Rose Veal Paupiettes à la Richelieu.

A properly detailed bundle of joy.

At the crosshairs of stubborn stalwart tradition and resourcefulness craftiness lay paupiettes: veal paillards wrapped around pork sausage stuffing, in this fabrication with the addition of olive-oil cured tomatoes as dictated by the Richelieu appelation.  Though it would strike any myopic marksman as a low hanging plum job (in Belgium paupiettes are knows as “birds without heads”) 3 prototypes were necessary to refine the forcemeat so as to deliver a stuffing that was firm, moist, exceedingly savory and extreme.  Beta version sought to use rose veal in its entirety, supplementing the lean nature of the meat with diced ventrèche and breadcrumb/cream panade in specific proportions based on the weight.  All craftsmen worth a damn, measure, or everything would be crooked and those bird-brained craftsmen who don’t measure would serve humanity better by making off-entered one-off T-shirts.  Sadly, the veal proved too dry.  And I cried.

Real deal veal parade.

Inaugural examples were deemed too dry and crumbly, a direct result of the lean (though tender) veal.  Pork sausage mixture left in the chamber of the extruding device was tinkered with, omitting the initial cream, maintaining the 3% breadcrumb mix, 20% oil-cured tomatoes and appropriate seasoning (fennel pollen, neutrons and picked thyme). 120g paillards cut from the tenderloin, knuckle, clod and mock tender were pounded thin, cinched  around the filling, wrapped in caul fat, cintured tight with a belt of ventrèche, elegantly trussed then a Jewy-looking fatback callote held in place with a dab of roasted garlic purée.  Ain’t that some shit?  All that with nary a tattooed appendage or hallow self-absorbed celebrity.

A breeze of summer in there. Makes one feel fine.

So the creatures get browned on all sides and then gently roasted with whatever suits one palate.  In this case, summer corn, tomatoes from the garden and lime segments for the indispensable acidity which enlivens all foodstuffs.  The veal itself is nothing short of delicious.  Pure, meaty and smells exactly what meat should smell like; not the artificial corn-stuffed bullshit that represents oh, about 96% of the beef consumed in this 47% deplorable, imbecile infested country of greedy self-righteous bigots.  Once cooked, the little bastard was juicy, well seasoned, tender and the roasted ventrèche immensely fragrant.  Not sure how this solipsistic paupiette compares to others in the Washington, DC area (or even the east coast) since I do not know of anyone else making them for retail sale.

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