There are places that linger in your memory long after you’ve left them—scents, sounds, and tastes tied to a particular season or street. For me, one of those places is Honfleur, a picturesque port town on the coast of Normandy, with its slate-roofed houses, cobbled streets, and that unmistakable salty sea breeze that always seems to carry a hint of fresh bread and cider.
Back when I was living in Paris for a few months on a work assignment, I’d often escape the city for the weekend. My favorite route was a train from Gare de Lyon to Deauville-Trouville, then a short bus ride to Honfleur. It felt like a pilgrimage to something slower, quieter, and deeply rooted in tradition. My dear friend had moved there after graduating from Le Cordon Bleu and was working as a trainee in one of the town’s elegant little restaurants. She had that unmistakable glow of someone doing exactly what they were meant to do, elbow-deep in butter and reductions, breathing life into old French recipes.
Honfleur, despite its size, boasts an impressive culinary scene. Cozy brasseries, intimate bistros, and bakeries that still believe in hand-kneading and patience. But nothing compared to the Saturday market at Place Sainte-Catherine, right next to the cathedral of the same name. That market was a feast for the senses: rows of oysters chilled over mounds of ice, sold for fifty cents each; shiny black mussels so cheap they may as well have been free; wheels of pungent cheese cut into generous samples; figs, apples, pears, and buttery pastries that demanded to be tried.
It was easy—dangerously easy—to stroll through that market and piece together a breakfast entirely from the samples offered. A bite of Comté here, a sip of tart cider there, a sliver of saucisson handed over by a smiling farmer with rough hands. It was a celebration of local abundance, and the atmosphere felt less like commerce and more like a village gathering. You could even get a little tipsy if you lingered at the cider stalls too long—though of course, we never really did that. Or at least, not often.
One winter, I traveled to Honfleur for my friend’s birthday. It was the off-season—windy, quiet, the kind of chill that gets into your bones and makes you crave something comforting and warm. That evening, she greeted us not just with wine and stories, but with a pot of something bubbling gently on the stove: Poulet à la Moutarde—a mustard chicken stew that was as nourishing as it was nostalgic.
The dish was a local classic, she said, something you’d find in homes all across Normandy, handed down through grandmothers and scribbled in cookbooks with butter-stained pages. The kind of meal you cook when you want to feed your favorite people something soulful and satisfying. I still remember the way it filled the tiny kitchen with the aroma of thyme, white wine, and mustard—the holy trinity of that dish.
And now, whenever I make it, it brings me back. To that moment. To that cold night in Honfleur, all of us crowded around a tiny table, laughing, eating, and toasting to the simple pleasures.
Here’s how to make that dish yourself.
Poulet à la Moutarde (Normandy Mustard Chicken)
Serves 4-6
Ingredients
- 4 bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs
- 5 chicken drumsticks
- 1 tsp salt
- 1/2 tsp freshly ground black pepper
- 1/2 tsp sweet paprika
- 3 tbsp Dijon mustard
- 2 shallots, finely chopped
- A few sprigs of fresh thyme
- 1 bay leaf
- 2 tbsp unsalted butter
- 1 cup dry white wine
- 1/2 cup chicken stock
- 4 tbsp crème fraîche or sour cream
- 1 tbsp wholegrain mustard
- Fresh parsley, chopped, for garnish
Equipment
- Large heavy-bottomed pan or Dutch oven
- Spatula or wooden spoon
- Chopping board
- Sharp knife
- Large mixing bowl
- Plate or serving platter
Instructions
- Season the Chicken:
In a large bowl, season the chicken thighs and drumsticks with salt, pepper, and paprika. Rub in 2 tablespoons of Dijon mustard and let sit for 15 minutes to marinate while you prep the rest of your ingredients. - Brown the Chicken:
In a heavy-bottomed pan or Dutch oven, melt the butter over medium-high heat. Add the chicken pieces, skin side down, and sear until golden brown on both sides (about 4–5 minutes per side). Do this in batches if needed to avoid overcrowding. Remove the browned chicken and set aside. - Sauté the Shallots:
Lower the heat to medium. In the same pan, add the chopped shallots. Cook gently until softened and slightly caramelized—about 3 minutes. Stir in the thyme and bay leaf. - Deglaze with Wine:
Pour in the white wine and scrape up any browned bits from the bottom of the pan. Let it simmer for 2–3 minutes to reduce slightly. - Build the Sauce:
Add the remaining tablespoon of Dijon mustard and the chicken stock. Stir to combine. Return the chicken to the pan, nestling the pieces into the sauce. Cover and let simmer on low heat for 30–35 minutes, or until the chicken is fully cooked and tender. - Finish with Cream:
Remove the lid, stir in the crème fraîche and wholegrain mustard. Let simmer uncovered for another 5–10 minutes until the sauce thickens slightly. Taste and adjust seasoning if needed. - Serve:
Garnish with fresh chopped parsley and serve hot—ideally with crusty bread, mashed potatoes, or even buttered egg noodles.
A Little Piece of Normandy on Your Plate
There’s something magical about cooking a dish tied to a memory. When you make Poulet à la Moutarde, you’re not just making dinner—you’re channeling the warmth of French hospitality, the scent of salt and thyme in the air, and the quiet joy of gathering around a table with people you love.
So pour yourself a glass of white wine, turn on some French jazz, and let your kitchen be your escape. Bon appétit!