Good morning. It’s been nearly a decade since the designer Steven Stolman taught me to make his chicken Provençal (above), and I’ve made it one gajillion times since (approximately). It’s a staple for dinner parties and Sunday suppers in my house — an excuse to iron napkins and use the plates we inherited from my wife’s grandmother, to finish the night with a glass of Sauternes and pretend I’m a grown-up.
Not that you have to do that! Chicken Provençal is just as good eaten with mismatched silverware and glasses of milk, a fragrant, lemon-garlicky taste of an imaginary commune where you might walk the dogs off-leash through a field after dinner, peonies and lavender everywhere. (In reality, you could just retire to a couch and watch Cary Grant in “To Catch a Thief.”)
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