Cheesemongers are generally wackos. Their life is cheese. Their raison d’être is cheese. They cradle cheese like lost infants. They talk to cheese like fellow compatriots. “Take your time with the cheese,” they say. “Be with the cheese,” they say. Give it a little sniff, a pat on the back and, like the MTA, “if you see something suspicious, say something.”
If my sudden switch to the culinary world wasn’t enough, my recent endeavor seals the deal. I’m a cheesemonger, a cheesemonger in Williamsburg (insert pun). Decked out in a bandana, flannel shirt, and half apron, we mongers jive to a cuntster vibe (“country hipster”). The store is very manicured rustic.
For the cheesemonger, the cheese case is the Holy Grail. Temperature and moisture controlled, it presents each chunk like a little debutante. Its construction is a science; its staging an art. Some cheeses are categorized according to milk type or rennet used. Others are divided by process, texture or rind. The blues sit in one corner and the washed rinds, another. The cheddars occupy the front and the alpine cheeses, the back. It’s like middle school – everyone clings to their clique and talks shit about the other. Except, unfortunately, for that weird piece of Milbenkase. Made from mite excrement, no one wants to party with that dude.
Most customers who approach the case are overwhelmed. They’re cheese virgins. They’re nervous about embarrassing themselves. The monger is the messiah who guides them through the process. He leads them from ocean to dry land – out of the desert and into paradise.
Well, between you and me, I’m no messiah. A good 60 to 70% of what comes out of my mouth is bullshit with a capital B. If a skinny bitch walks in with a yappie dog and an iced chai, I recommend a caprino goat. It’s boring and it’s safe. If a dude walks in with a ZZ- Top beard and rockabilly frames, I go funkier – ouleout or an epoisses de bourgogne. On special days, I let the inner thespian run wild:
“This is an Irish cow’s milk cheese made in the style of a traditional cheddar. It’s made by former members of the IRA. You can really taste the bloodshed in the hardiness of each bite. “
“This cheese is made by a clan of liberal arts drop-outs hiding in the green mountains of Vermont. It hosts a delicate balance of Thoreau idealism and self-entitlement.”
As eyes excitedly roam the case, wallets suffer. Good cheese isn’t cheap and neither are its accoutrements. It’s common to rack up a sixty-dollar bill without thought. Need some crackers? Sure, why not. How about a few slices of Serrano ham? Can’t hurt. Olives? The list goes on.
So how do you impress the gang while on a budget? You’re an adult and god knows you’re sick of serving Tostitos. Good cheese shouldn’t just be enjoyed by the top 1%. This is America god dammit.
The following is a guideline I use when making a cheeseboard. If it serves you well, use it.
If you buy cheese from a bougie, specialty store, you’re going to pay bougie, specialty prices. While nothing beats the quaint atmosphere of the corner fromagerie, it’s not always practical. Try the cheese counter at Fairway Market or Whole Foods. They host a large selection and mark down some cheeses when at their peak ripeness.
A little cheese goes a long way. It’s packed with protein and fat. Yes, fat. A quarter or third of pound of three cheeses is plenty for a gang of four or five. If you’re worried about the platter looking skimpy, stock up on the cheaper items – nuts, honey, bread. Also stop inviting big eaters to your apartment.
Look for cow’s milk cheese. Cows, as opposed to goats, sheeps and buffalos produce the greatest quantity of milk, which drives the price of the curd down.
European cheeses are cheaper than domestic brands. Sorry, but no eating “local” on this one.
For a group of four or five people, I use three cheeses. Anymore than that and the board looks cluttered and the pallet is overwhelmed. It’s exciting to have variety, but when you buy several small samples (less than a quarter pound), you’re mostly chewing on rind.
Cheeses are best partnered with items produced in the same region as the curd. This is likewise true for wine pairings. Generally, stuff that grows together, tastes good together. Mother nature is the ultimate foodie.
All cheese and accompaniments were purchased from Fairway Market. I looked for both cheese and fruit on special. I chose salami over prosciutto or Serrano ham because it’s less expensive. I likewise chose a pre-made olive mix for the good price point. I batted my eyelashes at the bread man in exchange for some day old bread to make crostini. Sometimes you got to pimp yourself out for good food.
First Cheese:
Fromage D’Affinois
Milk: cow
Type: bloomy rind
Region: Rhone – Alpes region, France
Similarities: Brie
Taste: milky, gooey, pungent
Accompaniments: dried fruit (cherries, apricots, etc.) or fresh fruit (grapes, peaches, etc.)
Price: $4.49 for ¼ pound
Second Cheese:
Piave
Milk: cow
Type: cooked and pressed
Region: Veneto, Northern Italy
Similarities: Parmigiano-Reggiano
Taste: crystalline, sweet, nutty
Accompaniments: Prosecco (cheap man’s champagne) or Genoa salami
Price: $3.39 for ¼ pound
Third Cheese:
Miti Cana de Oveja
Milk: sheep
Type: bloomy rind
Region: Murcia, Southeastern Spain
Similarities: French Bucheron
Taste: Tangy, crumbly
Accompaniments: Spanish olive mix
Price: $4.16
Preheat the oven to 350 and slice the bread ¼ inch thick. Drizzle with olive oil, salt and pepper. Toast the bread for 15 to 20 minutes until golden brown, rotating the sheet half way through. When finished, allow to cool and set aside.
Before assembling the board, allow the miti cana and piave to come to room temperature. While the fromage d’affinois shouldn’t be cold when you eat it, if you leave it out for too long it will melt. Don’t be intimidated by the pungent aroma of the cheese. Just because a cheese smells stinky doesn’t mean it tastes stinky. Sometimes it’s good to have a little funk.
Group the three cheeses with their respective accompaniments. Try to refrain from snacking while you do this. Tell your friends to bring a bottle of Prosecco (god knows they should pay for something) or a crisp white wine. Uncork the booze, flip through the latest New Yorker and pretend you’re an adult.