The Whey of the World

In my life as a chef, I have encountered other food professionals from many different cultures and ethnicities. Most I greeted warmly with much discussion of their home countries, climate, and, especially, food. I was always keen to learn more from my Japanese-Brazilian compatriot with regards to sushi or grilled meats. My Filipino coworkers have taught me proper pork adobo and halo halo. My friends from Spain helped me understand real paella and the best damn octopus carpaccio you’ve ever encountered. My French sous chef taught me the patience required to make a proper consomme.

It is here, now, that I must apologize to the English, Irish and Scottish cooks I’ve worked with. I belittled your food. The haggis, boiled beef and corned beef dinner just were not the foods that scaled culinary heights. And I, in my smugness, took those foods as the benchmark of those cuisines because that was what America had been taught that you cook. I am sorry I ever thought that. I now know that there is exciting food in those countries and a wonderful tradition of amazing culinary prowess. The idea that an entire country’s cuisine can be summed up in one dish is ridiculous. In my travels around the world this has been driven home to me in embarrassing and humbling ways.

In the foreign food aisle in a grocery store in Gibraltar, I was faced with an American section that consisted of tubs of Duncan Hines frosting, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup. In France I asked about an American product and the manager took me to a single shelf at the back of the store which housed Heinz ketchup and mustard. I was quietly informed that those products were carried against his wishes. Most ignominious of all was the cheese from our country nestled amongst the sheep, cow, and goat cheeses that make one want to walk down the aisle just to savor the smells. Our contribution, the one other countries judge us by: American cheese.

It is awful stuff American cheese. Bland, homogenous, in my opinion barely edible. When I realized that this was the cheese we were judged by, I was hurt. I was also embarrassed that I ever made fun of English cooking because the worst English Cheddar is leagues better than any slice of American cheese.

I love cheese. Let’s get that right out of the way. It’s one of the reasons I look like an Easter egg with eyes. I exercise, sure, but put me in front of a creamy Brie with some soft bread? Plunk! There’s another 1/8” on the waistline. I like all kinds of cheese. In my travels I’ve been able to try some that I am quite sure no other American ever sampled. I’ve had handcrafted goat cheese from a small farm in the hills of the Canary Islands. It was crumbly and creamy all at the same time. A little milder than the goat cheese we get here. I was told the goats eat a steady supply of fresh figs that fall to the ground and that adds to the lushness of the cheese. I bought a one-kilogram wheel, and I was told not to refrigerate it so I left it on the galley counter with a loaf of soft bread. In the morning, it was gone.

In Greece, I had a halloumi that was embedded with pistachios and dried oranges. It was lightly grilled and drizzled with local honey. It was the entirety of my meal that night. I sat at an outside terrace with a scientist friend, and we watched the sun set over the Mediterranean and enjoyed that cheese and bread.

In Switzerland, there is a small city called Baden about a half hour north of Zurich. I have relatives who live there and I am a frequent visitor. In that town, as in most Swiss towns, there is a cheese shop. The owner knows me now, and greets me warmly when I walk in and we discuss the type of cheese I’ll get that day. It’s always something fabulous. Brie so creamy that when you pierce the rind you have to scoop it with a spoon. Others that are nutty and crumbly, some tangy, some salty. Everyday something new and delicious that I share with my Aunt and Uncle on the back porch.

In Bellegarde-sur-Valserine, France I shared a chunk of bleu cheese created at a local farm with an older couple in the park. They spoke no English, I speak no French. It was one of the warmest, nicest interactions I’ve ever had. This bleu cheese was astounding; created a few kilometers away and only sold in this town, nowhere else. Simply amazing.

In my travels I try to make a point of sampling a locally-produced cheese. Something made in the region and unique to the area I am in. Sometimes it’s a fresh cheese, a farmer’s cheese just made that day. Other times it’s something that’s been aged for months in somebody’s cellar. Often something in between. By itself, as part of a salad, on a sandwich. I try it every way I can.

And then, back to America. Don’t get me wrong, Cabot is nice and all but it’s just not the same. Part of the problem with our cheese is that we’ve regulated so much of what makes the flavor unique. Local European cheeses are generally made at the source. The cow is milked, the milk turned into cheese, the cheese sold at a farmstand. It’s not homogenized, sometimes it’s not even pasteurized. In America, very little cheese is produced at the source. Our regulations require homogenized, pasteurized dairy, made in a stainless steel, sterilized environment. What terroir is imparted by stainless steel and food grade lubricant? Not much.

Are there fabulous cheese-producing regions in the U.S.? Absolutely. Vermont, Wisconsin, California and many other states with a strong agricultural background produce wonderful cheeses. I buy as many as possible. A homemade poutine is only as good as the cheese curds, and the cheddar curds from my friend Jonah in Wisconsin fit the bill. I love a slab of Cheddar from Sugarbush Farms in Quechee, VT on my medium rare burger.