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."