The last straw

A friend pluckily brought this one back from a recent holiday to France, and I can safely say it is one of the strongest cheeses I’ve ever encountered, if not the funkiest. Don’t worry, I didn’t microwave this one.

First impressions were: straw mat, nice touch (“sur paille” means on straw). Sweet little birds, flowers and a fancy font.

Don’t let the cutesy packaging mislead you; Coulommiers means stinky business!

Named after a commune in the Seine-et-Marne department from France, it has a similar consistency to Brie, punctuated with little holes and a gloopy consistency. Unsurprising, then, that it is indeed a member of the Brie family, just smaller, denser and much stronger. It’s also made from unpasteurised milk as per the “au lait cru” written on the front.

I recommend diffusing the funky taste with a sweet accompaniment such as strawberry jam or redcurrant jelly. Not for the faint of heart, but certainly worth a nibble or two if you’re up to it.

Cutie Pié

Lying seductively in the billowing folds of waxy paper is Pié D’angloys, a rich and creamy darling. The Marilyn Monroe of cheese perhaps. I’ve already gushed about a blonde bombshell though, so let’s just say that this one is also a cheese starlet.

Pié D’angloys is made from cow’s milk and comes from Burgundy of eastern France, home to many Burgundian buildings and copious vineyards. The edible orangey rind is washed in wine, while the soft gooey centre ripens from the outside in.

Perfect with a slab of crusty French bread, or avocado and strawberry jam on a crunchy bagel (my fave light meal), the taste and consistency is similar to Brie, although it’s slightly milder and rather salty.

I wanted to branch out from my usual bagel territory, (not too far, mind) so I tried this eggy croque monsieur recipe by James Tanner, swapping Brie for Pié D’angloys and using brown seeded slices instead of white crusty bread. The result? Gloopy deliciousness. It’s pretty messy but oh so worth it. Accompany with a balsamic-drizzled mixed salad and you’re golden.

Molten cheese - the croque monsieur

Three alpine cheeses

The very least someone can do when they jet off skiing is to bring back some fine mountain cheese. As well as hosting excellent, powdery snow, the Savoie region of south-east France produces exquisitely pongy cheese. Luckily for me, Stuart brought back several samples from his trip last month.

My eye was immediately drawn to Tomme au Marc: encased by a thick coating of dried grapes, it looks a lot like a giant, glistening oreo. It also has a formidable scent, due to being matured under a layer of grape Marc — grape pressings residue — for at least a month. To me, it had an overpowering taste of wine, which I found too bitter to enjoy. 

Tomme au Marc

Next up, the milder Beret Savoyard, which, according to Stuart, smelt like an unwashed belly button. I don’t seem to have a photo of this one; I promise I’m not making it up though. Despite its funky odour, we didn’t have any problems finishing Beret, and it went down a treat with some spicy fruit chutney.

A mountain of cheese in Tignes, French Alps

Then there was St. Nectaire. This semi-soft, washed rind cheese originates from a different French region west of Savoie in Auvergne, and its production is protected by the AOC seal. Matured for up to two months on rye straw mats, this mild-tasting cheese is covered in a chalky mould. It has an 

earthy taste, likely due to the rich diet of the large Salers cows.

St. Nectaire

If I had to choose a favourite Alpine cheese, it would be St. Nectaire. Mild, soft and gloopy, it is comforting and distinctive. If you happen to be skiing in France in future, I urge you to try it. Just don’t take it to work. Stay tuned for my next post!

Baaaattle of the sheep’s cheese: Manchego vs. Ossau Iraty

Two types of sheep’s cheese—one Spanish, one French. Which would ewe choose?

Manchego is the most popular sheep’s cheese, and with good reason. It originates from the La Mancha region of Spain, south-east of Madrid, where dutiful Manchego sheep produce thick milk, which explains the uniquely rich flavour characteristic of this semi-hard cheese.

Taste the Difference Manchego

I tried Sainsbury’s Spanish Manchego, Taste the Difference; I could certainly taste the difference! Nutty, smooth and seriously moreish— the Ferrero Rocher of cheese—I could have easily eaten the entire block, slice by delicious slice.

I felt compelled to make a strange sort of risotto with this gorgeous Spanish specimen. (Even the recipe I adapted has risotto in inverted commas).

Olive, edamame bean, cabbage and Manchego 'risotto'

Odd as it looks atop garish purple cabbage, the Manchego rose to the occasion, adding a welcome creaminess. And in my view, any dish that involves lashings of butter and wine can never go far wrong. Man, I love Manchego 5/5.

It’s a tough act to follow, and Ossau Iraty is no pushover. Produced in the south-western part of France in Aquitaine, it’s one of only a handful of sheep’s cheeses to boast the Appellation d'origine contrôlée (AOC), the highest possible protection of origin. Plus, it’s a two-time winner of the best cheese in the world title at the World Cheese Awards.

Ossau Iraty 

With such an impressive CV, Ossau has every reason to be revered. It’s slightly firmer and paler than Manchego, yet the flavour is stronger, less nutty, and the texture is smoother. I ate it melted on toast with some fruity chutney, and it was perfectly palatable. That being said, I didn’t feel a desire to scoff the whole wedge, as I had experienced with the Manchego. Ossau alrighty 3/5.

Drunken cheese

Thought that only humans, and the odd wild animal, could get sloshed? Not so. I can confirm that certain types of cheese love a tipple too. Following from my previous wine-orientated post, the time is ripe to highlight some wine-soaked cheese.

I've previously mentioned stinky and stupendous Epoisse, which is bathed in brandy—a crucial aspect of its unique flavour. More recently, my pal, and fellow cheese fan, Juliet brought my attention to this fearsome specimen:

Gorgonzola matured in Italian white wine

Of course, I wouldn't eat this—as I’ve already mentioned, blue veined cheese ain’t my thing. If you decide to try it, apparently Gorgonzola goes well with short pasta such as penne, melted into risotto, or used as a pizza topping.

The Gorgonzola may not have been my cup of tea, but it inspired me to seek other inebriated cheeses. Happily, I came across the delightful St. Vernier. Much like Epoisse, it oozes and sticks to the knife. I have no problem with clingy cheese. Even its scalloped wooden packaging was charming; it resembled a large dairy daisy.

St. Vernier

St. Vernier is made in France from the milk of local Montbélliardes cows and its rind is washed with a white wine. Its flavour is delicately fruity and a little funky. I ate it simply with some Jacob’s cream crackers, but I imagine it would taste equally wonderful with a fresh, crusty baguette and a glug of Chablis.