The Coq au Vin: A Worthy Death

He’s back.
A little charred from too much sun—or maybe he stood too close to the grill when it was being lit. Either way, I’m glad to have him haunting my kitchen again. Just in time for the big show.

What show, you ask?

Cue sparkles, a little smoke, and a dramatic little chef’s bow.

Allow me to present another classic from the Bourdain Bible: Coq au Vin (Les Halles, p. 206).

After last week’s break from cooking over a hot stove, it felt necessary. I mean, who doesn’t love a nice cockerel in their wine?

“Oldest joke in the kitchen,” says the ghostly critic.
I don’t care. It’s still funny.

“Oui, chef.” wink

🐓 Coq au Vin: A French Classic

There’s a whole paragraph—13 lines long, no less—that precedes the recipe. Allow me to summarize:

Enter the coq. Whole. Naked. Not chopped into pieces.

Next: a chopped onion, celery, carrot, and a bouquet garni. Into the pot they go.

Then, open a bottle of wine.
Do not drink it.
It’s for the chicken. Yes, all of it. Enough to fully submerge the bird and veg. Cover and refrigerate overnight.

Day Two: Things Get Purple

The chicken emerges from its bath looking a little purple and deeply mysterious.

After searing it (easier than it sounds), it goes back into the pot with the wine and vegetables.

Now for the fun part: bacon, mushrooms, and pearl onions—each cooked separately. Because we are fancy like that.

If you’re a fan of the movie Julie & Julia—please note: there are no peas in this recipe. You can add them if you must, but they’re mostly for looks.

🧅 Pearl Onion Purgatory

The bacon: cut into lardons (short, thick strips) and crisped.
The mushrooms: just the caps, ma’am, sautéed until golden.
The pearl onions: …this is where things got tense.

I used to blanche and peel them by hand. Later, when I had to produce more copious amounts of whatever French stew the customer wanted, I gave in to frozen pre-peeled ones.

But this time?
The ghost was watching.

There was only one bag of raw pearl onions left at the market, and they were huge. I thought: "All the easier to peel."
And so, I did. Paring knife in hand, raw dogging it through every enormous orb. Just me and my pain tolerance.
The ghost gave a little booty shake in approval.

Braising them, though?
That took forever.
Twenty minutes in, the water still hadn’t evaporated but the onions were already quite soft. I drained the rest of the water before they could collapse completely and carefully browned them. Disaster dodged.

🍷 Wine Sauce, Noodles, Magic

Make the wine sauce.
Stir in the bacon, mushrooms, and onions.
Boil and butter some noodles.
Quarter the chicken.

Plate. Eat. Die of deliciousness.

A worthy death. Well-earned.

🍒 But Wait—Dessert: Clafoutis (Les Halles, p. 277)

What is clafoutis, you ask? (It’s pronounced clah-foo-ti, if this is your first time reading that word.) A rustic French dessert made with boozy cherries, eggs, flour, and sugar.

A while back, a dear friend gifted me a cherry pitter. And let me tell you: when you need one, you really need one.

1½ pounds of cherries—pitted and soaked in apricot brandy. They’re in season, by the way.

Why apricot brandy and not kirsch?
Because I live in Utah, where people who don’t drink alcohol decide what’s available to those who do. So the retail space in this state devoted to the sale of alcohol is, per capita, miniscule. Often, the selection of traditional or useful spirits is limited.

So: no kirsch. But plenty of things like whipped cream-flavored vodka, peanut butter whisky, sweetened fruity wines, and questionable premixed canned cocktails.

</rant>

Because of all those gorgeous, plump cherries—and how much puff eggs get in the oven—I opened the door to find a volcano-shaped dome erupting from the pan.

It flattened as it cooled (fortunately? sadly?). I served it with a scoop of cherry vanilla ice cream, and it was perfect.

That is… until I realized hours later that the ice cream was still on the counter. Fully melted.

The ghost whispered to me, “Nevermind the ice cream. You did well tonight.” I almost cried. High praise from him. And my feet were killing me.

🎁 Don’t Forget the Apron Contest

You know you want to win that apron.
It’s as easy as forgetting to put the ice cream away.

Affiliate Disclosure:
Some links in this newsletter may be affiliate links, which means I may earn a small commission—at no extra cost to you. It helps support this ghost-haunted kitchen and keeps the butter flowing.