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.'