Definition: rouff marcel

Dodin-Bouffant, a pot-au-feu and royalty (excerpt):

Finally arrived the formidable pot-au-feu, reviled, despised, an insult to the prince and to all gastronomy, the Dodin-Bouffant pot-au-feu, prodigiously imposing, carried by Adèle on an immense long platter and held so high by the cordon bleu at the end of his outstretched arms that the anxious guests could not see it at first.But when it was placed with effort and caution on the table, there were several minutes of real bewilderment. Each of the guests regained their composure at their own pace and in their own way. Rabaz and Magot mentally chastised themselves for having doubted the Master; Trifouille was seized with panic in the face of such genius; Beaubois trembled with emotion; as for the Prince of Eurasia, his feelings oscillated between the noble desire to make Dodin-Bouffant a duke, as Napoleon wanted to make Corneille a duke, a furious desire to offer the gastronome half his fortune and his throne so that he would agree to take charge of his parties, the nervousness of receiving a lesson that was this time perfectly clear, and the eagerness to begin the marvel that spread before him with its promises and intoxications. The pot-au-feu itself, lightly rubbed with saltpetre and salted, was cut into slices, and the meat was so fine that the mouth could already guess that it would be deliciously crisp and crumbly. The aroma that emanated from it was not only that of beef juice smoking like incense, but also the energetic scent of tarragon with which it was impregnated and a few cubes, not many, of transparent, immaculate bacon with which it was studded. The slices, quite thick and whose edges hinted at velvety softness, rested softly on a pillow made of a large round of coarsely chopped sausage, where the pork was accompanied by the finer flesh of veal, herbs, thyme and chopped chervil. But this delicate charcuterie, cooked in the same broth as the beef, was itself supported by a generous cut of chicken breast, from the fillets and wings, boiled in its own juice with a veal shank, rubbed with mint and wild thyme. And to support this triple and magical superimposition, the white flesh of the poultry, fed only on bread soaked in milk, was boldly slipped behind the fat and robust support of a comfortable layer of fresh goose liver simply cooked in Chambertin. The order then continued with the same alternation, forming clearly marked portions, each wrapped in assorted vegetables cooked in broth and buttered; each guest had to scoop up the quadruple delight assigned to them with a fork and spoon, then transfer it to their plate. Subtly, Dodin had reserved the honour of accompanying this elite dish for the Chambolle. A plain wine would have clashed with some of its components; the nuanced, complex and complete Chambolle, with its rose-gold colour, had enough resources for the palate to find, in time, the necessary tone and indispensable note, depending on the meat it was paired with. The profound psychologist had perfectly calculated its effect; these refined souls tasted a double joy; they were freed from the dark worry that had obsessed them, and the exaltation of the senses brought them the joyful fulfilment of this unexpected treat. The chains of anxiety fell away definitively at that precise moment when the warmth and virtue of the wines inclined them towards a full life and abandonment. Now, intimate ardour gave itself free rein. No more shadows. Everyone was reassured. They could blissfully indulge in the pleasure of savouring and in that sweet, confidential friendship that solicits well-born men at the end of meals worthy of their name.

The prince understood, of course, but his honour was intact. Better still, he could now recount the adventure amiably to the sovereigns, his usual table neighbours, and assert, without fear of contradiction, that he had tasted the most prodigious pot-au-feu imaginable.