Retail prices for representative food products made from beef (7USC1636f)

Ever since TJ and I saw the Good Eats episode where Alton Brown makes Pork Wellington, I knew that I wanted to try to make Beef Wellington. In truth, it's a pretty extravagant meal that should be made for some kind of fancy dinner party, usually Christmas, but I thought the tapping of TJ's pale ale was worthy of some gourmet celebration. After all, a fine English quaff should be accompanied by a fetching British dish, right? And one possibly named after the duke who helped defeat Napoleon seemed more than fitting.

But as soon as I bought the meat for the dish, I realized this recipe might be my Waterloo. The centerpiece, literally and figuratively, of Beef Wellington is filet, which is quite expensive -- and the recipe called for 3 pounds! With my other culinary experiments, I could char the whole thing, toss it in the trash, and still feel that the experience was worth the investment. But this hunk of cow was no chump change, so I felt extra nervous throughout the whole process.

It didn't help that the recipe began with making something frou-frou called a "duxelles," which I thought was French for "dookie," considering that the final product looks like something you'd find in a baby diaper (bottom). In actuality, it's likely named after some French marquis, whose chef chopped mushrooms, shallots, and garlic (top left) into a pasty sauce or garnish (top right). I'm not a fan of mushrooms, and after sauteeing the mixture along with thyme, butter and oil (bottom), I didn't think I was doing so well. But after reassuring myself with some photos online, I determined that the British must have found it funny to name the ugliest part of the recipe after the French.

Mexico is not known for its beef, so I ventured Stateside to find filet. The butcher only had pre-cut steaks or this slab (top left), so I opted for the latter and cut half of it into steaks for future dinners. The beef must be seared to seal in the juices but also to conform it to a wrappable size. Having no twine, I opted for some string I had on hand (top right), which probably would've worked well enough if I had tied it more tightly. In the end the filet did stay together as I fried it in some oil (bottom left) then smeared it with homemade dijon mustard -- yellow mustard + mustard seed = dijon mustard in my book -- in preparation for its wrapping (bottom right).

The Brits aren't nearly as insulting to the Italians in this recipe, allowing the prosciutto ham to retain its attractive marbled qualities (top left). Then again, you cover it with that disgusting-looking duxelles (top right) before you wrap it around the seared meat (bottom left). I managed to get the plastic wrap sealed even though quite a bit of duxelles spurted out. But I thought for sure that the whole thing would fall apart when I unwrapped it, so I let the meat set in the refrigerator overnight, as someone suggested in the comments below the recipe. When I took out the meat the next day, lo and behold, it did retain its shape, although I added a few more pieces of prosciutto to secure some duxelles that had leaked out (bottom right).

Real cooks probably would've made the puff pastry from scratch, but I wasn't willing to risk messing up by making the procedure more complex, so I opted for simply rolling out a few pre-made sheets (top left). Then by some miracle, I was able to flip the meat onto the pastry without mushroom paste splattering everywhere (top right). From there, I folded over the pastry, one side at a time in clockwise order (bottom left), which I have always found to hold better than doing two opposite sides at a time. I sealed the pastry with an egg wash before perfectly executing a triple lutz to get the whole thing in a casserole dish (bottom right). (It would've been easier to get it on a baking sheet, as the recipe suggests, but I had a feeling there would be leakage that I wouldn't want to scrub out of my oven -- and there was -- so I opted for Pyrex instead.)

I didn't have any leftover pastry to make decorations, so I just went with a few slits in the top to let steam escape (top left). After 40 minutes of cooking, the meat thermometer only read 80F degrees (top right), typical for the incomprehensible thermostat of our stove. It cooked for 30 more minutes before the temperature hit 125F and the crust became entirely golden brown (bottom left). After resting for 10 minutes, I cut off slices, revealing an obviously -- and scrumptiously -- rare center (bottom right). This was the first time I had used a meat thermometer, and if I win a cooking Oscar, it will be the subject my entire acceptance speech because the meat wouldn't have turned out so well without its guidance.

Technically, the Beef Wellington was accomplished, but I decided to riff on the accompanying sauce recipe promoted by Tyler Florence and other commenters. Actually, I made this right after putting the meat to set in the refrigerator, thinking I might need something to cover up my shameful failure. I sauteed shallots, garlic, and thyme in the oil leftover from searing the meat (top left), then I added Madeira wine instead of brandy. I was in no state of mind to dare a flambé, so I cut the alcohol amount in half and let it simmer for a few minutes instead (top right). The recipe said to strain out the solids, but I thought that was a waste, so I kept them in and just added the cream and mustard (bottom left). Last, I added Tellicherry peppercorns in place of green ones, which weren't worth another trip to the store even if they probably would've added a more subtle flavor.

Although the meat looks great in the baking dish, it was difficult to plate without it getting sloppy, so the sauce actually did come in handy, at least for presentation purposes (below left). And despite my distaste for fungi, I thought the entire dish was delicious. TJ and I both polished off our plates and our pints of pale ale (below right). My British heritage was able to prevail in this battle, leaving me without any regrets about shelling out so many shillings for beefy supplies.