The Guilty, Pleasured Vegetarian

It started innocently enough. Then, it turned into a bit of, dare I say, an obsession. As a child, I would turn on my black and white tv, and there she was, that grandmotherly "French" chef, fixing things I had never heard of, and always adding a splash more wine. No matter, it would reduce. Some amazing sauce, a dash of inebriation, and 92 years of real living later, et voila, we have a cultural icon who spawned a generation of pale imitators, and one little admirer on a cattle ranch, who would later turn vegetarian in defiance of it all.

Then, as an adult, single and alone in LA, I discovered that blonde Aussie, who coyly accosts attractive females at high-end markets, asking them to "take him home".  What's a girl to do? Well, one day, after over a decade of my collegiately-inspired, and "I'm a rancher's daughter, but can do it", vegetarianism, he pulled a no holds barred, full frontal assault on what had been, to that day, my core beliefs. He prepared Beef Wellington. It was beautiful. It had puff pastry, for God's sake. I was a goner.

Fast forward two years, and I'm in Seattle to finish some writing projects with my producer-director, who, after an evening of  cinema, Chopin vodka, and local micro brews, is to become my lover, and the man for whom I will prepare...yes, you heard it here first, folks...pork chops bathed in milk, encrusted with rosemary crackers, and sent to hum in the oven for 45 minutes. Then comes homemade chicken noodle soup (cage free) to ward off any winter chills which may come, and finally, yes, you've guessed it by now, last night's Beef Wellington. The trip to the high-end market started innocently enough, and then, well then, a half pound of filet mignon was selected, then prosciutto so thinly sliced you could read the newspaper through it. What next? With just the right amount of marbling, it's a very slippery slope, people. Pâté. Not just any pâté. I needed a pâté to match the Madeira, that volcanic Port-like wine that will make your mushrooms scream in ecstasy for more to be reduced! More to be reduced! More is less! More is less. So, I chose a quarter-pound of duck liver with Port. This has to be perfect. I had read that there is some sort of a mushroom/Madeira sauce to go with Wellington. The details were obscure and confusing. This recipe is made out to be some sort of a laborious, glorious concoction, pointing one link to another and back again, if Googled. But my mate from Down Under did it all in the span of a tv show, and I knew I could have it ready for my man in under an hour, as well.

What else? What else? It's 5:30, I walked the 15 minutes to the market. He'll be home by 7:30, and we have another engagement at 8. Puff pastry. Don't forget the puff pastry. What do my eyes find in the freezer section? A local puff pastry; no trans fat, no hydrogenated oils! Is this possible? Yes. And, it's called, "Aussie". The syncronicity at this moment is beyond Sting's wildest dreams.

I run to get Morels. Alas, they cost more than a half pound of filet mignon, so I settle for a fresh organic mix. A semi-dry Madeira should do, and I'm feeling a half-bottle of Chianti would be the perfect beefy companion. Liquids. Liquids. Ah! Maybe a mushroom broth? Yes, that'll do.

I'm home by 6, and lay out my ingredients. Hopefully, while preparing the beef, the puff pastry will have enough time to thaw. Hmm. How to do this? Online, they want resting periods. There is no rest for the weary vegetarian in this story. So, we will do without. Wellington in an hour, or bust! Salt and pepper get rubbed into the beef. And here, my fellow vegetarians, I must tell you here is where the euphemistic guilty pleasure begins. It is primal. It is visceral. It is high heat searing to seal in juices. By now, I've offended my veggie brethren, and my puff pastry is thawed. I lay out three ultra-thin slices of prosciutto on top of my pastry. Then, I spread the room-temperature pâté. All the while, I've been experimenting with my first introduction to cooking by our beloved, "French chef", by pouring Madeira, in small amounts at a time, into the mushrooms I've coursely chopped, and am sauteeing in sweet cream butter with shallots and garlic. (Small amounts of Madeira do, in fact, turn into half a bottle at one point. One must honor one's first cooking teacher, mustn't one? Oui.) Mushroom broth is added for extra liquid. Herbs d'Provence are scattered atop, and I watch the Madeira do what it was intended to do; create a flavor and reduction heretofore unknown by yours truly. In a word: exquisite. After the flavor and texture can no longer be ignored, I taste. And, I'm over-the-moon. I "sacrifice" half my sauce, layering it above the pâté, and now place my seared filet on top, and nervously wrap my "present" for my beloved, brushing it with butter and an egg wash for a final seal. The oven has been at 450, and stays there for 10 minutes, whilst my prezzie sizzles atop a cookie sheet. After 10 minutes, I slow down the oven to 350, and continue the baking for 20 minutes, during which I receive a phone call from one very hungry man, leaving his office, who doesn't know any of this is happening. I tell him, no worries on the hunger, as his dinner's in the oven. He arrives as it is placed on his plate, the remaining Madeira sauce drizzled over the sliced Wellington, and tears form in his eyes. I'm embraced. I'm loved, and I've given love back in a way I never thought I would.

In Poland, where my love is from, there happens to be a kooky, quirky song about Lord Wellington and Waterloo that has its own euphemistic connotations. I didn't know this. Upon waking up this morning, I now most certainly do. Breaking my own food rules never felt so good, and a reduction never gave me more.