The other day, during one of my common delusions of grandeur in which I'm convinced I'm somehow the offspring of Grace Kelly and Martha Stewart, I decided to whip up some fancy french food.
Never one to let an inadequacy in expertise inhibit my ambition, I set about making coq au vin. And I'm not talking about the easy chicken-in-a-crockpot-with-a-cup-of-wine sort of coq au vin. No siree Bob. I used an authentic recipe which required marinating a whole chicken in an entire bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon with a bouquet garni before poaching it slowing in said wine with celery, onions and carrots (which are only for flavouring and are tossed before eating, s'il vous plait). And then there was the bacon lardons and mushroom caps to fry, and the pearl onions that needed to be peeled and braised (with a covering of parchment paper). Yes indeed, it was an appropriately snobby french recipe.
So I tied on an apron and I julienned, I sautéed, I braised, and I deglazed. I worked all friggin day at my coq au vin.
And how did it turn out? Well. . . once you got past the purple chicken, it didn't taste half bad. But the thing was, despite it being fancy french food and my Grace Kelly/Martha Stewart delusions, I just could not get past the fact I had wasted an entire bottle of perfectly good wine.