Advice on Wine and Flesh

Flipping through a tomb called Wildwood: Cooking from the source in the Pacific Northwest, I happened upon a recipe which seemed to fit the bill perfectly for my fifth feast. The criteria were threefold: I needed a meal that a) had no wheat, owing to the wheat allergies of several of my friends, b) would not make my wallet shiver (as I am attempting to break a lifetime habit and actually save a spot of money), and c) would be in radiant, self-satisfied harmony with this late summer season. Wildwood provided me with an answer in the form of a recipe for “chicken legs, braised in pinot noir and blackberries, with fennel purée.” Perfect.

Alas, nothing in life is that simple, it seems. I turned up to work on the morning of my feast and my boss, on seeing the cookbook, promptly picked it up and scrutinized the recipe with a suspicious eye (this man has a cooking library of over 3,000 books and a culinary arts degree , so I kinda listen to what he says). “Yeah, I’ve got this book, and I’ve eaten at the restaurant . . . wasn’t that impressed really.”

“Oh,” I replied, slightly deflated. I had been so excited about this meal. “So you don’t think it’ll be any good then?”

Boss man smiled apologetically, and explained. “Well, you see this recipe is basically a twist on coq au vin, which is made using an old bird. The tannins in the wine work on breaking down the tougher muscle, you see. But we don’t really get old birds here, so the wine might be kinda hard. Know what I mean?”

“Yea, of course. That makes sense.” I felt fully deflated by now.

But a minute or two later boss man was back. “What you could do,” he began and then paused, qualifying with a sideways smile, “not that I want to interfere. Am I interfering? Good. So, what you could do is cook the wine down a while. Cook it with some good chicken stock and maybe a little mirepois. That’ll soften it up a bit. Then use that liquid to braise the meat. It’s just a thought,” he finished, with a deprecating shrug of the shoulders and another half grin.

And so, obedient to the advice of my new culinary mentor, I pushed the offending cookbook aside and followed his instructions. The result? Luscious, fork tender flakes of flesh, all stained purple with blackberries and softened wine sauce. The meal? Well I’m tired and hung over so that story is for tomorrow.