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I will only ever buy cheese I know I'm going to like. If this seems like a rather obvious statement, just think of the number of things you regularly consume that you have little or no idea if you're going to enjoy - books, movies, plays; you can read a handful of reviews and make an educated guess, but really, once the money is handed over and you've taken your seat, whether you will consider the transaction worthwhile once the metaphorical fat lady sings is anyone's guess. Restaurants, too - believe it or not, I don't (with one notable exception) deliberately seek out terrible places just because it makes good copy; it's my money and my time, and my desire to have an enjoyable evening vastly outweighs any self-righteous catharsis gained from a negative review.
But cheese - ah, cheese is different. If you find yourself a good cheese shop then all the risk and uncertainty is removed, and your purchasing experience is satisfying, stress-free and enjoyable. Sadly, at certain cheese shops in the capital my experience hasn't always been thus, and on more than one occasion I've felt pressured into buying more than I needed or made to feel like an inconvenience for asking to try more than one type of Stilton. At Neal's Yard, though, you won't get any of that. Staff are so pleasant and helpful you just feel like spending all day working your way through the vast collection of British and Irish cheeses, each handily labelled - a favourite hobbyhorse of mine - with a short bio of the cheese including whether they are made with pasteurised or unpasteurised milk. If I sound like a paid shill for Neal's Yard, and I can understand that with all the freebies floating around these days, then I can only assure you I'm not. As the old saying goes, the best products make salesmen of us all.
Of the haul of superb cheeses I came away with from Neal's Yard, I'm going to focus on Berkswell, an unpasteurised sheep's milk cheese from - of all places - the West Midlands. I'm not sure if it's an insult to our native cheesemongers say that it doesn't really taste like an English cheese at all - dense and salty, with a good crusty rind and deep nutty flavour, it brings to mind a fine Manchego (also sheep's milk) or soft aged Parmesan (at least in texture). At £36 a kilo, too, you'd hope it would be good - even the artisan Stichelton is only £27 a kilo - but for quality like this the price seems very reasonable, and the gorgeous grassy, "farmy" notes from the unpasteurised milk, as well as the complex musty aroma from the rind make a complex and hugely enjoyable result. The slightly unusual shape of the whole truckle, by the way, is because the cheese is formed inside a plastic salad spinner - a lovely homely touch to this most lovingly crafted of products.
I'm not sure where else in London stocks Berkswell - there's not much on Google so perhaps Neal's Yard is the only supplier after all - but if you live anywhere within travelling distance to Covent Garden or Borough I can't recommend a visit highly enough. When shopping is as much fun as taste-testing free samples of the country's best cheeses, and you end up with a bag containing a chunk of one as good as Berkswell, battling the crowds of central London really is no hardship.
Berkswell cheese 8/10
Neal's Yard Dairy 9/10
Thanks to Neil Davey for the fascinating factoid about the salad spinner
There was a time when I was patient and tolerant enough to spend my Saturday afternoons at Borough Market. I would happily take twenty minutes shuffling between the hordes of day trippers from the Ginger Pig to Brindisa to the Flour Station, and I remember I actually used to enjoy the experience, if not the often frankly ludicrous prices ("£12 for a jar of capers? I'll take two!"). Now though, whether it's the novelty wearing off after six or seven years living in London, or the fact that most of the people at Borough seem to be more interested in gawping at the artfully arranged produce than actually buying anything, or perhaps a combination of the two, I'm finding my patience rather more stretched. A couple of weeks ago I found myself surrounded by a semicircle of fascinated tourists as I bought some prawns from a fish stall - they seemed genuinely delighted that someone was actually at Borough to buy their dinner, and watched silently as I self-consciously selected a dozen or so Madagascan Kings and fished around in my wallet for change. When the transaction was complete I almost felt like taking a bow. Very bizarre - and faintly depressing.
It has to be noted, however, that part of the reason that Borough is so popular is that, all said and done, there are some very good traders there. Brindisa are the only company that import such a stunning range and quality of Iberico hams, Ginger Pig sell quite simply the best beef in Britain, and I have the Borough Cheese Company to thank for my obsession with Comté cheese, which has been making regular appearances on my cheeseboards since I first tried it on my first ever visit to the market all those years ago.
It's easy to forget that not all interesting, artisan cheese has to blow your tastebuds away with an Epoisses-like power or Roquefort levels of salty intensity. Unlike some of the more pungent or challenging cheeses, I am convinced there isn't a lactose-tolerant person in the world who wouldn't enjoy a good Comté. The flesh is fairly firm, with a pleasant bite to it even when at room temperature, and a wonderful nutty, subtly sweet flavour with all the complexity you'd expect of an unpasteurised product. Although there are slight variations in quality ("grades"), unless the cheese passes a particular taste test it is not allowed, under the French AOC laws (which also specify the type of cow - Monbeliard, seen above - whose milk it uses and the minimum maturation period), to call itself Comté so you can be fairly sure that whenever you do see it for sale it will not disappoint.
The only concern you may rightly have is whether it's worth braving the hordes at Borough to pick some up. Fortunately, it's fairly widely available at decent cheese shops in London (and I've even spotted it in Waitrose) so you shouldn't struggle too much finding some, but the kind people behind a recent PR drive to get Comté more widely known in Britain have recently set up a website listing some stockists. I can also add Hamish Johnston on Northcote Road to that list, who generally have some in. So wherever you find yours, remember to bring it to room temperature first (this applies to most cheese but the subtle nutty flavours of Comté really only work properly when it's warm) and enjoy this accessible artisan product at its very best.
8/10
I was sent this sample of Comté to try. The PR company have set up a Facebook fan page so you can even become an virtual "fan" of the cheese from the comfort of your own home.
Like all the best delicatessens and food shops, the smell of Brindisa's Borough Market outpost is exciting, unmistakeable and arresting. From the impressive rack of cured legs of Spanish ham that crown the carvery emerges a rich, earthy scent of forest mushrooms, wet oak and, of course, the thing that gives these extraordinary animals their unique flavour - acorn. It's a smell that defines Spanish food in the same way that the musk of grease and batter from a chippie does for England or the sweet waft of freshly-baked croissants from a village bakery does for France. It's an evocative and emotional smell, and I don't care if you've never been to Spain or even tasted any cured Spanish ham, you can't fail to be moved by it.
I was in Borough market on a cold dark evening as a guinea pig for Brindisa's new "Ham School" venture. The idea is you pay £65 for an evening tasting, talking about and even having a go at carving some of the world's finest cured pork product, all overseen by Alberto Ambler, the assistant manager. Helping him and providing a live demonstration of how it all should be done was Zac Fingal-Rock Innes, Brindisa's own "Master Carver", who I can personally vouch is incredibly good at his job despite the rather worrying bandage he was sporting on his right hand.
But first, the tasting. Four different hams were presented, ranging from what was modestly described as an 'entry-level' bit of pig, the 14-month cured Jamón de Monroyo Reserva from Aragón. More chewy and less 'melty' than the more expensive varieties, it was nevertheless sweet and moreish, with a subtle nuttiness.
The Jabu Recebo from Huelva was cured for far longer - 2 to 3 years - and therefore had a much more concentrated hit of those earthy forest flavours. It also had a much softer texture, the fat melting in the mouth and combining with the firmer red flesh beautifully. You could immediately tell how the ageing process improves the meat.
My favourite ham of all, the Jamón de la Dehesa de Extremadura Bellota D.O.P., to give it its full title (though referred to by the staff as "The Dehesa"), was just about as perfect a piece of meat as I've ever had the pleasure of eating. It has an unbelievably concentrated and complex flavour, verging on sour, with a deep marmite-y richness and is delightfully melty on the tongue. This was overwhelmingly the most popular ham amongst the other lucky souls invited that evening, and notice also the D.O.P. in the title there - this protects under European law every stage of the production and is the top guarantee of excellence in Iberico hams.
I'm afraid the brilliance of the Dehesa rather pulled the rug from under what Brindisa presumably lined up to be the star of the show - the Joselito Gran Reserva Bellota from Salamanca. Still excellent of course, it probably just had too subtle a mix of flavours to win over my battered, unsophisticated palette. By this time, too, the generous measures of fine La Gitana manzanilla were kicking in and possibly clouding the judgement somewhat. I have written on my rather wobbly tasting notes "Complex, balanced, smooth, woody". Let's leave it at that.
A couple more sherries later Zac bravely offered to show us how to show us how to prepare and carve a brand new leg of ham. The leg was screwed into a large scary-looking wooden brace and the excess fat trimmed off. Next, delicate thin slices of were sliced off horizontally, just a few inches at a time, using a long and thin (and frighteningly sharp) knife. It didn't look easy. But fortified by La Gitana and comforted to some degree by the thick chain mail gloves offered, I dove in.
It was incredibly satisfying to produce these delicate slices of juicy ham, and though my efforts were obviously nowhere near as beautifully produced as Zac's, it was nevertheless great fun to feel such a creative connection between yourself, the animal and the delicious end product. I'm guessing it tasted better for having just been carved too, for although this was merely a 'starter ham' (they weren't stupid enough to let us hack apart a Gran Reserva), I happily wolfed down the slices as soon as the chain mail gloves were off.
Anyone not gluttonous enough to finish off their hand-carved ham seconds after carving (that would be me, then) had it wrapped up and packed off at home time, so none went to waste. Educational, entertaining and enormous fun, I can't think of anyone that wouldn't enjoy an evening talking about and carving the finest hams in the world (well OK, maybe vegetarians, but they don't deserve to enjoy their evenings anyway). Brindisa Ham School is running every month beginning on 5th November, and comes thoroughly recommended.
