It’s said that there’s a cheese in France
So pungent that it’s banned on trains;
The stink could put you in a trance-
Or state of crushing nasal pains.
Its smell is like the forest floor
After the rain has soaked the soil.
It tastes of salt and spice and spore
With just a hint of lactic oil.
It seems five hundred years ago
Cistercian monks who worked the land
Around their abbey at Cîteaux
And used whatever was at hand
Devised a recipe for cheese
That through the ages and the wars
Was altered and refined to please
The tastes a keen gourmand explores:
From well-fed cows in the Côte-d'Or
The milk's extracted, heated, placed
Inside the farmer's private store
Where manufacturing is based.
The milk’s coagulation takes
From sixteen hours to one whole day
Before the curds, in tiny flakes,
Are separated from the whey.
The curds, in moulds, are left two days,
Then salted, racked and set to dry
Before commencing the next phase
Of what is needed to comply.
Laid out in cellars to mature
It’s regularly rinsed in Marc,
A local brandy, a liqueur,
And mixed with water in the dark.
And all this time, around six weeks,
A hand will regularly brush
The surface using old techniques
To spread the mould and make it blush.
The colour is an orange-red
Caused by fermenting and by yeast.
Accompanied by sourdough bread,
It has the makings of a feast.
Accompanied by Trappist beer
Or light Sauterne, (but not red wine).
An added texture will appear,
A hint of hops or of the vine.
That celebrated epicure,
Brillat-Savarin, called this one,
“The King of Cheese”, he was so sure
It would give second place to none.
Napoleon, or so I’m told,
Desired it on the battlefield.
The emperor, though brave and bold,
When it was gone, was forced to yield.
Two hundred years from his demise
As world wars come and trade wars go
Its pungent scent still stings the eyes
Its flavour makes the tastebuds flow.
So when I smuggle it aboard
The TGV from Lille to Tours
I sneak a bite and think “Thanks, Lord!
This cheese is destined to endure.”