Chapter 11

The day of the coq au vin assessment arrived with a weight of expectation that the students hadn’t expected. A routine midterm practicum had transformed, through Chef Girard’s paint-by-numbers lesson, into something significant—now it had become a statement of their culinary identity.

Matthew had spent hours thinking and rethinking his approach, balancing respect for tradition with the personal perspective Chef Girard had tasked them to bring. The classic French dish—a tough rooster braised in wine with mushrooms, bacon and onions to make it tender and flavorful—was one which generations of chefs had worked their interpretations.

He arrived at the ICE, ninety minutes before the event, his backpack stuffed full of the ingredients, wines and spices he’d hand selected at the market.

The kitchens were quiet at this hour, just a few instructors preparing for the day. Matthew claimed a station, unpacked and organized everything.

His ingredients—purchased with his own funds—were arranged in precise mise en place: chicken thighs rather than the traditional whole bird; lardons of cured pork belly from a butcher in Queens; dried mushrooms alongside fresh; selected herbs tied in precise bundles.

Sofia arrived next, claiming the station beside his. “You look intense,” she observed, setting up her own workspace. “It’s just coq au vin, not brain surgery.”

Matthew smiled. They both knew it wasn’t “just” anything. In culinary school, as in professional kitchens, dishes were never merely food—they were statements, positions taken in an ongoing discussion between tradition and innovation.

“What’s your approach?” she asked, noting his non-standard ingredients.

Matthew shared. “I’m going to honoring the traditional recipe while incorporating influences from the other kitchens I’ve worked in.”

Sofia nodded, understanding the reference to his diverse background. “Smart. Playing to your strengths while respecting the assignment.”

As their classmates filtered in, the kitchen soon abuzz with nervous energy. Some students clutched printed recipes, reviewing measurements and techniques until the last moment. Others affected casual confidence, though their frequent glances at the clock betrayed their anxiety.

Chef Girard arrived at precisely 9:00 AM, moving through the kitchen with his customary theatrical flair, inspecting stations and offering cryptic comments designed to either reassure or unsettle, depending on his assessment of what each student needed.

When he reached Matthew’s station, he paused, taking in the non-standard ingredients. “Interesting choices, Mr. Conner. You’re not using the whole chicken?”

“No, Chef. I selected thighs only—more flavor, better texture for braising.”

Girard nodded, neither approving nor disapproving. “And these?” He gestured to several small containers of spices not typically associated with coq au vin.

“Influences from other culinary traditions, Chef. Star anise, Sichuan peppercorns, dried chilies. They’ll be subtle, just enough to add depth without overwhelming the classic profile.”

A slight smile touched Girard’s lips. “Bold choices. But remember, innovation without purpose is merely novelty.” He moved on to the next station, leaving Matthew wondering whether his comment had been a warning or encouragement.

At 9:15, Chef Girard called for their attention. “Your assessment begins now. You have two hours to prepare your interpretation of coq au vin. I will be evaluating not just technical execution, but your understanding of the dish’s essence and your ability to express your personal ideas while honoring tradition.” He checked his watch. “Begin.”

The kitchen erupted into controlled chaos—burners igniting, knives against cutting boards, the metallic clang of pots and pans. Matthew forced himself to proceed with deliberate calm.

He began by rendering the lardons coaxing out their fat and flavor without allowing them to become crisp. Next came the sizzle of chicken thighs as they browned in the rendered fat. The chicken thighs turned crisp and golden brown. He removed them and began to prepare the critical element to the dish, the braising mixture. He added the mushrooms—a combination of fresh cremini and dried porcini that had been reconstituted, the pearl onions, carrots and finally the wine. The chicken thighs went back into the pan and slow simmered, allowing the flavors to develop.

The critical moment had come with the selection of braising wine. Classic coq au vin called for red Burgundy, but Matthew had chosen differently—a decision that had consumed hours of consideration. He reached for the bottle of Shaoxing wine, a Chinese rice wine whose complex, oxidized notes would complement the chicken while creating a lighter, more nuanced sauce than the traditional burgundy version.

As he added it to the pot, Chef Girard was walking by. He paused, one eyebrow rising in surprise at the golden-amber liquid replacing the expected ruby red.

“Shaoxing wine,” Matthew explained without being asked. “The fermentation process creates flavor compounds similar to those in aged Burgundy, but with a different balance that I think will better highlight the chicken.”

Girard leaned closer, inhaling the steam rising from the pot. His expression revealed nothing, but he lingered longer than he had at other stations before moving on without comment.

Around him, his classmates worked at varying paces, some rushing through early steps only to find themselves waiting later, others falling behind schedule from the start. Sofia maintained a steady rhythm beside him, her approach traditional but executed with confident precision.

Matthew continued his process, controlling the temperature of his braise, periodically skimming impurities from the surface of the liquid, adjusting seasoning with a judicious hand. When he added his aromatics, he diverged again from tradition—incorporating a small sachet of Sichuan peppercorns and star anise alongside the traditional bouquet garni, allowing them to infuse the braising liquid just enough to add subtle complexity without announcing their presence aggressively.