Go Blue!

Around Ann Arbor, the cry "Go Blue!" is heard early and often each autumn, a reference to Michigan's much-loved maize and blue clad football team. In fact, it's probably been heard in other assorted languages all over Europe, but in an entirely different context; in the Rouergue in France, Darbyshire in England, Lombardy in Italy, and Asturias in Spain, the attention was going to newly made, and-with a little luck, soon-to-be-blue-cheeses.

Almost certainly the original blue cheeses were created by accident. The legend of Roquefort country-probably offered up in almost every other blue cheese making part of the world-is that some shepherd was about to enjoy a bit of bread and some fresh sheep cheese when he spotted an attractive young girl nearby. Setting down his snack on a rock, he headed off for a quick flirt. Flush with fantasies he struck out for home, forgetting his food. A few weeks later he returned to the same spot and discovered that a strange bluish-green mold had formed on both the bread and the cheese. Although it looked a bit bizarre, he sat down and ate it anyways (must have been either really hungry, or alternatively, an extremely adventurous fellow). And, lo and behold, he liked the mold-the cheese had evolved into something really special; blue cheese was born.

Of course, it took awhile to get the process down. For many centuries, it was nature-not science- that dictated the terms of the cheesemaking. Despite the best efforts of makers, only some cheeses turned blue, others just bad. Certain cheeses (such as cheddar or Cheshire) blued when they weren't supposed to; others that usually blued, didn't. I doubt than anyone really understood why the molds did or didn't work. In truth, early cheesemakers didn't have whole lot more influence on how well their beloved blue veining appeared in their cheese, than football fans do sitting on the sidelines exhorting their teams to victory. So it's really not all that far fetched to imagine that medieval cheesemakers might well have encouraged their cheeses with exclamations and exhortations. Still, while consistency has varied over the years, more often than not, both Blues have won out.

Who Likes The Blues?

More than almost any other type of cheese, Americans seem to either love or hate blue cheeses. There's little middle of the road-few folks will settle for "they're OK." Ever the quizzical one, I decided to do a little surveying, and so started our staff asking customers about their blue cheese preferences. Additionally, I asked them to inquire how people had felt about blue cheese in their youth-it's always seemed to me that they're something of an acquired taste.

All told, we talked to about forty folks in our unofficial survey. Of this group, all are still fans as adults. I was a member of this minority; I liked blue cheeses long before I knew anything much about good food. Mostly I put it salads. Well over half distinctly recall not liking blue cheese as kids; many remember rejecting it rather vehemently so. Three or four more couldn't recall any childhood preference at all. Conversely, only a quarter of those questioned remembered being fond of blue cheese as children. But of these early non-believers, over half have changed their minds, and now enjoy eating blue cheeses. Clearly, at least in America, blue cheese is more of an acquired taste.

I did wonder how much of this taste preference was natural and how much I could attribute to the influence that a pair of blue cheese hating parents might have imposed on them. Carol, a long-time Deli regular remembers being, "the only one in my family who liked it. So I only had blue cheese when we went out. My mother still hates it."

Toni Morell, who manages the olive oil and vinegar area at the Deli, was one of those who started out hating the stuff, but has since switched sides. "I was afraid of it. I didn't know what it was. And it had that funky, feet smell. ["Don't put my name on this," she added afterwards. Now why would she say that, I wonder?]. "Now," she concluded with a big smile, "I love it."

Stuart Bogie, who used to sell bread at the Deli, offered up a resigned, "I used to hate it. Now I love it. It's great on a chicken sandwich." What changed your mind? "The gorgonzola on a salad at a restaurant I worked at." Fittingly, Stuart is now the star of a Levi's commercial on TV where he recites a list of cheeses he used to work with at the Deli.

Boy, Ten, Buys Best Blue Cheese

I don't have any data to show whether or not more kids like blue cheese now than they did back when I was a boy. I can tell you that in the midst of this little information gathering, a staff member shared a nice story with me. "A ten year old kid came into the Deli with his father. Walked right up the counter and announced, 'I want to try your best blue cheese.'"

"The father said that?" I inquired, trying to keep track of who was who.
"No!" she answered rather adamantly. "The kid."
"Wow!" I remember thinking, "a ten year old kid came in asking for our best blue cheese?"
"That's what I'm telling you" she replied, eyes rolling back in her head a bit.

Having clarified the answer to my question, she continued:

"Do you have enough money?" the dad asked, perhaps knowing that the best blue cheeses are rarely inexpensive.

"Yep," said junior, waving his kid-sized wallet.

They proceeded to taste four blues: first was Roquefort; second came Stilton, then Gorgonzola, and finally, Valdeon, an excellent, walnut leaf-wrapped wheel from Spain. He actually liked them all, but decided on the Stilton, of which he bought a wedge.

I'm not sure exactly what conclusion to draw. Regardless, I like the story. Gives me hope for the future of good food in America if ten year old boys take their fathers out to buy blue cheese.

Where Does Blue Cheese Come From?

More than most other cheese categories, blues are pretty much a product of their environment. Look at a map and mark off where the big blue cheese makers are at: Britain, France, northern Spain, northern Italy. Of late, you can add Ireland, parts of the US, and Denmark. Then think of how many of the world's major cheese regions that have absolutely no tradition of making blues: Switzerland, Holland, southern Italy, southern Spain. Some in the south, some in the north. Seems so random; it took me awhile to add it up.

So what's the pattern here?

Traditionally, blue cheese making required a couple very specific conditions:

a) Moderate temperatures.Too hot and the cheese will dry out and the mold won't develop properly. Too cold and the same problem pops up.

b) Plenty of natural moisture.Without it, the humid environment that's needed for good mold development. Natural caves aren't necessarily a necessity-Stilton seems an exception to that rule-but blues tend to show up in mountainous areas where caverns and caves are the norm.

Taking these into account, you'll see quickly that many major cheesemaking regions are eliminated. Switzerland? Too cold. The Meditteranean basin? Much too hot. Greece? Too dry.

What About The Aroma?

Consistently, people who don't like blue cheese (and even some who do) repeatedly refer to a "foot smell" that they associate with blue cheese. Now, I don't know if my olfactory activity is unusual, or if I simply shower more often than most. But I guess I don't really get the same smell. In most cases I actually like the smell. In fact, after hearing half a dozen folks get into the foot thing, I went back two or three times to test myself, smelling both feet and cheese.

Well, you knew I was weird. But I don't think I'm alone. I've tried testing wedges of blue cheese on folks far less food fixated than I am, and consistently, faced (literally) with the real thing they too seem to actually enjoy the aroma. I tried some out on a nearly forty year old writer-friend who had somehow managed to avoid ever eating blue cheese, until one day not long ago when I brought some by his house. Despite his lifetime of abstinence he approached the cheese with surprising enthusiasm. Heading in nose first, he quickly declared, "Hmmm . . . that doesn't smell like feet at all." He went on to eat a wedge. And not only did he like the smell, he even liked the cheese. Another convert for the cause.

My friend Daphne told me about a frequent French visitor to Campton Place, the Bay Area restaurant where she manages the selection and serving of the cheese course. A consultant to the perfume industry, the man has an exceptionally knowing nose. One day, Daphne's cheese board featured a lovely wedge of ripe blue Colston Basset Stilton. As she served him a wedge, he commented knowingly in heavily accented English, "Eet smells of leather. But not zee leather of zee shoe. No, its perfume is zee leather of zee saddle." Now that's some seriously creative aromatic assessment.

What Makes A Blue Cheese Blue?

For openers of course, blue cheeses are actually a lot more white, or cream colored, than they are blue. The blue we see is limited to a series of "veins," collections of caverns, nooks and crannies. Take note that the veins in many blue cheeses aren't actually blue; rather, they run the color gamut from green to pale blue to indigo. Roquefort is on the green end of the spectrum; Gorgonzola more of a greenish-blue; Stilton bluish-green; Valdeon (from Spain) very blue; Maytag from Iowa can be almost indigo.

The color and frequency of the mold in a blue cheese is one of the factors modern makers now manage in an effort to create a cheese they perceive will be more desirable to the buying public. Most modern Stilton makers now add more mold than they used to, seeking cheeses that are markedly bluer, almost black at times, and ensuring plenty of prominent veining. This they do primarily for visual effect, improved salability, and for easier work on the cutting lines preparing pre-packs for the supermarkets. But in old-style Stiltons, like Colston Basset for example, the veins were much gentler, far less visually striking, a greener shade of blue than what you'd likely be buying in most supermarket.

What Makes A Subpar Blue Cheese?

Recipe writers often refer rather generically to "blue cheese." But of course, there is no single, standard-issue, blue any more than there is a single, standard, "goat cheese." Just because a cheese is "blue," it isn't necessarily any good. As they do with any other variety of cheese, the quality and type of milk, the skill of the maker, the recipe, the maturing, and adherence to traditional techniques, all make a huge difference in the attractiveness of the finished cheese. Though industrial blues may not be absolutely awful, neither would any qualify as being of high quality, at least not by my standards.

Speaking of industrial, don't be fooled by stuff like "Roka" brand salad dressings which never get near any real Roquefort. Nor should you rely on restaurant menus that often inaccurately refer to "roquefort" sauces. With the high cost of real sheep's milk Roquefort, it's the rare commercial server in this country who really sticks to the real thing. Most substitute some other blue, while inappropriately co-opting the Roquefort name for their own purposes. Similarly, I'd say that nine times out ten when an American menu lists "Gorgonzola," what you'll usually be served is some indifferent, American-factory facsimile. Having little in common with the eminence of the real article from Italy, these subpar salads are, unfortunately, still a step up from what most of us are unknowingly offered-salad bowls topped off with, . . . the dreaded . . . blue cheese crumbles!

"What kind of cows," you might wonder, "make crumbles?"

I was trying to think of some witty comeback, along the lines of, "Ones with split personalities." But I guess the joke is actually on us. In point of fact, cows don't make blue cheese crumbles, people do. And a lot of 'em, at that. More blue cheese is sold in America in the form of "crumbs" than any other way. Bags of them are the basis for almost every commercial blue cheese dressing you or I have ever had. Every restaurant cheese distributor offers them up in five pound plastic bags. Granted they're convenient. And, on a technical basis, crumbles can easily qualify for a classification as "blue cheese." So, if all you want is a bit of blue flavor and a hint of color to doctor up your salad, I'm sure they'll suffice. But I'd have to say that blue cheese crumbles are to the world of blue cheese what green cans of parmesan are to Parmigiano Reggiano, or what sliced American singles are to good cheddar; just another (no good) way to take an amazing, fantastic food and get it down into some sort of industrialized-7-11 existence. If you're looking for great cheese, look again. When it comes down to actual flavor, blue cheese crumbles and a well-made Stilton (to name only one option) are at opposite ends of the culinary cosmos.

Medical Phobia:
What's with the Mold and Veins?

I'm not really sure how to handle this one. When you get right down to it, the (only somewhat) discouraging reality is that most Americans start squirming as soon as you mention the term "veining" (God forbid they'd be varicose) or "mold" in blue cheese. I admit it. If you really stop to think about it, blue cheese is strange sounding stuff. Try telling an average American to eat some "moldy cheese" and you're almost guaranteed to get some pretty odd expressions in return. Telling them you paid upwards of $20 per pound for it only adds to their perception of an X-Files-like otherworldliness. After all, in our super-sanitary modern world, mold is considered an enemy; moldy is meant to be rejected, not revered.

In this case blue cheeses are behind the acceptance curve of other seemingly strange foods. Mort Cohn, who's in my writing group, pointed this one out. "It's strange," he said, "that Americans seem to have fully accepted the idea of "active cultures" in our yogurt." I get his point: Who'd want a yogurt with dead ones? And I know the powerfully positive image that people have of our artisan bread baking process, capturing those "wild yeasts" in the air. "But," he went on, "this stuff with 'veining' just sounds scary."

He's right. Tell 'em about mold spores, and you can see their noses start to wrinkle up. Get into veining and their foreheads start wrinkling too. You can watch them trying to act like adults and not say anything. But if I actually ask . . . I can tell they're getting squeamish inside. Turns out Mort was speaking from personal experience: at the ripe old age of 35, he'd never tried blue cheese. Later I gave him some to try. After an anxious moment or two he proclaimed it delicious.

I know I'm not going to convert too many non-believers into blue mold lovers. Remember, though, that mold is a part of most every traditional cheese's maturing (as well as of traditional salami and many country hams). It's just that you and I don't see it, enabling all of us to live in some sort of mold denial. And while we're all raised to revile mold, the reality is that in the case of blue cheese the mold is actually marvelous. All I can say, I understand your skepticism. But, hey, give a good mold a chance, won't ya?

What's With the Caves?

Ever since the early days of cheesemaking, it's been known that the moist, consistently cool atmospheres attained inside of subterranean spaces are ideal for maturing cheeses, especially those that rely on the development of molds for their making. Limestone seems to be particularly prevalent. Modern commercially-made blues can try to replicate the conditions in the caves, but to my experience, they often fail to equal them. So, one thing consumers can watch for is a note on the label indicating that the cheese inside has, indeed, been matured in a cave. Stilton is an exception; it's aged in moist maturing rooms. Of course what modern cheesemakers refer to as caves aren't exactly untouched natural wonders anymore. The Roquefort caves, for example are now equipped with elevators (for the cheese, not for people), and have been expanded and improved numerous times.

The Blues in the Modern Era

While ancient blue cheeses were a product of luck and location, very little these days is still a result of totally natural methods. Almost all blue cheese-even the now-name-controlled Roquefort-is made using fairly advanced methods which remove much of the mystery and magic and replace it with industrial assurance that the cheese will turn out as planned. Very few blues are made on farms. In fact the two best known names in blue cheese-Roquefort and Stilton-are no longer made on farms at all.

Through the end of the 18th century, the cheesemaker's challenge was to make a decent cheese and then get it into the vicinity of the molds. If luck and/or the lord was with you, your cheese molded. If not, bad break. Today, both random selection and religion have been removed from the process. In almost all cases, the molds which once settled onto the cheese on their own, are now actively introduced into the cheese making process, primarily in one of two ways. Nowadays, either,

a) molds in powdered form are put directly into the liquid milk before curdling (as is done in the case of Stilton).

OR

b) powdered mold is shaken onto the already formed curd (as is done with Roquefort).

Both techniques assure the consistent mold formation in their cheese, effectively eliminating the need for the cheesemaker to invoke that ancient "Go Blue!" cheese cheer from the dairy door.

In either case, as young cheeses are made, the spores stay dormant for days, weeks or even months, until they have access to air. The recipes for most blue cheeses call for leaving the curd quite loose, the better the byways for air-and later veins-to arrive in the center of the wheel. In the old days this fact made for some rather haphazard development; some cheeses would be well-veined, others hardly at all. (White Stilton-essentially Stilton without the veining-is still made in a few dairies. It's a bit crumbly in texture, with sweet, mild, milky flavor.)

What Sort of A Cheese Gets Pierced?

Obviously, the answer is blue cheeses. While they don't wear earings they do get multiple piercings, designed to encourage the development of the veining. What's the secret? Nothing fancy. It's just that somewhere along in the 19th century it was discovered that the simple step of poking holes into the paste of the cheese would allow in additional oxygen, and, hence, enhance the development of the veining. (It's all so obvious after somebody else thinks of it, isn't it?) You can see the signs of the needle work, evenly arranged around the outside edge of the cheese. Originally, the holes were made with what were, essentially, knitting needles-Earnest Wagstaff, the since retired Stilton maker at Colston Basset Dairy, told me they used to use "#9 darning needles."

Today, the hole poking (in even moderately-sized dairies) is almost always machine-powered; the wheels are set into small piercing machines which work their magic quickly. Many people presume that these holes are "where mold is injected into the cheese", a logical (though inaccurate) assumption in our world of modern medical injections. Actually, all the holes do is allow oxygen into the center of the cheese, encouraging mold growth, and enhancing the maker's management during maturing.

What, Then, Makes A Great Blue Cheese?

Enough with the negatives. What makes a great blue cheese great? Without being glib, the answer is, pretty much all the same things that go into making any cheese great. Top notch milk, taken from animals eating as interesting and varied a diet as possible; handmade by skilled cheesemakers; cultured with complex (if often hard to work with) species of mold; matured in caves until the flavor is suitably complex and beautifully balanced. Tradition and history, of course, come into play as well.

Then too, there's no generic all-blue answer. While they are all classed into one category, each of the classic blues is unique. Each is made according to its own recipe, each has its characteristic flavor and texture. Made from cow's milk, Stilton is firmer and more buttery with a thick, mottled brown rind. Gorgonzola, while also made of cow's milk, is softer, more pungent, more spreadable, with a slightly sticky, reddish-brown rind. Roquefort is always made from sheep's milk, has no rind at all and a flavor and aroma all its own.

I wish I could tell you a simple formula guaranteed to get you good cheese, but . . . I guess if there was one I wouldn't be writing this. Reality is that, over the years I've bought some pretty bad Stilton, some god-awful Gorgonzola, and some nearly rotten Roquefort. But, happily, I've also had ethereal examples of all three.

Truth is, it's tough to tell by looks alone. Knowing the names can help, but only to a point. Gorgonzola, Roquefort and Stilton are still the three best known blues. Certainly, starting out by finding any of the three is likely to have you headed in the right direction. But even then it's really still pretty iffy. Being familiar with brands helps too, but still, you can't count on getting a great slice of Stilton buying on label alone. With the blues, more than perhaps any other variety of cheeses, the retailer's role has an enormous impact on final quality to the consumer. Even the best wheel of Stilton ever to depart British shores can become pretty darned poor if it sits too long, is crudely stored or improperly handled. If the cheese has only the slightest hint of blue in the flavor it's subpar. If the blue is so strong that it dominates the flavor to the point of being out of balance, the cheese isn't well-made. If the flavor of the rind has insinuated its way into the flavor of the cheese inside it's past its prime.

What don't you want to see in a blue cheese? Usually overly thick rind is a sign that the cheese is older than I'd like it to be. The cheese shouldn't be sticky or gummy (signs that it hasn't had a proper opportunity to breathe during storage. Nor should it be overly dry or powdery (a sign that it's been overaged and too much moisture may have evaporated). Ultimately though it's the flavor of the cheese that's going to be the deciding factor. Without a chance to taste I think it's next to impossible to evaluate the quality of the cheese. And, as with every other cheese, when I taste I'm looking for full, rich, complex flavors; a mouth filling eating experience; a long, pleasantly memorable finish.

The best blue cheeses are absolutely unique, and truly terrific. No cheese can take the place of a a good blue in a recipe or on a cheese board. I adore them at room temperature, eaten with nothing more than a bit of good bread, some ripe pears or crisp apples, maybe a handful of toasted walnuts.

Three of Great Britain's Great Blue Cheeses

Colston Bassett Stilton

The cheesemakers at Colston Bassett work slowly using traditional techniques: curd is ladled by hand to protect the delicate fat globules in the milk (instead of being pumped-far faster, but flavor and texture be damned); only a scant bit of starter is used allowing the full flavor of the milk to develop properly. (As with Zingerman's Bakehouse bread speed kills when it comes to crafting traditional cheese.) Paired with a glass of ruby port, it's the perfect ending to an memorable meal, or the perfect prelude to a special gathering of friends and family.

If Stilton were King Arthur, Colston Basset should be Camelot, a shining Stilton palace admired 'round the world. But it isn't. In fact, Colston Basset is a rather innocuous, little red brick building of a dairy on a Nottinghamshire side road in central England. No trumpets sound as you pass. No billboards blaring "world's greatest Stilton made here." But if you can't judge a book by its cover, I guess you can't judge the greatness of a cheese by the grandeur of the building its made in.

You can see that Colston Basset is no ordinary Stilton just from its appearance. The veining in the cheeses is much gentler, more integrated into the cheese, less visually striking, than that of the other Stilton makers. But the thing to remember is that the veining in a Colston Basset Stilton is just one part of a complex and well made wheel. Unlike other Stiltons where long shelf life and heavy bluing are the sought after qualities, Colston Basset is being crafted with an eye towards balanced flavor and creamy texture. The veins in a Colston Basset cheese aren't just for appearance-they actually contribute to the cheese's essential and ethereal creaminess because the enzymes in the mold break down the paste of the cheese. As you'll see when you eat it, the creaminess starts around the veins and gradually moves through the cheese.

At the end of the day, it's this creaminess-not the blue veining-that's the thing to look for in a good, ripe and ready to eat Stilton. Now, I know this kind of goes against popular modern wisdom, which tells that blue cheese is for crumbling onto a salad. But if you're looking for crumbling, look elsewhere. The best Stilton's are should be spreadable, soft, with the consistency of good butter, and a melt-in-your mouth, almost velvet-like smoothness.

Sometimes I forget just how great tasting a cheese Stilton is, until I put a piece in my mouth again. Fortunately I don't have to go to far to be reminded. Just walk the few feet over to the cheese counter at the Deli and get a small sliver to savor. Like all flavors, it's hard for me to describe Stilton's, hard to get computer keys to bend and blend their way into and around something that happens strictly inside my head. But there is something special about the taste of a good Stilton. It's deep I think, deeper than that of any other blue cheese, with an amazingly well-rounded, buttery, oaky. Be sure to serve it at room temperature where its creaminess can be best appreciated.

Selected and aged especially for Zingerman's by our friends at Neal's Yard Dairy in London. Paired with a glass of ruby port it's the perfect ending to an memorable meal, or the perfect prelude to a special gathering of friends and family.

Beenleigh Blue

Made from fresh raw sheeps' milk by Robin Congden down in Devon. "Undeniably one of our finest cheeses" says Dominic Coyte at Neals Yard Dairy in London. Smooth creamy texture and undertones of caramel and butterscotch in its finish. Excellent after dinner with fresh fruit, or spread on a baguette for a light lunch.

Harbourne Blue

Another excellent cheese from Robin Congden. This one is made with unpasteurized goat's milk. MORE DESCRIPTION TO COME. Excellent crumbled onto salads, or melted into a light cream sauce and served over steak or baked potatoes.