanibel 

Lighthouse once we were shown how to eat them as delicacies."  The old man had already assembled some driftwood from  above the water line and had set them down in a small pile, which she had not yet paid attention to.  He bent over to the wood on his knees, chilly enough now to hurry. "We should leave back for the mainland in an hour or so, but I would like to heat some of your catch first.  We will simply set them around the rocks, like this, and I will show you how to eat a periwinkle.  They are like little honeycombs of the sea!"  The girl did not easily part with her treasures, but began to bring some of them in small handfuls around the rim of the rock of the fire.  

He picked one up after it had warmed, found the opening of the small shell, sucked to get some of the seawater and initial meat, then took a small stick and poked inwards before the rest of the contents released.  "Just like that.  It takes some work.  If you try five it will be as good as dinner...."

The Case of the Missing Coq au Vin

Merle had a moment in the kitchen alone and found himself going through his usual rushing motions in order to prepare a garden nicoise salad for everybody, plucking what he could find from the 'ice

box' set oddly in a corner at the border of the kitchen and dining room.  He set a quick pot of water and dash of kosher salt to boil for the eggs.  Asparagus would work fine as a substitute for haricot verts (green beans), potatoes, little pearl onions.  Yes, and the tomatoes from the neighbors' own

garden. Realizing he was alone, he looked outside and could see his neighbors now, Mme. and Mssr. Felicite, who had owned these two properties since the end of WWII.  Mssr.  was an elderly, rotund man who still guarded 'his quarters,' as he had called these sixteen acres of Gers countryside, as he and his comrades had in Toulouse back in the days of the French Resistance against the occupation of the German Army.  "So few of us remaining," Mssr. had told the Trudeauxs upon their arrival, seemingly forgetting to sell them the features of the property, but using his time instead to serve up

a perfectly rhythmic lecture on the decline of American heritage since the grand days of The Liberation.  "I can still see the long strides of De Gaulle walking down the Champs, a man never dissuaded by the Anglican."  Merle and Sandy, in typical American fashion, they supposed, didn't expect, as customers of the property, to be criticized for their part in generational decline, but found it easy to bite their lips with extra pressure as they walked along the blooming garden and trellises already set for them around the contours of the aquamarine pool.  They shook their heads simultaneously.  Mme. Felicite, a true dear, with flowing and majestic gray hair, held, by turns, Provencial sunshine at the wings of her eyes.  She smiled as in anticipation the final

words of her husband's speech, and raised a basket of enormous tomatoes.  "We picked these just yesterday afternoon," she said in her lilting Gascony accent.  "These are the kings and queens of the les jardin," she slipped in, "and you will find a few in there in which the caps come off and brimming with vegetables, ham, mushrooms, and chicken.  Simply bake these for fifteen minutes and voila!, Gascony in a dish!  Tomorrow, we will introduce you to your own garden."  She made her two fingers to scissors as if to suggest the cutting of weeds.  They smiled again.  Mssr. used this parting moment to give a brief run down of the area's most relished figure, "the very soul of the southern Frenchman who, it turned out was born in this very area near Lupiec in 1611, Charles Ogier de Batz de Castelmore, Comte d'Artagnan, the son of a nobleman."

Mssr. Felicite's eyes began to bulge some and his round body fully outmatched by his miniature mustache which moved as quickly as if to be flying by itself.  "Oui, the Muskateers, not everybody knows, were quite real my friends.  When he was taken at the Siege of Maastricht the Sun King himself had cried the woe of his loss: "I have lost d'Artagnan, whom I entirely trusted and who was loved by all.  From this very point, if we walked up onto the foothills of the Pyrenees," he said, "we could see outlines of the

Chateau at Lupiec.  Before you leave, we would fully recommend Les Ecuries d'Armagnac, a horseride through the Gascon countryside."

The Case of the Missing Coq au Vin

Merle had lost track of time underneath the Provencial sunshine, the three Armagnacs making his grocery list much more like a mad dash from village storefront to storefront.  He could picture the days here of D'Artagnan himself, who his author described as a modern Don Quixote, riding his

own trusty horse Rocinante through the lavender fields, the hedgerows and foothills of the Pyrenees back

to his private fiefdom for a feast of chicken fricassee.  Who needs cars anyway Merle found himself thinking, when a horse would do just fine. He tried to picture the image of lining his three children behind him on the horse in order to get to school.  Waiting at the curbside, trusty steed tied to a bike rack, after school?  Such things.  He sat instead behind the wheel of his rented Dodge mini van and sixteen minutes later arrived at the shared drive of their holiday rental and remarked at the invitation of the backfarm pool.

He pulled up on the handles of his two grocery bags and walked onto the patio leading to the walk-in kitchen, which still mesmerized him in its colorful simplicity.  Once he stood there, at the doorway

 into the house, he reconsidered his role as recipe sleuth and wondered if he could just open his auberge here at home and never leave?  He had felt this very way about a kitchen only one other time in his life, when he spent a summer as a butler in Charleston S.C. overlooking King Street.  Where else would anybody need to be?  "Hello.  Home," he said, anticipating some murmur of voice from the living room or upstairs. 

Merle began to set up all the ingredients for Fricassee instinctively: assorted chicken, olive oil, butter, morels mushrooms, shallots, a cooled bottle of white wine, some thyme and parseley, chives, and finally his creme freche and set them all out onto the cupboard island.  He could finally hear soft voices out in the direction of the swimming pool.  The last thing he unloaded from his front pocket was Henri III business card -- its note on the back reminding him of their meeting at the Lupiec Hotel 

later that night.  He shrugged his shoulders.  Maybe this would make for a nice Provencial family visit?

 

The Case of the Missing Coq au Vin

As Merle was reading through the handwritten letter from D'Artagnan himself – the very one written to his king, the king, and that was to become the 'Royal Recipe of Coq au Vin,' and therefore the national recipe – he looked over to Henri III with a broad smile as he could feel the subtle vibration from his phone in his front pocket.  Just as his little "side caper," as his wife had called it, was coming along quite nicely, he knew he was also late to market for the daily home groceries.  He set the letter down quickly onto the table next to the two Armagnac empties, which had sent him spinning unused to mid day drinking, and asked if it would be okay to check a quick message, "most likely from my wife."  He stood up in the darkness of the Auberge and scraped his chair across the floor, thumbing his messages on his phone.

AND PLEASE DONT FORGET WE ARE RUNNING LOW ON MILK!  IF WE ARE GOING TO MAKE FRICASSEE WE WILL NEED THE CHICKEN!  RAISINS.  A GOOD PORTION OF THE

BRIOCHE FROM THAT WOMAN WE FOUND DOWN ON THE LUPIEC VILLAGE CORNER.  REMEMBER HER? WHAT TIME DO YOU PLAN ON BEING HOME?  SHOULD I START THE FRICASSEE STEW WITHOUT YOU?


It was, Merle thought, quite a jolt to go from Royal French mysteries to milk for Josh, Jess, and Junonia, but, he supposed, this is what he signed up for when he put his life savings into a six month lease into a countryside villa just so he could cook from a kitchen perch over looking both the Pyrenees and pool at the same time.  This made him wonder, in a sort of revelation, if he could ask for something in return for finding the missing royal letter.

Merle cleared his throat and smiled at Henri III, who he was beginning to think was more accurately 'Henri the Giant.'
    "About the letter."  Before he could finish Henri was pushing over to Merle's side of the table a small dish of what he called crispet, and yet one more Armagnac for the sake of good health and fabulous adventures.  "The crispet is like those famous doughnuts that you Americans get at fairs.

Have you every been to New Orleans? The most famous beignet in the states, from the Cafe du Mond?"  Merle remembered well his first trip to du Mond with his middle child years agods, Jess, one steamy morning, the beignets along with the chicory coffee.  Reduced to nothing more than a simple slave to this lunch by now he quickly slammed his Armagnac.  He had visions of the great D'Artagnan on grand

adventures along the rolling hilltops of Gers.  "Yes, yes, have been there.  Another Armagnac?" he said, now holding up his small wine glass in good cheer.  "Just a message from my wife, you see, for groceries.  I won't be able to start in on our search just yet.  We are to cook Fricassee tonight.  My youngest has been a little under the weather.  My oldest, we can't quite make it out, but we think she has met a French boy, but they can't talk to each other because of the language situation, and she is getting frustrated."  Henri smiled his large teeth.  "I have seven myself Mr. Trudeaux.  You see, we are in this together.  We French, first we eat our meal, that is the most important, but then we are incorrigibly loyal I can

assure you.  I am staying at Le Petite Relaise for the night.  Maybe we could discuss details of our search later if you have other obligations?  But first, you must meet another member of our little party.  We call him Patton."  Henri the Giant pushed out from the table and turned back to the waiter and waved him over.  The waiter briefly gave him a famous French lip of resistance, but then seemed to reconsider, based on the imposing figure of Henri, and scooted over quickly, penciling in the total for the damage of the lunch and giving a good nod. They stood, Henri unfazed by the three Armagnacs, but Merle feeling as if he might stumble over a knot in the floor boards.  Henri opened the front door of the Auberge and the Provencial light shone so bright as if to blind them.  Henri whistled with two fingers to his lips.  No response.  "Patton."  Merle looked down the village walkway to the right and could see something stand up slowly from the corner of the Auberge.

  

The sleepy dog meandered over wagging its white tail as if in slow motion.  "The dogs here in France, you will find, haven fallen in love with the European siesta as well."

The Case of the Missing Coq Au Vin

Henri III was the least inconspicuous man conceivably in France, Merle thought, as he had entered the Auberge D' Artagnan in the little village of Lupiec.  Henri was approximately 6'9" and walked up to greet Merle hunched over so far forward from a lifetime likely of hitting his head on every low hanging rafter ever built.  He wore a grey suit, a string tie, and combed his hair to the side of a head seemingly flat as a brick.  He smiled an enormous set of perfect teeth, however, which could have been sent as the leading

photo for any dental office.  "We have before us already a fine bowl of Garbure Bearnaise. Have you heard of it?"  The Auberge was dark, quite quiet, and comfortable.  Two local men sat on skinny stools against a counter in the rear corner a few feet away from an old cottage hearth flaming.  "Yes this is where the real D'Artagnan would have sat if you are wondering," Henri III said, leading Merle to a small table tucked in back, a small peak-out window above the table.
   "No, I can't say I know anything about Garbure Béarnaise," Merle said.  "Béarnaise is familiar though.  That I have tried."  They sat quickly down on this seats. Merle watched intently to make sure it held Henri who was intent on getting to business.  "First a little salut to the local chemists."  The giant host raised a small cylindrical wine tumbler full of a pinkish liquid.  "Armagnac has been produced here in the Gers locale for

generations.  Three grapes," he said, "see if you can identify the Folle Blanche, the Ugni Blanc, the Baco Blanc."  As he sipped he replied to each as he tasted them with reaching eyebrows.   Merle felt a bit like a severe amateur.  A waiter walked over to the back of the table and dropped off two more pre-ordered Armagnacs.  "That will be fine for now," Henri said.  "When I grew up the Garbure was tested by whether it was thick enough to stand on a spoon or not.  What we have here is the pre-eminent peasant stew.  You pick your vegetables, always some cabbage, fava beans and well smoked Bayonne ham.  A confit of goose is the truest mark."  The bowl of Grabure looked mealy and a bit nondescript, undiced, but smelled like the very earth itself.  "This is wonderfully smoky," Merle remarked.

 

 "Yes, they still cook it here directly over the hearth fire. Tres incredible!"  After a few more bites, Henri produced the letter that Merle had been told was the purpose of their meeting.  "I know you have seen a letter very much like this one yourself Mr. Trudeaux, and that is why you have been asked here to meet with me.  As you open it up, please tell me if this looks like the one that you once possessed."  Merle set his spoon down into the bowl of Garbure and patiently opened the brittle paper

item in his hand.  The rubber stamping on the back had turned brittle over so much time.  The paper yellowed and he could see the script of the handwriting through the backside.  On the first trifold were the words in French, which he knew, "On leaving the paternal chamber, the young man found his mother, who was waiting for him with the famous recipe of which the counsels we have just repeated would necessitate frequent employment.  The adieux were on his side...."  The letter continued down for another paragraph or so, and then the recipe that Merle had recognized, entitled Coq Au Vin.  He shook his head in affirment.
   "Those who have read The Three Musketeers by Dumas have been reading this early passage for years, of course, but Dumas himself was doing nothing more than taking something from the real

D'Artagnan himself, who you know came from here in the Gers region, and who served as a Musketeer under the real king.  He had written down the recipe for the famous Gascony Coq Au Vin in his own script.  He wrote one for his sister and one for the king.  You have in possession the letter meant for his sister.  It is the one that once resided in the hands of the King that has gone missing."

 Snapshots from Outta Town

We didn't quite find our hoped for balmy paradise along the main downtown walkway in Iowa City, Iowa outside in January, but we did

in row 28, section L of the Carver-Hawkeye Arena for a good game against the Badgers.  Hotel

Vetro, concrete floors and all, was not what we expected on this visit, but was a very cool, sleek room

located in the same complex as the authentic Japanese restaurant Formosa, and an awesome little grocery store called the Bread Garden Market.  And we may not have found a smooth ride home over the bluff ridges on the way home, but I will say we did find true adventure, as seen here from the Volvo dashboard at New Vienna, where the gas stations were closing down, as one worker said, for the first time in memory.

One step closer to balmy paradise...ah, Sundara Wisconsin Dells in any old cold month breaks the ice – here a view of the heated pool and hot tub from our room above.

A short walk from Sundara, Rivers View Pub and Grub with its very own tree coming up through the bar for the locals to climb late at night.

Having seen Iowa and Wisconsin, on to Minnesota at Radisson Blu for a short trip to Mall of America, where the Blue Men (Julia) regularly entertain guests.

Children become paintings on the wall.

And the Twin Cities Grill offers up some wild rice entertainment.