For every cheese, there is a season: Turn, turn, turn

We all have our own variation on the three-second rule, and we all have our own breaking point that dictates when food is no longer kosher. Unless it's pork - that's never kosher.

One person’s three seconds might be another’s ten-seconds-with-a-bit-of-dust-on-it-and-is-that-seasoning-or-lint?-I-can’t-tell. One person might ditch the leftovers after the requisite two days, and another may be perfectly happy to eat a ten-foot hoagie sub several weeks after the mayonnaise has gone rancid.

Exhibit A.

But the three-second rule goes out the window when you’re dealing with cheese. And any true cheese-lover knows that timelines considered unacceptable for meatstuffs, drinking yoghurt and general perishables are TOTES fine for cheese.

Case in point: a recent secretive encounter with my new favourite cheesemonger at a nearby deli.

We’ve had a variety of conversations, Cheesemonger and I. Initially he seemed aloof and posh, but I realised he was just checking how serious I was about the sweet sweet dairy joy he was purveying. After a few return visits, I’d clearly made the cut and he was ready to show me the good stuff.

On this particular day, when I asked for a suggestion, he cast a few furtive sideways glances and leant forward over the glass counter, beckoning me closer.

“I have something for you,” he whispered conspiratorially, dipping his head towards a small balsa wood box at the back of his cabinet. “This stuff is not like anything you’ve ever tasted. But I warn you, the expiry date...she has, how you say, passed.”

Not stopping to think why his tone had suddenly shifted from wizened old sage, to cheap Jacques Clouseau parody, I gazed into the cabinet and saw it.

Epoisses fromage, AOC. A soft ripened cheese made from pasteurised cow’s milk, with a washed rind. Matured with Burgundy Brandy. Hand wrapped by the Gregorian monks of eastern Chalancey who were killed after making it, to forever protect the secret...I presume.

The Cheesemonger gave a slow, squinty nod.

“Other customers tell me that I shouldn’t be selling it because the date has passed. As though Australians really know when a cheese is good – pah! The expiry date is when it starts to really come alive. But others, they will say, ‘she is turning’. Fie on them.”

Fie on them indeed. I handed over a few worn silver coins for the cheese, excited by the prospect that it might serve as an anthropomorphic after-dinner treat, and I, the modern Prometheus, would get to bask in its reflected glory.

That night, we had a moment, the cheese and I. Let’s not lie, when I cut into the rind, it gave off a stink that would have made any self-respecting health inspector insist on the continuing importance of expiry date legislation. The innards were runny and smooth, and while the cheese was not yet turning, it was certainly asking for directions.

But in the truest sense of the word, it was sensational. Every sense was awakened: the smell (pungent), the sight (spotted with...mould?), the taste (Gregorian Brandy), the physical touch (viscous, best served in a large wine glass). I was delighted.

Three days later, I was still delighted.

A week later, it had a taken on its own quaint personality.

A two weeks and half weeks later, it started talking about said personality and discussing holiday plans, including how it would really love to take a break in a little cottage in the Cotswolds, because that would really show the Chesterton-Brown family a thing or two!

Yes, it had turned. When your cheese starts talking about time-share accommodation, it’s time to say goodbye.

With all the self-hatred of a maker rejection its creation, I cast the cheese out into the wilderness and left it to wander the desolate moors.

The next time I saw the Cheesemonger, he gave me a knowing nod. And as I looked down into the cabinet, another Epoisses fromage had risen up in its predecessors place.

An exercise in managing expectations

Remember Bodey Blaylock? Sure you do. When you were in the second grade he was absolutely the dreamiest boy in your class, and he had all of the Power Ranger figurines. And you just knew that when you grew up, Bodey would be the most handsome boy and he would have graduated from Power Ranger Academy himself.

But then, in the early days of 2012 you run into Bodey and he hasn’t graduated from P.R.A. He hasn’t even completed a course at the Power Rangers Finishing School for Morphin Boys. He is washed up and working at a rival Tokusatsu franchise that is of a much lower quality.

The point is, if you build up your expectations based on a rose-tinted memory, you will be disappointed.

Welcome to the world of Fourme D’Ambert.

It has been so long since I’ve written on this blog, and I recognised that you, dear reader, deserve a doozy of an oozy cheese to get you going again. I went to my local store and selected a mid-range, French sounding, smelly, aged delight.

What a mistake.

First I brought it home, and my plus one said it smelt like the medicated salve we use to wash the dog.

And I did not speak out, because I was not a medicated salve.

Then I opened the wrapping, and he said it smelt like his waterlogged work shoes.

But I did not speak out, because I was not a shoe.

Then I ate it. And I began to smell like the cheese. And there was no one left to speak for me. Cause those kids had left the building due to the stench of this damn rancid cheese.

For serious. I have had the smelliest, most nefarious and pungent cheeses that would have taken the rasping breath out of the maw of a crypt keeper. But this one is a cut above.

It’s not that tasty either. Sure I ate a lot of it, with the kind of slack-jawed, droopy-eyed stupor of a Yorkshireman, but I didn’t enjoy it.

And yes, I’m still eating it as I type. But I don’t think it would do the cheese justice to write about it when it is yellowing at the edges and peeling away from its rind in such a way. 

Much in the same way it’s not fair to judge Brooker when you bump into him ordering a double order of dumplings from his local takeaway, sporting a casual vinegar-stained pant and the shirt from his old Jacuzzi business.

But I tell you what, there’s nothing like seeing an old familiar friend.

Hello again cheese. How underwhelming to see you again.

Have you been in Paris Claire? Why, yes! I have!

Oh. Mercy. Me.

I’m back from Paris. I’m back from London. I’m back from the magical mystery tour that was two weeks in fairly populous urban centres, and as all travel writers will attest, I am a changed person!

Not really. But it was really freakin’ good.

Sorry for the hiatus. Sorry for the long nights spent staring out the window through the rain while my un-updated blog stagnated on your browser and the mournful tones of “Careless Whisper” played in the background. Sorry for the fact that I was overseas eating all of the cheeses and you were stuck responding to passive-aggressive emails from Hilda in accounts.

BUT! Rest assured much-mythologised-reader-on-the-other-end-of-the-internet, I am back. I am going to share (nay, overshare) my stories from the holiday, all the anecdotes from that quaint restaurant in Paris, the old fashioned cheeserie in Oxford and that co-mingled recycling bin in Tokyo.

Yeah, I went there. And you will go there. And then you will wish you didn’t.

Stay tuned!

PS. I’ll be in the central-western New South Wales town of Orange this long weekend, hopefully sitting in some delightful wine bar sampling cheese and making APT OBSERVATIONS on my laptop. Hi Claire, the late 90s called – they want their romantic comedy “getting over you” montage back.

Blue Cheese and Liberal-Thinking Hemp Farmers

First impressions are funny things. Whether it’s your thoughts on cheese (like an old boss refusing to eat anything but plastic cheese due to some vestigial decision made about dairy) or your thoughts on that hippie across the road, we all make snap judgements.

I was at the Blackwattle Deli in Sydney’s Fish Markets (have you been there? Wow! That place is the biz-nay) and I picked up a wedge of Byron Bay Blue made right here in Australia by the Bangalow Cheese Company. And as I made the purchase, I felt it – that old familiar feeling. It was Judgemental Claire, and she was coming back.

The cheese cabinet at Blackwattle Deli.

Was this cheese made by some sort of dreadlocked, tie-dyed drifter in a makeshift yurt on the outskirts of Nimbin? Would it taste anything like a proper blue? Do hippies even learn about colours in their backyard Steiner schooling system? Would it be…(gulp) pasteurised?

Hang the expense and stop being so judgey Claire. Let’s try it and see.

My first impression of this cheese is that it reminds me of Stilton, but that’s an unfair snap judgement to make too. It implies that any antipodean fare must be constantly compared to its more famous and more colonial forebears, and to do so denies the very Australianness of this cheese.

Yes, it has a complex flavour that is built-on-Stilton. Yes it is from a fairly young (comparatively) cheese producer and, yes, it will get better with age.

But you know what? Just like the stereotypical hemp farmer of Bangalow, it has a certain nutty charm. Like your average Bangalow hippie, its kind-of-gross external crust (formed after months spent in a dimly lit cupboard) is just another charm that makes you realise that this cheese has been places dude, and no amount of corporate pseudo-bourgeois city talk from the “Man” will ever change the fact that this cheese is inextricably linked to its rural-pinko-commie upbringing. Or something.

Plus, the more you hang around this cheese, the more you get the munchies.

Mum might not be impressed that you didn’t bring Stilton home for dinner, and that your current selection is a little less Oxford-punting-champion and a little more Appalachian-goat-wool-expert. While one of them was reading the Classics at Cambridge, the other was sitting in a cupboard, beginning to smell. While one was selected for the Henley Polo Tournament, the other was sitting in a cupboard…beginning to smell.

But you know what? We’re out of the cupboard now and we’re happy mum. And we’ve got the tofu co-op up north to prove it.

The Perfect Storm Part Two: McCutcheon's Revenge

It was a day like any other – sunny in the morning with talk of a bumper end of season catch out at sea. But as the light faded and everyone started to think about heading indoors for the evening, an icy wind came through and the blackened clouds started to mass on the horizon.

Not even the knowing tap of old man McCutcheon’s finger against the glass of the barometer could ease the rising tensions of the townsfolk. Guarded whispers turned into anxious mutterings as the children were ushered in to tend the kippers for supper. Were the predictions correct? Could it finally be happening?

An anxious radio call through to the folks down at the docks went unanswered and, as the winds picked up, a few heavy drops of rain spat at the ground.

It was happening. The perfect storm.

"Ol' Man 'Cutcheon done got it right! Storm's a brewin'!"

At least, that’s how I think it happened. I’ve been forced to reconstruct this story from hearsay, conjecture and the decoding of the significant cheese wheel bruising that I found on my arms in the days following my ordeal.

Waking up on a barn floor surrounded by muscatels. Drawing the ire of a whole pen of enraged truffle pigs. It must have been one hell of a lactic acid trip.

The last thing I remember before blacking out was hearing that the final course of my dinner would be Truffled Old Telegraph Brie.

In the haze of seagulls, ocean spray and mayday calls made over the static (also known as the “no one will ever marry you” mayhem that occurs when I sit down to a table full of dairy products) I remember the most delicious truffle aroma, a powerful white mould cheese flavour and a centre so creamy that Davy Jones himself would have filled his locker with the stuff.

Some of the older fishermen still talk about that day. Old McCutcheon will tell anyone who asks that the needle on the barometer has shifted naught since that dark day in Saskapontackport history. The day when the nets snapped, the mainsails ripped in two and one unlucky boat (me) got tipped over by the giant wave (cheese) of a perfect storm.

Old Telegraph Brie with an inner layer of truffles. Yum!

Red: the colour of desire, Black: my life without this cheese

There comes a time in every blogger’s life when they are forced into this situation: apologising profusely for not being as prolific a writer as initially intended.

You, dear reader, are left waiting by the phone like so many jilted lovers, pining away the hours listening to Phil Collins mixtapes (you shouldn’t) and further wasting time by alphabetising the fridge (you really shouldn’t) and vacuuming the letter box (probably not a bad idea, the postman is judging you).

All the while, you wonder, will she ever get in touch? Will I be forced to create some sort of weird totem representative of my former affections and all the cheeses we once shared?

No.

And by way of explanation: Guess who has two thumbs and just got her wisdom teeth out? THIS GUY!

I hit the sofa, I tuned into The Beauty and the Beast (special edition DVD no less) and then watched the classic HBO series The Sopranos whilst getting a high intake of Vitamin Soup. And I made it through to the other side.

As a celebration of sorts, I went to SiJo’s to purchase a tooth safe cheese of the runny kind – Le Dauphin.

Le Dauphin is a double cream white mould cheese made in France from pasteurised cow’s milk.

Taken literally the name means dolphin, but Dauphin was also the name used to describe the heir apparent to the French throne while Louis after Louis kept popping his head under the crown.

For lovers of mild cheese that also packs a punch, this sexy little number is so easy on the tongue and one’s Francophile sensibilities. After all if it was good enough to be named after ol’ Lou, it’s good enough for me.

I can imagine all those Gallic regents quietly tucking into this cheese slathered (heck yeah, this cheese is verging on liquid at room temperature) over some fresh baguettes. It’s mild enough that the landed gentry will enjoy it, yet strong enough to get that uncomfortable taste of the serfs challenging the divine right of kings right out of your mouth. Because dammit, if you can’t enjoy your dynastic rights over a light snack, when can you?!

This cheese is also the perfect way to share some news with you. I will be heading to the city of lights – gay Paris – in just a few weeks time, and I plan on eating nothing but cheese and drinking nothing but wine.

If you have any suggestions on fromageries, charcuteries or general eateries that I must visit, please do let me know.

For now, let them eat cheese!

The Perfect Storm: Part One

You know those times in life when the all the necessary elements come together to create an epic event of such grand proportions, even Mark Wahlberg is left flabbergasted? 

Yes. It’s the perfect storm.

Well, dear cheese lovers, I experienced that this weekend past when three of my favourite things came together in the one almighty cluster-bam of awesome.

Labradors.
Truffles.
Cheese.

All three?

Hells yes. Watch out. This is the perfect storm and it is going to blow…your…mind!

I know Clooney, I know.

I went truffling on the weekend, in a small country town known as Orange (about four hours west of Sydney). The day was to involve a walk around the orchards and vineyards of Borrodell winery for a stint of snuffle hunting (yeah, I just used that phrase), followed by a five (!) course meal involving truffles at every turn.

The truffles would be snuffled out by adorable dogs, the truffles would be dug up, and their flavours would be enjoyed in epic proportions. Yes dear reader, the humidity is rising, the barometer is getting low.

It's perfect storm.

We tramped around the vineyard in our blacktie outfits and gumboots and watched in awe as Zita the purebred Labrador snuffed out mud-treasures (yeah, I just used that phrase) and pawed the ground when she found them.

And oh my, did she find them (whilst also being obedient and delightful).

We were allowed to get down on all fours and sniff the earth where they were buried. You could see them peeping through the soil, and the aroma in the ground was, even then, simply breathtaking.

Most wonderful of all was the fact that each truffle had a different smell, with different fragrance notes becoming apparent at every turn. The first truffle we found was strongly reminiscent of red wine. We found truffles that smelt as though they were freshly dusted with chocolate and some even had undertones of blackberries and garlic. And everyone on our little walk had a different olfactory opinion.

Some people thought they smelt like plain dirt, and bless their cotton socks, we didn’t throw them out of the vineyard. (If it quacks like a duck, it’s probably dirt, right?)

By the end of the walk I was overstimulated and had to be gently cradled like a basket of so many truffles.

Oh wait.

I was the one cradling the truffles. And in the perfect storm of magnificence, we had only just crested the first wave. We were about to experience five courses of trufflemania, including (dear reader) the most freaking amazing marriage of truffles and cheese that I have ever experienced. A marriage that would put Barbra Streisand and James Brolin to shame.

What will happen next? Will Claire find the cheese of her dreams? Will she make it through all five courses in one piece? Will down-on-his-luck Captain Billy Tyne find a way to make it through the waves to bring his bountiful catch back to port?

Stay tuned for the Perfect Storm Part II – Beyond Truffledome.