Coq-au-Vin

I made my first contact with coq-au-vin, one of the undisputed glories of French cuisine, when I was eighteen. The place - a little French restaurant on New York’s West Side, one of those little bistros run by a French family, where you could eat inexpensively yet wonderfully well.

Maman served smilingly behind the bar in the small front room with its three or four tables. Papa cooked the specialities of France in the back dining-room-cum-kitchen, separated from his clients by only a low counter, and their daughter served at table. Each night had papa’s favourite speciality: Monday was a creamy blanquette de veau; Tuesday, a hearty sausage-and-game-filled cassoulet; Wednesday, a majestic pot-au-feu; Thursday, navarin de mouton, garnished with papa’s own vegetables; Friday was bouillabaisse night. But best of all, for me at least, was Saturday, for that was the night they served coq-au-vin.