Fumigating with Coq au Vin

When my friend died I got his copy of Coyote Café, a cookbook by Mark Miller. There was a memorial gathering at a bar on the riverfront in Savannah, Georgia thrown together by few of his ex-girlfriends. Some of his stuff – cds, books, a bike helmet, etc. – was laid out on tables for people to pick up and take home as mementos.

He, my wife, and I were practically roommates for a spell. At the cusp of the century swap, we had the upper left apartment of a fourplex and he had the upper right. We still courtesy knocked, but if my wife was studying and Jeffrey, the friend, was out somewhere I’d still go over to his place if I wanted to watch TV (television) or listen to music. The best part of this communal arrangement was that Jeffery was a chef. We ate well. Very well. And he didn’t just feed us. He taught us all manner of things about food stuffs and ways to make them hot.

I don’t think he taught us anything out of Coyote Café. I picked it because the spine was sun-bleached; it was something that he’d had for a while. The Coyote Café restaurant is in New Mexico and I figured he picked the book up when he was running a kitchen in Arizona. It felt like something that made moves with him. Looking at it now, I don’t think he used it much. He was a sloppy cook at home. He was the opposite when working, but at home things got splashed around and dripped on. The pages are pristine. More than likely, the book didn’t get left.

The first dish he taught me how to cook was coq au vin. The variation he showed me was one of several he knew and was by far the simplest. You lightly browned the meat; legs and thighs and no more a sear than needed to seal in juices. Sauté rough cut carrots, celery, and onion in a stock pot with olive oil, add thyme, parsley, rosemary, bay, mushrooms, chicken stock (or vegetable stock or just water – “You’re making chicken stock as you cook anyway so who gives a shit,” he’d said.) and then a bottle of Rhone red, bring it to a boil, turn down to a simmer, and come back in two or three hours when the meat’s falling off the bone.

It being a Jeffery recipe there’d be a jalapeno or a serrano mixed in with the rustic cut mirepoix but otherwise basic peasant French stuff. It was practically soup, so you’d ladle out the meat and vegetables with a slotted spoon and then scoop broth as you please. What was remarkable was how it made the apartment smell – both apartments if we left the back hall doors open.

We grow herbs in the yard. To the left of the porch, from facing, we have oregano, the good parsley, and mint. There’s parsley, thyme, basil, micro-basil, bay, and rosemary in pots on the porch itself and to right we have another basil plant, more thyme, and more rosemary. There’s a lot of redundancy, but we use a lot of those herbs. Sometimes when I’m sitting out front reading or whatever, the wind hits just right and I get a nose full of all those herby aromas and it’s wonderful.

Civilization improves nature. Haphazardly strewn seeds are replaced by orchards, cold is driven back by HVAC, marauding wolves become wittle cutie puppies. Heat concentrates aromas and thanks to the wonders bequeathed by our forbearers, nature proof walls trap concentrated aromas and take capricious wind out of the equation. No more sitting around swatting mosquitos in hopes of a gentle easterly to get a waft of garnishment bouquet. The occasional blessing of nature is modernity’s thrall.

It’s not fashionable to say, but for all our eco-posturizing most prefer the indoors. That’s why a wide-open acre of land in Nevada can be had for $12.48 but a 5”x4.3”x4.3” terrarium costs $19.91 on Amazon.

It’s not that we don’t appreciate the great outdoors. We love visiting there. We put pictures of it up on the walls of the places we choose to spend more of our time. It’s just that we’ve made the indoors greaterer.

Over the last couple of decades I’ve played around with various versions of coq au vin, but I’ve always kept dominance over nature in mind. If eating nature were sufficient, I’d be happy with jerky. I want its essence too. That requires a long slow simmering liquid to infuse the house with smellicules. At the same time I want a little crispiness to the bird. Finally, I like velvety more than brothy.

Coq Au Vin

• 8 chicken thighs, bone in with skin
• ½ yellow onion, diced
• 2 ribs celery, diced
• 2 carrots, diced
• 4-6 cloves garlic, minced
• small handful flat leaf parsley, chopped
• 6-8 sprigs thyme, leaves only
• bay leaf
• red pepper flakes, to taste
• 2 cups chicken stock
• red wine, preferably tempranillo or a Rhone blend
• 15-20 pearl onion, peeled
• 8 oz. cremini mushrooms, quartered
• cornstarch
• salt and pepper to taste
• 1 minced hot pepper of your choice if you’re feeling Jeffrey like (he’d put the seeds in too)

I almost always go with thighs but the thigh-drumstick pieces would be nice as well. In most cases I say that if you prefer white meat for some reason, go ahead and substitute breast. Not this time. White meat dries out where dark meat doesn’t. That sounds impossible in a braise, but it happens. I don’t want to miss an “I told you so!” moment should you try anyway, so note me checking the box and saying that this is yet another reminder that dark meat is better than white meat.

The first thing to do is salt the thighs liberally and give them a good sear in a very hot pan. I use a cast iron skillet for this, but a regular skillet or a Dutch over will do in a pinch. Heat the pan, place the thighs in skin side down and cook for 8 minutes, turn over, and go 8 minutes more.

I like a little char on mine so I cooked four of the thighs for 10 minutes a side rather than 8. I think it looks better too but do what you will. When they’re done, remove the chicken to a plate or dish and set aside. They’re probably cooked through at this point, but don’t worry about cutting to check or messing with a thermometer. They’ll go back in a pan soon enough for a slow braise that’ll ensure they’re finished without overcooking even if they are already done.

As when making so many sauces, start building flavor with mirepoix; diced carrots, celery, and onion. I’m now a Rosetta Stone customer trying to learn Italian so I’m goofy about suddenly wanting to know what the Italian word for whatever I’m thinking of is. I looked up mirepoix. In Italy, diced carrots, celery, and onion is known as battuto, until it’s cooked. Start sauteing it in olive oil and suddenly it’s called soffritto which is confusing because I always thought soffritto was an Italian term for mirepoix plus garlic. Sofrito with one “f” is a Latin American term referring to all manner of mixed vegetable combinations and my wife makes somebody’s traditional sofrito from a cilantro heavy herb mix and spices and no carrots or celery at all and freezes it in an ice cube tray as a pre-portioned soup base. Sometimes you realize just how hard God whacked us with that Babel thing.

Anyway, take the battuto pictured above, add a few glugs of olive oil to a Dutch oven or stock pot, and make the soffritto pictured below.

Start with onion and carrots over a medium high heat. When the onion turns towards translucent, add the celery. If you’re adding hot pepper, now is the time for that too. I don’t use them in this myself. I think a little red pepper flake added later is enough to brighten the flavors and I don’t want the pepper’s pulp tatse. Jeffrey swore by it though.

When the celery begins to dull, add the garlic and 30 seconds later, the bottle of wine. Stir every so often throughout.

This calls for an earthy, full wine. Fantastic Spanish tempranillos can be had inexpensively. A decent Cotes du Rhone isn’t much more. I say pour in the whole bottle, but if you wanted to set aside a small quality control glass for yourself, no one will be the wiser.

I think this dish requires thyme and I like parsley and bay with it. If you want to add more, rosemary would be fantastic. Oregano, marjoram, sage, and lavender would all do well. You can skip the chopping and wrap everything in a cheese cloth bouquet garni tied off with string to look fancy. My only caution would be to keep it to three or four herbs so none gets lost. If using dried herbs, forget my caution and go nuts with 2 tsp. (or more to taste) of herbs de Provence instead. Add red pepper flakes too.

Bring the wine to a boil and keep it there for roughly 2 minutes to cook off some of the alcohol. Pour in the stock, bring to a boil again, and then bring down to a simmer.

Add the chicken to the braise and submerge the thighs as best you can. Let simmer for 30 minutes.

I cook the pearl onions and mushrooms separately because want I both to retain a springy texture that they’d lose after too long in the braise.

Sautee them in a few glugs of olive oil, stirring frequently, for 5 or so minutes over medium high heat. I aim for a little char on a few of the onions.

When the mushrooms and onions are done, turn off the heat. I try to have them done just as the 30 minute timer for the braising chicken goes off. If you miss the mark, the mushrooms and onion can rest in the pan without suffering indignities.

You can leave the chicken in for the next part if you like. I find it easier to stir without eight thigh pieces in the way, so I remove them to a plate for a moment when their 30 minutes is up.

Better chefs use arrowroot as a thickener because it makes the sauce glossy. I use cornstarch because it’s just as flavorless as arrowroot and easily had at my local supermarket. I don’t know why arrowroot is only at specialty stores in my area. I don’t see it as all that special. Either will do. Sprinkle a teaspoon in, stir, come to terms with the fact that there may be lumps – I haven’t tried a flour sifter yet but maybe that would help – and whisk or stir. If needed, repeat until you get nearly the viscosity you want. There’s still a little cooking to do so allow for the sauce to thicken a bit more.

Add the sauteed mushrooms and pearl onions. Stir.

Put the chicken back in and simmer for 10 more minutes. Salt and pepper to taste. Serve.

Coq au vin was meant to be placed atop mashed potatoes with a ladle or two of saucy braise. This is country cooking so treat it as such. Eat in the kitchen from an old porcelain bowl with crusty bread and some more of that tempranillo in a stemless tumbler.

Step outside for a minute and come back in to catch the aroma you’ve been steeping in anew. Your place will smell like that for at least the next two days if you let it. Unless you have an old dog.

Enjoy.