
Our Pairings: Chiriboga Blue with stuffed cucumber kimchi, Pantaleo with water kimchi and Hudson Red with spicy kimchi. Oops, I salivated on my keyboard. Photo courtesy of Tenaya Darlington.
During the Science Festival, I had a fantastic time at Kimcheese, an event that featured some amazing cheeses paired with my homemade kimchis. These two ferments seem to love each other, and these particular pairings were fantastic thanks to the expertise of one Madame Fromage (whose book came out on Tuesday) and the ever-awesome DiBruno Bros. Our event featured a packed house and a super friendly and excited group of people who consumed an ENORMOUS amount of kimchi. I was proud.
There are few places in Philly that I love more than DiBruno Bros, and it was really exciting and special for me to be able to do an event there. I will cop to spending too much of both my financial and caloric budgets at their Italian Market location, simply because it’s a wonderful, wonderful place, full of cheeses made with great care. I sometimes step in to DiBruno Bros. and Claudio’s mozzarella on my way up and down the market just to inhale the powerful aroma that permeates those shops. But my delight in cheese started long before we moved to the Italian Market. It actually shares an origin with my first true love: France.
When I was a young’un, I spent some summers in a little town on the Garonne river, in southwestern France, not far from Toulouse. True to stereotype, my French host mother was just about the world’s best cook. Even better than that, my host family was of the sort that wanted to give me maximum cultural exposure. I got to take trips around the country with them and experience many hysterical moments featuring the formerly unknown bidet and fun with false cognates such as “préservatif.” No French cultural education is complete without literature (I learned the subjunctive with the help of my host mother and certain novels whose main character was small town life in Southern France) and most importantly, food. They basically adopted me those summers and since they were good and wise, they knew that cheese was an essential part of my education, if I were to become a truly French child. I’m not discounting the bread, crêpes, wine or even the somehow superior crudités that they fed me, but since we’re talking cheese this week, that’s where I’ll start. They brought cheeses home for tasting on a regular basis for my culture générale, of course. They fed me breakfasts of croissants, fromage blanc, tartine au beurre and giant bowls of chocolat chaud (why are they thin again?). They were responsible for hooking me on the chèvre chaud (dressed greens topped with broiled goat cheese on tiny toasts), still one of the first things I grab for lunch when I’m in France. Birthday dinners outside by the pool featured the first actual cheese trays I would ever experience and on one memorable trip to French Basque Country, we were told to spread jam on slices of a hard, salty cheese. My host family was not crazy about this combo, but as the American palate loves sweet and salty together, I ate it all up. To this day, I occasionally enjoy a touch of homemade jam on certain hard cheeses.
My host mother was kind of awesome. She was highly educated (both host parents were trained as dental surgeons) in the rigorous French school system and vivacious, but the bulk of the days I spent with her were in the kitchen. I’ve tried unsuccessfully for years to recreate her plum clafoutis, made with plums freshly plucked from the tree near the river on the far side of the yard. I think I finally nailed her roasted sweet peppers after nearly two decades trying but there is no way I could ever recreate the vast majority of the amazing flavors she provided in every meal, every day.
To get to the kitchen, we first had to hit the shops. They had a giant Carrefour grocery store, where we did a lot of shopping (sorry I can’t be more romantic there). It was the trips to the butcher, the cheesemonger and the bread bakery that awed me. Perhaps awed isn’t the right way to describe the butcher trips. SUPER FREAKED OUT is more like it. I can remember being 14, already a vegetarian for five years and staring up at a ceiling hung with plucked, whole chickens, their creepy dinosaur fingers pointed skyward, and what was probably some extremely pricey and flavorful cured sausage, hung low enough to hit this tall American in the forehead. Let’s be honest: I now know that room temperature sausage and whole chickens are much preferable to styrofoam packages of select chicken parts and Oscar Meyer wieners. Then, however, it was really gross and scary and made me glad I wasn’t partaking. I felt no disgust at the cheese counter, however. I can’t remember every cheese I tried during those summers, but I do remember my host family trying to explain the concept of AOC to me while we ate some Roquefort or Ossau-Iraty. They scoffed at American sanitary insanity while explaining that if I wanted to take home one of my beloved raw milk cheeses, I’d have to surround them in sanitary napkins to deter the customs agents. This was done on more than one trip. In retrospect it is hilarious that, as a young teen, I was being incited to break the law by some very upstanding French citizens. Of course, they had it right. When the law is idiotic, citizens must rebel!
I was only there during summers, and we had every meal outdoors, under a giant (mimosa?) tree feet from the refreshing swimming pool and yards from the gurgling river. I’m sure the weather must have been bad enough to eat inside at some point, but I can only remember the sunny days and they joy of being in France. Often times, after lunch, my host mom would sit with me by the pool and talk me through the novels of Marcel Pagnol. Occasionally, if my dream-worthy host brother was going windsurfing or my dear host sister was taking a scuba-diving exam, we would head a few hours away, to Biarritz or the Mediterranean, passing the incredibly impressive, reconstructed Carcassone castle on the way.
These memories are dear to me. Despite (and I’m generalizing) an unhappy attitude towards vegetarians in France, I’ve eaten many of the best meals of my life in there, and most of those Chez Zilberman. It is impossible for me to experience those memories any way but very fondly, and it is impossible disconnect my memories of those summers in France from the food.
Returning to the States at the end of those summers, I experienced a pattern that would repeat itself upon arrival from Europe in subsequent years; the cheeses in my parents’ fridge just didn’t taste like anything. Suddenly, the Kraft mac ‘n’ cheese I had so adored making with my sister on half days felt slippery and flavorless on my tongue. Kraft singles were merely rubber and the pre-shredded cheddar and “Mexican” cheeses I would throw on flour tortillas for a favorite and thoroughly unhealthy snack were bland as can be. There wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it in metro Detroit in the early 90s. Undoubtedly someone in the area was importing and selling the cheeses I desired, but it wasn’t anywhere my family shopped. The re-dulling of my taste buds happened naturally and slowly over time, the way memory fades, until a touch of parmesan from the shaker on top of my mac ‘n’ cheese was good enough again.
For the next several posts, I’m going to be focusing on cheese! We’ll do some how-tos for stuff you can reasonably make at home and visit some local spots around Philly for great cheese. I’ll also share a few personal memories about my attachment to cheese. Of all the ferments I love, cheese is definitely the one to which I’m most viscerally connected. I hope you enjoy my flights of sensory memory. Vegan and paleo readers: do not despair! I’ll be featuring a how-to you can love soon!