Coq au Vin Blanc

A Franco-American Marriage

“Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.”—John Keats

I think my favorite part of the Biden presidency was not having to hear him—the other one—constantly talked about on the news and political programs here in France, where I live. It was such a relief not to have his voice resonating through my living room every time I entered my apartment or whining over the airwaves as I tried to enjoy a meal. Politics, both in the United States and in France, was pretty much back to usual, post Covid, post him.

Now he’s back, and I can’t escape it. Even running away to France hasn’t protected me from him. He’s everywhere, every news program is teeming with his nonsense, his name on every political pundit’s lips. Video clips invade my space, my home in this faraway foreign country, his voice barely hidden by the voice-over attempting to dub his craziness. And his policies are beginning to affect the very country in which I live.

My experience as an American living in France has been very up and down since I left hot on the heels of Reagan’s reelection. A few years later, shortly after I married, I went to the American consulate in Paris to register as an official American resident abroad. I asked about French nationality. The gentleman behind the counter furrowed his brow and said, “Oh no! Don’t do it! The relationship between the two countries is not good. Strained. In turmoil. If you apply for and are granted French citizenship, you risk losing your American nationality.”

A few years later, we moved to Italy. Again, I made a trip to an American consulate, this one in Milan, to declare myself and my two sons as American residents in Italy. The gentleman behind the counter asked “Why don’t you have French nationality?” I explained. He laughed and answered, “Oh, that’s all finished now! New presidents on both sides of the Atlantic, a great diplomatic relationship between the two, and you’d really have to do something dire, you’d have to go up to the American president and spit on his shoes (yes, he really did say that) for them to take away your nationality!”

France and America have had a bumpy marriage, indeed.

I was living in France during the first Gulf War, when the U.S. Embassy issued a warning to Americans not to speak English in public, not to read The International Herald Tribune on the metro. Being openly “American” was officially discouraged; it was dangerous, they implied, to be an American in France. I witnessed the controversy of “freedom fries” and the American boycott of French wines, sparked by French Foreign Minister Dominique de Villepin’s bold and vocal stand against the Iraq invasion in front of the U.N. Security Council, making France’s opposition known to the world.

And here we are again. America and France pitted against each other, despite a long, amical, productive relationship. Outrageous political games of his administration not only risk an economic rupture between my two nations—America, my home country, and France, my adopted country—but a gaping cultural divide, as well. Ignoring French diversity and anti-discrimination policies, the U.S. Embassy’s letter requiring French companies to fall in line with his “anti-woke” demands if they want to continue doing business in the United States or receive government contracts has pushed those companies to push back.

And now tariffs. He already threatened outrageous tariffs on French wines, Champagne, cheese and other luxury products during his first term to pressure on Macron’s government to change policy decisions, knowing how important those exports are to France and to the United States. If it worked once, he probably assumes, it will work again. French political pundits and journalists are ridiculing his tariffs, calling them insane, reckless, and destructive for the citizens of both countries while noting that they’re already provoking retaliation. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for some form of retaliation; giving in or trying to negotiate with a delusional madman only makes him believe that he somehow wins, and he’ll continue to use his mafia-esque bullying to strong-arm other policies and actions until they are favorable to him. But the tariffs risk hurting us all.

Though we might not yet be at the freedom fries (Freedom toast? Freedom bulldogs? Freedom kissing?) point in the relationship, we are back to French wine. But not by any American boycott. This time around it’s all because of one narcissistic little man with a Napoleon complex.

France exports many food products to the States, including cereals, flour, dairy products, eggs, and honey. But wine is what everyone is talking about. After threatening a 200% tax on French wines, Champagne, and liqueurs, he’s backpedaled to a 20% tariff after the European Union dropped measures to hit American bourbon/whiskey with retaliatory tariffs. The last I heard, he has dropped some new tariffs. It’s his game. But it shook France, from our politicians to our wine producers, to their very roots.

Il suffisait de faire tourner le vin en vinaigre.

His antics were enough to turn wine into vinegar, as the French saying goes.

Things seemed to have calmed down a bit over here. We’ll see if it stays calm. This week, I have turned to a dish that includes a bottle of good French wine - and French it must be, bien sûr! While you can still buy it in the United States.

“Wine is constant proof that God loves us and loves to see us happy.”—Benjamin Franklin

Today, I offer you a lighter, spring-inspired take on France’s traditional coq au vin. I’ve used a white wine instead of a red, stirred in a touch of cream to make the sauce a little richer, and added seasonal delicate green asparagus tips.

Coq au Vin Blanc Printanier

Springtime coq au vin with white wine and asparagus

2.2 pounds (1 kilo) skin-on chicken pieces, preferably thighs, but mixed is fine

5 ounces (140 grams) smoked lardons or slab bacon

8 to 9 ounces (250 grams) mushrooms, (brown) champignons de Paris or cremini

2 medium purple shallots or 1 small onion

3 cloves garlic

Olive oil

2 tablespoons (30 grams) butter

1 ½ or 2 tablespoons potato starch, cornstarch, or flour

2 cups (500 ml) white wine (* see note)

2 bay leaves, dried or fresh

4 or 5 branches fresh thyme

Salt and pepper

26 ounces (750 grams) fresh, thin green asparagus

½ cup (125 ml) heavy cream or crème fraîche

*Note: the best white wine for this dish is a French chardonnay, either a Bourgogne Blanc, a chardonnay de Languedoc or a sauvignon blanc, from Quincy or Sancerre.

Prepare the chicken by trimming off and discarding any large pockets of fat and flaps of skin. Pat the chicken clean and dry with paper towels.

If using slab bacon, slice or cut into strips or small chunks. Clean the mushrooms and discard the stems (or save them for making vegetable broth); slice small mushroom caps in half and large mushroom caps in quarters. Trim, peel, and chop the shallots. Trim and peel the cloves of garlic, slice each clove in half down the center, remove any green germ, then slice each clove half lengthwise again.

Heat a tablespoon or two of olive oil in a large, heavy Dutch oven. When the oil is very hot, brown the chicken pieces on both sides; this is best done in two batches and takes about 6 or 7 minutes per batch. Remove the browned chicken to a plate and continue with the rest of the pieces, removing those to the plate when browned.

Add the lardons or bacon to the hot oil remaining in the pot and, stirring, cook until beginning to brown, then add the mushrooms and continue cooking, stirring with a wooden spoon, for 3 or 4 minutes. Add the shallots and garlic and cook, stirring, for an additional 3 or 4 minutes. The mushrooms should be browned around the edges, the shallots and garlic tender.

Add the butter to the vegetables and lardons in the pot. When the butter is melted, add the potato starch and stir it in quickly; continue stirring and cooking for about a minute. Add a splash of the wine - about a quarter cup - to deglaze the pot, scraping up any solids stuck to the bottom of the pot with a wooden spoon.

Place the browned chicken into the pot; add the rest of the wine, the bay leaves and thyme, and generously salt and pepper. If needed, top it off with a little bit of water so the chicken pieces are just covered with liquid. Bring to a boil, lower the heat, place a lid on the pot slightly ajar, and allow to simmer for 40 minutes.

While the coq au vin is cooking, snap off the fibrous part of the stalks from the asparagus, leaving only the tender tip - about 4 or 5 inches (10 to 12 cm) long.

At the end of the 40 minutes of cooking, add the asparagus tips to the coq au vin, gently pressing them under the surface of the liquid, topping it off with a bit more water if needed. Continue cooking the coq au vin for an additional 10 minutes; the asparagus should be tender and the chicken cooked through and beginning to fall off the bone.

Gently stir the cream into the coq au vin, carefully so as not to break the asparagus. Allow the sauce to heat through.

Serve with potatoes, rice, or noodles, as you like. And, of course, crusty French bread to sop up the sauce. And more French wine, s’il vous plaît.

Jamie Schler is an American food and culture writer living in France where she owns a hotel and writes the Substack Life’s a Feast.

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