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."