by
Rob Kaufelt

When I left the supermarket business, because I didn’t really like the food, I opened my first gourmet store. Gourmet stores were relatively new, and I used to visit Balducci’s and Dean & Deluca to study them in order to understand what made gourmet stores different from what I was used to.

Gourmet stores looked delicious, and they were filled with things we didn’t have in groceries: artisan cheeses, strange fruits and vegetables, luscious prepared foods already cooked. What they weren’t was sterile and boring. They were more expensive, of course, and likely to be stocked with foods from other lands, especially Italy.

There were lots of health food stores, too, far more of them than gourmet stores. They had odd brands of things, and organic fruits and vegetables that looked scrawny and mean. Unlike gourmet foods, they were not supposed to taste good, but be good for you. If gourmet stores were hedonistic and Mediterranean, health food stores were northern California, new age, post-hippy denial emporiums, badly merchandised and staffed by hairy women.

That was a long time ago. I opened one gourmet store, then another. I went broke when I found out everyone wasn’t ready for gourmet foods. People who read Gourmet magazine, as my mother did, were certainly ready for gourmet, but what the hell was a gourmet anyway? Julia Child was clearly a gourmet, and maybe James Beard and a few chefs in New York, but the more I learned about food, the more the thought of being a gourmet began to seem silly and pretentious.

Of course we didn’t talk about local food, real food, or slow food back then. We didn’t use the words specialty foods either much, though that was the preferred term. But still, what did gourmet food mean? Imported food? Ethnic food? Expensive food? Effete snobs with wine glasses in hand, pinkies extended? That didn’t sound very appealing to me. Yet I told everyone I owned a gourmet store, and they told me, ‘I really like your gourmet store.’

A small group back then would go to the Fancy Food show. Was gourmet fancy? That sounded worse than gourmet, until I found an old picture of my grandfather’s store in Perth Amboy circa 1925. From the look of it, it was anything but fancy, let alone gourmet. Yet there it was, right in the old photo: the torn awning over the entry that read, “Kaufelt Brother’s Fancy Groceries.’ That’s what it meant, all right, a sweet attempt by young immigrants to convince some very poor customers that their products were a little better than the guys down the street.

Our cheese shop is stocked with good food. We avoid transfats. We prefer pastured eggs and milk that’s from grass fed cows. Unhomogenized. We like our cheeses from small artisans here and abroad, and a few big ones, too. But gourmet cheese? How can it be gourmet if it’s what peasants ate for hundreds of years. Thousands. Milk preserved, to get through the winter. Same with grapes and wine. Beer and bread . Gourmet food? Ridiculous.

Why do we even need the idea of gourmet anymore? Why shouldn’t what we do just be a neighborhood grocery store like grandpa’s? Why are the grocery stores filled with crap? Who needs it? Why isn’t the produce fresh, or local, or seasonal, and why should we worry what chemicals were involved in growing it? Why are the animals treated without respect, and why do we have to worry about mad cow and E. Coli? Is it gourmet to raise animals on grass, and slaughter them properly? Why do we have foods loaded with strange ingredients from unknown factories in China? What’s gourmet about a chunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano? Parm, that is. A loaf of crusty bread without sugar or corn syrup?

I hate the word gourmet. Ok, I don’t really hate it. I resent it. It implies an exclusive, expensive, snobby approach to food that working people have eaten for centuries, and gives a bad name to quality that should be the norm. Call it good food. Real food. Specialty food. Call it fresh, or local food, or slow food, or whatever you want. Just don’t call it gourmet food or gourmet cheese.

Loire Noir
The ‘dark side’ of Loire Valley goat cheeses

by
Zoe Brickley

If there is a chink in my otherwise impenetrable armor of international cheese knowledge it lies in the regions. I do remember taking a geography class where I learned countless major cities and capitals, but I have also in my wizened years memorized the Gettysburg address, all of the books of the Bible and the Presidents – in order, and the lyrics of countless 90′s soft-rock albums, none of which I could recite to you now. (Except for Madge’s Immaculate Collection – that one’s in there for good.)

So though I could break down the microbial goings on of much of our favorite fromage, I couldn’t point to their origins on a map of France. Hell, I’d be hard pressed to name more than a handful of cities in our own great state of Texas.

Truthfully though, France is only about the size of Texas, and I’ve had steady, formal education about its language, culture, and cuisine since I can remember. Sadly, I cannot say as much for the Lone Star state. Whatever. I need to get my geographical act together and build some regional expertise – in Europe and apparently on our own turf (eek – and until SE Asia starts exporting dairy, it might be awhile until I get there).

It turns out that nothing lights a learning fire under your own region like being asked to co-teach a class on a nichey French valley with Gourmet magazine’s exclusive wine consultant on two days’ notice. Yep. Flexed my cramming muscles and here’s what I got:

The misty, lush valley at the mouth of the Loire River is known for goat cheese. Makes me realize why our goat cheese cave is so similarly dank and cool! Six of the eight AOC goat cheeses are from the ‘garden of France,’ and you won’t find many sheep or cows. I know what you’re thinking – such a temperate, easy-rolling landscape sounds like cow territory. The smaller ruminants are usually relegated to less choice pasturage on hard-scrabble terrain with more trying climates. It’s rare for goats to be so well-fed and sedentary, which translates into exceptionally rich and floral milk and cheese.

So what are the goats doing there? Usually physical geography dictates style, but in this case it has more to do with cultural history. Specifically, it concerns the Moors’ Dark-Ages-conquest of Europe. They came from northern Africa through Spain to occupy what we now call the Loire Valley in the Mid-west of the country. Though they held it down for less than half a century, there was enough time to supplant their goat-loving ways and traditional cheese recipes. When King Charles ‘da hammer’ Martel drove them back into Spain in 732 it was said that they had to make a choice: take the goats or take the wives. Their foolish decision laid way for the undisputed goat cheese center of the universe.

For instance: anytime you see ash on cheese – Humboldt Fog, Monte Enebro , VBC Coupole , Morbier , Haystack Peak, even other Loire Valley cheeses like Ste. Maure and Valencay – it all started with good old Selles-sur-Cher, pictured here in its fresh, un-ripened state. The ash used to be straight up soot from the fireplace sprinkled liberally to dry the surface and ward off flies and slime formation. In fact, it served to temper the pH environment on the surface of their fresh chevres in a way that attracted downy blue-grey, flavor and texture enhancing mold growth. (For more on this magical process see my ‘If eating mold is wrong’ cheese blog post).

Selles-sur-Cher, named for a town on the Cher – a tributary of the Loire – was one of the first cheeses to achieve A.O.C. status, followed by some of its varied shape spin-offs. Ash, nowadays, is not soot but sterilized wood ash from the ash factory. It’s contemporarily employed as a flavorless nod to the Selles tradition.

Ashed or no, other chevre from the Loire, including the A.O.C. Crottin Chavignol , Pouligny St. Pierre , and Chabichou are prized for their dense, and cakey texture, that creams up on the palate and blossoms with delicate floral and nutty flavors. Believe it or not, each has something unique to contribute, even given their intense similarities.

Oh – and I learned something about wines too, but I’ll only say that if you’re looking to pair, stay on the lighter (whiter) side of the Loire. A dry, flinty and bright choice from the region (like something with Chenin Blanc or Sauvignon Blanc grapes) should harmonize soundly with the goat champs mentioned here.

Visit one of our wine partners for some good options:

Astor Wines & Spirits

Le Dû’s Wines

or

Grande Harvest Wines

Want to work with Zoe and learn the ways of the Murray’s Cheese caves? Check out our job listings to learn about becoming an affinage intern!

Mike Gingrich of Uplands Cheese

by
Amy Sisti-Baum

After eating enough cheese in my short life to fill a trough, Uplands Pleasant Ridge Reserve is at the very top of my list of greatest hits. That says a lot about the cheese. You can guess that each time I meet Mike and Carol Gingrich, I am star-struck. For me, Mike is like the Bob Dylan of cheese-making. The hero to those who have a real interest in their art. And those who know, love.

Cheese this good doesn’t happen by chance. It has taken years to develop, but within less than 15, Uplands Cheese has won more awards than I can list. Among them: Best in Show at the American Cheese Society Conference in 2001 and 2005.

Back in 1994, the Gingrich and Patenaude families partnered to form Uplands Cheese Co in Dodgeville, Wisconsin. They had an intention to use the rollicking, softly hilled dairyland to produce unique cheese to highlight their quality milk. Most of their neighbors sell their milk to commodity-cheese producers and don’t think twice. They thought Mike was crazy. Cheese production was common in the area, yes, but their plan was quite different.

Mike sought the advice of local experts to understand the Uplands Dairy’s milk’s best use. Because of the high fat content, breeds and microflora at Uplands, they were encouraged to make an alpine-style cheese. The Gingriches seized the opportunity to travel to the most highly-regarded mountain pastures in France where Beaufort is made to learn more about this style of cheesemaking. The two were surprised to find little shacks with a single person manning the vat. Unable to speak French, they managed to translate the important aspects for the making of Pleasant Ridge Reserve, their singular cheese, with actions rather than words.

With a herd of mixed-breed cows that they have cultivated over several generations, they have attained a flavor of milk that is their signature. Though Uplands milk is certified organic, and it is of utmost importance that it meets a standard of quality that surpasses the organic certification. The milk used for cheese making is only from animals that are eating grass. Mike is serious about this rule. In fact, if a shortage of grass forces Mike and Co. to supplement their diets with hay and grain, cheesemaking ceases until they have been back on grass for 3 full days. No rule book requires this-it’s an issue of integrity. The Gingriches and the Uplands Crew agree that the milk just tastes better when the animals eat grass.

The cheesemaking process is the simple bit. Curds are pressed several hours to ensure a smooth, firm paste. During aging is when the bit of magic happens. Smear-ripening is an uncommon practice. Generally, washed-rind cheeses like Taleggio or Raclette are washed with a salt-water brine. Uplands actually inoculates their bath with a beneficial bacteria that not only washes away mold growth, but also encourages the aromatics and flavors that make Pleasant Ridge so succulent and tasty.

So, picture Wisconsin in January. It’s not green. These are the slow months. No cheesemaking. Luckily, their herd produces enough milk to meet the demand and Murray’s is able to sell cheese year-round. In fact, during the late Fall and Winter, you may notice that we sell their younger cheese, but from early summer through Fall we generally have their extra-aged, which is over 12 months old. It’s all superb, but there is a major difference when it hits that birthday. The young cheese is mellower and subtle, definitely hearty, but comparatively, it’s more refined. At a year and more, the cheese’s flavor condenses into a concentrated pungency with a peppery bite and a crystal-flecked texture like a good Parmigiano-Reggiano.

So Bob Dylan might have gone electric, but Uplands stays with its original format, pure and simple. Yeah, I like Dylan, but I’m more of a cheese lover than a music fan. Mike’s the real rockstar.