Now Is the Appointed Time: Le Valencay AOC

Last July I wrote about the pyramid shaped cheeses that appear from local farms at the market here in Lyon every summer. This year I want to tell you about the cheese at the heart of the mystery of their intriguing shape. Whatever story you decide to believe, there's one thing you must not pass up, a nice well aged AOC Le Valencay in the month of July.

Although the history of this cheese dates back hundreds of years, the AOC was obtained in 1998. Currently there are 21 farms and 6 co-ops producing Le Valencay, and it is distributed widely in France, with a yearly distribution of 342 tons a year. Fresh raw goat's milk is curdled with animal rennet over 24 to 36 hours and then hand ladled into the truncated pyramid shaped molds, strained, and aged for 10 days before it gets a coating of a mix of salt and ashes.

When choosing Le Valencay, choose one with lots of nice puckering and a dark color to the crust, which will indicate a cheese with a nice body and well developed flavors. This cheese holds up well under various conditions, so you can get excellent cheese ranging from a very soft young cheese with a light salty flavor to the oldest hardest cheese that splinters when cut.

It's ready to eat now, friends. Have a taste and tell me if this isn't the paragon of the chevre experience.

Ski Meals: Fondue

We love to ski in the Jura, where mysterious trails wind up into thick forest, then break out to round a peak along the edge of vistas like you've never seen before. After this reward, an exhilarating descent awaits. Another favorite is at Les Houches in the Alps, where you have to get the lift but the backdrop of Mont Blanc is so awe inspiring that you quickly find your rhythm along rippling trails, drenched in sunlight above the clouds. At Villard de Lans, in the Vercours mountain range near Grenoble, they have a great bunch of trails, excellently conceived and full of variety. If you have time, you can actually ski out into the mountain and stay at an Auberge between stations. The auberge features a full style restaurant and rooms for overnight stays. The next day, you can head to the next station.

While a ski picnic is always in order, fondue is a great way to end a ski day. Once the sun falls and you're relaxed after an active day on the trails, something warm and rich is always perfect. In the ski towns, tartiflette is popular, as well as fondue and raclette. You'll always find restaurants that serve them. But doesn't it always seem better to prepare one at home?

Fondue for 4


When we prepare a fondue at home, I don't use corn starch, which apparently makes it thicker and less stringy. We love our fondue to be stringy and stretchy and we like the juice to soak into the bread. The bread for a fondue should be either old bread which you have cut into cubes and left out to dry, or toasted in the oven. In any case, it should be nice and hard, like croutons.

1 clove of garlic
1/3 pound or around 200 grams each of mixed French mountain cheeses, Comte, Beaufort, and Emmanthal, grated.
a cup of a dry white wine, preferably a Vin de Savoie
2 tablespoons good kirsch
a grate or two of fresh nutmeg (optional)
1 egg yolk or two

While someone builds a fire, and still others change into comfortable slippers and drape themselves with woolen shawls and sweaters and look at the books, take out the fondue pot. Appoint someone to choose the music and pour everyone a glass of wine. Crush a clove of garlic, and rub the crushed garlic all over the inside of the fondue pot. In a separate pan like a saucepan, heat the grated cheese and wine in it until it melts, stirring carefully. Fill and light the fuel capsule under the fondue pot, putting on the diffuser to keep the flame relatively low. Put the melted cheese mixture into the garlicked fondue pot and place it in its base over the flame. Add the kirsch and nutmeg if you're using it, and stir it up. Distribute the hardened bread pieces, and begin dipping the bread cubes into the hot steaming melted cheese, using the special color coded spears. If anyone loses their bread from too vigorous stirring or scraping, house rules indicate that they are penalized in some way. You choose that penalty and agree on it with others. Some ideas might be they have to go to the cold dusky cave for a bottle of wine, or they have to put a log on the fire, or something that will make them feel really sorry for having been greedy and pushy with their bread. Really there is plenty to go around. When you have just a little bit left, like a half an inch in the bottom, and even the smallest flame can't keep it from beginning to sizzle, extinguish the flame. Add the egg yolks and stir them into the hot cheese. This will thicken the last bit and make it extra delicious.

La Brousse and its Uses

Brousse, a fresh light tasting ewe's cheese,
is used in both sweet and savory preparations.
I like it on hot blinis with smoked salmon and duck.

We love to buy Brousse down south where we can get it super fresh, and see it everywhere in Provence and the Côte D'Azur when we are there. It is a simple fresh white ewe's cheese that drains in a basket, much like its Corsican cousin, Broccio. In Ubaye valley, the local patoie reveals a link to another cousin, calling it Recuite. Indeed, we can see the family resemblence with Ricotta. Brousse generally is labeled to contain 40 to 55% fat, but in reality the percentage is much lower, because it contains lots and lots of whey.

It has a light, creamy taste, a bit more substantial than fresh ricotta. When you taste it, it is easy imagine its use in either sweet or savory preparations. Epecially in Nice, its uses in cuisine are for the most part savory, involving oil, herbs, and garlic. Desserts pair it with compotes in pastry, in dessert verrines, or as a layer with lemon curd on a flat tart.

Near Toulon, the traditional local production was a bit different from neighboring regions and did not include salting it. Because of this feature, it had to be eaten on the same day it was produced. Reference to the cheese goes back several hundred years, with mentions of women flocking to towns with their baskets of Brousse for sale in the morning.

In addition to eating it plain or simply seasoned with herbs and pepper, southerners use Brousse in stuffed pasta and vegetables, and they also roast it in thin pastry with fish and herbs. They roll it in cured ham, and work minced vegetables into it to pair it with eggplant. Brousse has a natural affinity for tomatoes, so we see it not only paired with fresh tomatoes, but dried as well, in tarts.

Brousse du Rove is yet another Brousse that comes from the end of the Rhone before it ends at the Mediterranean, and is often not made from ewe's milk, but goat. It has a special fresh herbal taste and distinctive long thin basket mould.

Blessed are the Little Ones

20 minutes south, 20 minutes north
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Sometimes the cheese freak show comes to town. They roll in during the vacation periods, when the regular vendors have left spots to fill, and they roll out an enormous wheel of Beaufort. Tourists come and stand in front of them to have their photos taken, and then get fast talked into buying some.

Put that huge cheese out of your mind for a moment. Imagine arriving to the market and hearing a different call. "Step right up folks, right this way! Here we have the smallest wheel of cheese in the world!"

Sounds a bit odd, you say? One day a few years ago I started thinking about small cheeses. A whole new delectable universe opened up to me. There are quite a few different cheeses that I could easily put on the table in the kitchen of my dollhouse, and they would look right at home there. Sumptuous and grand. But at the fromagerie they are so small, they can be easy to overlook. Don't let the little ones pass under your radar, folks, you'll be missing something special.

actual size
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One of my favorites of the lilliputian stature is a local raw goat’s milk cheese called the Rigotte de Condrieu (the cheese on the left). It rarely weighs more 30 grams when fairly new, and the fromager gets them in palettes and takes it from there. With time, it shrinks down and dries until it splinters when wedged into delicious little shards of pleasure. You can get it at all stages of affinage. I prefer mine rather dry, because it’s then that the cheese takes on a beautiful balance between tangy and creamy. My idea of heaven is a nice Rigotte de Condrieu with a glass of St. Joseph, preferably at sunset when there's nothing to think about but how the sun makes it glow.

Most of the other rigottes are made of cow’s milk, and there are many kinds to choose from. A very good one is the Rigotte des Monts du Lyonnais (on the right), from the other side of town, about the same distance north from Lyon as Condrieu is to the south. It also ages quite well but I prefer this one younger than I do the Rigotte de Condrieu.

There is a fromager at Les Halles called Marechal on cours Lafayette that tends to the little ones extremely well. They have really got it down to a science. They also have really good connections, and source many of the little cheeses that you just won’t find elsewhere. I always go to Marechal when I want itty bitty little cheeses for the plate because no one does them better.

For the little cheeses:
Fromagerie Maréchal
Halle de Lyon
102 cours Lafayette
69003 LYON
04 78 62 36 77

The Mystery of the Pyramids

One look at the luscious pyramids of chevre that appear in artisan form from all regions of France and I begin to tumble the mysterious shape and its history like a puzzle in my mind. Why pyramids for goat cheese?

Baskets are hung to favor the quick elimination of whey, it might be easy to dismiss the whole issue as just the preferred method for cheese-making in general, but then again the pyramid shape seems to be classically linked to cheese coming from goats. If it were a question of the mechanics of cheese in general, we would not think "chevre" when we see this shape.

The truncated pyramid shape (above) is said to have its origins in Valencay, inspired by Napoleon Bonaparte's dinner in the countryside with his interior minister, Talleyrand. When presented with local cheeses, the story is that Napoleon commented on the tall pointed pyramid shape as reminding him of his campaigns in Egypt. His host followed the next day with a delivery of six truncated pyramid shaped cheeses, and it has been made that way ever since.

An alternative and more exciting version of the story is that the little conqueror took out his sword and violently chopped off the tops of the cheese right then and there at dinner, in a fit of rage. As a counterbalance to the mayhem, blithe naysayers will sit back and point to the steeple of the church of the town, insisting the shape of the cheese is inspired by it. Most people choose the more exciting story.

No matter what the origin, these short topped pyramids have become a classic symbolic shape that means chevre, influencing many artisan cheese-makers the world over to adopt it. Nowadays we find them everywhere in the world that French inspired goat cheese is made, and each one holds its own mystery - why does goat cheese taste so wonderful?

Cancoillotte

Dubious beginnings that end in glorious harmony

This cheese has a vague and mysterious background. Historians argue about how long this cheese has been in existence, with some claiming to have found references to it dating back to records of the Gallo Roman conquest of what is now the Franche Comte region some 4,000 years ago. Whoa. Some pretty old cheese.

Old local legends are told like fairy tales over the table about how this cheese began. Some food historians defiantly trace Cancoillotte to a mistake made in cheese fabrication sometime in the 16th century. Whatever its story, Cancoillotte is something to try, especially if you are making a day trip from Lyon into the Haute Savoie, the Jura, or the Doubs to hike or ski.

Cancoillotte is made with buttermilk left to coagulate on its own at ambient temperature. The separated solids are removed and pressed to obtain a nasty smelling hard bunch of curds from the turned milk. They are pressed down tight and preserved in cakes called metton, and not even close to edible at this stage in the production of Cancoillotte. They are ripened even further until they are ready to use.

When it is time to mix the Cancoillotte, the curds are steadily melted with water or bouillon and butter to obtain a fondue-like homogeneous product, which is then fortified by a local white wine and any number of additions, herbs, garlic, shallots, kirsch, nuts, ham or just plain served forth, hot, warm, or cold. It maintains its homogeneous consistency when cooled, although it becomes slightly gelatinous and makes a great spread on toast. The flavors of the fermentation are more pronounced when it is eaten warm.

Cancoillotte mixing falls within the domain of the local fromager, who might have his or her own house mix, making it a specialty, so depending on where you go, the qualities and flavors of this cheese will vary.

An industrial production of this cheese was introduced in the early 20th century by using sterilization and canning methods. It was first used as soldier rations during the first world war, and you can find industrial versions of it outside the region today. Although canned production was stopped in 2002, you can find the factory versions of it in grocery stores in plastic pots alongside the cheese-like products. The real Cancoillotte remains artisanal and stays within the local region, and has nothing to do with the chemically preserved, starched thickened, homogenizing agent laden gluey product we find at the grocery store.

I can definitively say that this cheese is worth a cheese pilgrammage.

Don't be afraid by the metton cakes so full frontally mentioned above. Cancoillotte, once the preparation is complete, has a light and creamy flavor, and can seem quite mild and ethereal. The flavor is dreamy and creamy and it seems like it must be very fattening. But because of its buttermilk origins, this cheese is lower in fat than many other cheeses. It is great eaten plain tartined on bread, and some cooks use it in preparations like stuffings or as the base of a sauce over meats, with regional sausage, or eat it with potatoes.

When taking a day trip from Lyon into the Alps or Jura mountain ranges, keep you eye out for Cancoillotte, also known as : cancoillote, canquoillote, canquoillotte, or camoillotte.

Split Personalities

Apero cheeses - my favorite kind.

He smiled and his eyes went around the gallery. I'd spent a semester of late night sessions at the ComArt facility manufacturing an installation of 180 identical black boxes, set in an architecturally inspired row around the white cube gallery, an indirect hommage to Donald Judd. I'd hand-pulled the ink across the screen to serigraph every individual copy of the invitation to the opening myself on hand made paper and had written a 23 page treatise to explain the work, but he didn't want to read it or hear it. He looked and simply said - "You have arrived".

We sipped wine, me in my burgundy colored velvet dress, Rodger in his signature jeans and turtleneck. I didn't believe him. Looking back on that time, I sometimes think it was probably the biggest mistake of my life to hold out with the naive idea that life deliver more content before a person can take themselves seriously, and sometimes I think that there was some precocious wisdom at work there.

There is a certain syntax at work as a person pieces their way, one by one, billet by billet, voyage by voyage, into the creation of a body of work that can be called life work. A vocation is found, sometimes early, sometimes late, and it is in that siren's calling that we find our passion. As the pieces fit together for me, vignettes summarize the activities that nurture and sustain me spiritually. At a point in a person's life, any person's life, they can suddenly name it. The choice presents itself and sometimes it is easy to ease it in among the rest.

The kitchen is the most basic studio for creation - I can find the perfect cyclical patterns arising on a life-sized scale, no monumental accomplishments or revolution at play here, and no single edition miniatures labored over by teams of artisans, but stories that slide naturally into our lives and our minds, like playing cards in bicycle spokes, ideas that repeat, make rythems, fill us, recharge us. I can put some mindful effort into practice here, day after day, every side of me.

We are repeating what has been done for thousands of years, everyone to their own degree and within their context. The aesthetic and ritual of nourishment. It is ageless and can be classed in so many subcategories and styles, but when it is all amassed together, it encompasses every single individual human memory.

We all associate food rituals intimately with the experiences that form us, eras that shape our personalities, our memories, memories of our mothers kitchens, and stories of their mother's kitchens. We accumulate it all into our senses. Sometimes we gather it like cotton wool to be spun into threads that will be used to suspend or support other activites or ideas, and sometimes we can take it simply like a wide open spring Saturday that leaves us happy and tired by the heat of the fire. When we can abandon ourselves to the light and the air and then turn our attention to our collective work suspended over the hearth, without ever having the need to suspend our hopes beyond what is right before us - I know we have arrived.

The month of March here in Lyon has been particularly balmy. Loic and I remember the chill of the dark months and we appreciate the sun on our skin and the sun's first products still now pushing from the earth, yet we also appreciate the warmth of the hearth like no other time. Spring begins with putting up and putting out. It is a time when light fills our mornings and evenings again, opening new doors for creation. The new vegetables, in France called légumes primeurs, are on their way. We remember and talk about last spring's salads and the delicate flavors that await us as the bitter greens make their last show at the market, and we rub our hands together in anticipation of what we know is coming.

Fran goes out to dig in her garden, and my little irises begin to pop out of the soil in my window box. What color will they be? I've forgotten what she said, the lady who sold me parsley roots and iris bulbs to push into the window box last autumn. They'll be blooming soon. I'll see then.

We had a taste of something completely different today. It got me really thinking because of it. For that, I thank La Vache qui Rit. My dining companions all seemed get something amusing out of the experience of unpeeling these little babies. These have been around since the 70s and have made a comeback on the French market. Looking at the illustration on the wrapper, what do you think is at play here?

Apericubes hold a strange appeal for many of the French people I know.
I don't understand it.

Today we had lunch at Aude's and she presented us with some Pop Art at apero. My heart still lies with the minimalists, I must say, although we did enjoy a great afternoon.

Fromage Blanc en Faisselle

Cheese begins like this. It is clean. It is the uncarved block we all aim to remain. This cheese is ready to eat, ready to wait, ready to receive. Just plain cream, or a shower of pure cane sugar sprinkled on top and soaking up the reflections. No reserve. Sauce au caramel, coulis, syrup, or a combination of any with crumbs. Spice cake crumbs. Speculos. Peanut butter cookie crumbs. A flurry of crumbs that lands like snow on a fence post. Or you can just eat it plain.

Pérail des Cabasses

From time to time we head in the direction of the Massif Central to take in the sights in the Aveyron. But even when we can't get away, I can take in a bit of the gorgeous scenery in the form of a cheese called the Pérail des Cabasses. In the warm months, Rosine and Jean-François Dombre’s 600 milking ewes are pastured in the wind and sun at an altitude of 850m on fields of wild grass & flowers pushing through on the high plateaus there. They produce this cheese à la louche, which means scooping the curds by hand with a ladle into moulds, and turning it by hand during the 12 days before going to maket, respecting ancestral methods. Fromageres all over France and also abroad apply their own affinage methods to this cheese, so the expertise and loving care with which your fromagere treats this cheese will have an effect on your final experience. In speaking briefly to M. Dombre this afternoon on the telephone, his kind soft spoken farmer's way melded in a certain way right through the line as a warm contrast into this afternoon's cool city light. On tasting a wedge and allowing the brief bristling flavor of the ewe's cheese crust to melt through to a gorgeous depth of pastroral finish, I was reminded that I can have a soft gentle creamy mountain summer day encapsulated into 150 perfect grams from the limestone plains of the Aveyron 190 miles southwest of Lyon, even when big raindrops fall. Thank you, M. Dombre.

Update: M. Dombre has left me a message that he sells his cheese in England to Neal's Yard Dairy in London. Before you make a trip, call to see if they have it in stock.
For American and Canadian cheese lovers, a pérail de brebis, which is the same type cheese, but perhaps produced by a different creamery, which is aged for the requisite 60 days to meet US cheese import regulations, can be purchased online here.



Remember you can click on any image on the blog to see a larger version.

Chèvre Chaud

My friend is waiting for me, looking into a gift shop window. We kiss each other’s cheeks and silently admire the flourishing ivy growing in boxes in front of the teahouse. In the somber passage where the light always falls as if we are in a forest, the vines quietly and thoughtfully climb. Before we enter the teahouse, we unwrap our scarves together and check to see through the window that our regular table is ready. The handle pulls down, the door pushes in, and a bell quietly chimes. The lady who sits at the desk in the afternoons waits for us to shed our outdoor clothing, ushers us to our seats, and we are ready. I glance through the stone arched door with the curtain in the back and see a quiet movement against the creamy yellow cabinets of the kitchen. This place is not really a place for small talk. It is a place where we must discuss. Something in the stones demands it. Our salad and dessert will be followed by pot after pot of hot nourishing tea.

Salade de Chèvre Chaud avec sa Vinaigrette au Poivre Vert

Take a flavorful chèvre like the Picodon or Pélardon, and slice it into 6 wedges. Split each of the wedges in half along the center. Choose a quarter of a good round loaf of substantial bread, like Richard’s pain ligerien, pain de campagne, or a pain au noix. Slice it into flat triangles and toast the bread triangles briefly in the oven to make them crisp but not too brown. Wash & dry your lettuce or mixed greens, herbs of your choosing, wedge some garden tomatoes, thinly slice an onion, peel a shallot, and crack 8 walnuts. Make a sauce vinaigrette with the blender using one whole shallot, a rounded teaspoon of brined green peppercorns, ½ a teaspoon of salt, olive sunflower and walnut oil, and plain simple cider vinegar to taste. Place the wedges of cheese on the toast with the crust of the cheese facing up. Put them in the hot oven to slightly melt and brown the cheese. Arrange the salad ingredients in a bowl. Give the salad a first drizzle of vinaigrette. When the cheese is adequately soft on the toasts, place them on the salad, drizzle again with vinaigrette plus a light dusting of sea salt or fleur de sel, and serve.

If you have any cheese toasts leftover, offer them to your companion with a little more green peppercorn vinaigrette on top as a gesture of friendship.

Pélardon de Cevennes

From at least 100 BC up until some time in the 1960s (this is true!), the Pélardon was a cheese that barely changed at all. It was like many of the little countryside chevres we run into, being produced on small family farms. You know, the kind we find when we follow a hand painted sign which has been hammered into the ground by a farmer next to the road. FROMAGE or sometimes FROMAGE de CHEVRE - The ones that make me call out an abrupt “STOP!” that causes Loïc to pull off on to the shoulder. “Where?” he says. Sometimes we have to make a U-Turn and backtrack because the sign was just a flicker in the landscape, and we passed it by before my brain had a chance to register it. In any case, the Pélardon was at one time one of those really good local goat cheeses that you'd never taste if you didn't happen to stop by the place where they were made. You might find it at a local market, but no where else.

Up until the 1960s, the simple country folk making this cheese in the Languedoc Roussillon had no reason to change a thing, and things were done exactly as they had been done generation after generation. But at a certain time a decade or two after the Second World War, the winds of change reached their little cheese-making world. A stranger from afar arriving on the scene might be made privy to a whole slew of seemingly ceremonious rituals involving the ladling and milking and herding and feeding of the goats and so forth that made his heart ache with the knowledge that the local truck routes and promises from city slickers and tourists and the breaking up of family lands and so forth were destined to end up blowing through this place like so many before, completely destroying something very special.

The farmers of the town of Cevennes decided to pool their resources together and form a co-op. They were being assured by anyone happening though their little corner of heaven that their cheese was indeed superior. A region consisting of a combination of Garrigues, rolling countryside full of aromatic herbs that are constantly caressed by the constant prevalent winds from the Mediterranean, and majestic stony mountainous areas of the Pyrenees, it is the perfect terrain for their free roaming goats to pasture and the only place that could produce the miracle cheese called Pélardon. The particular dose of présure, the single hand ladled dose of fresh un-pasteurized goat’s milk skimmed and strained of its whey to make each cheese, everything seemed to be just naturally falling into the making of these little golden palettes of tangy creamy goodness.


Within the next decade, groups of people that they call the “néo-rureaux” arrived on the scene. Like the new wave filmakers, who were making films that were more film like than ever before, and the chefs throwing themselves headlong into a new cuisine, the cooking that tasted more like itself than ever before, the “néo-rureaux” sunk a whole lot of effort into studying carefully the existing ancient process and standardizing it, introducing the cheese for the first time to the various markets in France. They saw to it that the cheese stayed just the way it was, did not alter process in any way, resisted intensification of production, kept it rare, and sent it out, where they knew it would be received with resounding success and almost mythical status.

What is in a name? Money. Suddenly, out came a whole new series of new cheeses from everywhere but the place it came from, cheeses that mimicked but never did justice to the Pélardon, coming from all over the place. By the time the 1980s came around, a whole new young bright eyed generation of cheese makers fresh from the new industrial agriculture schools began to up their production of goat milk by expanding the size of their herds, utilizing new methods of intense farming, animal raising and feeding to multiply production and reduce costs. It became clear back in Cevennes that the goose that laid the golden egg was going to die if something wasn’t done to maintain a certain quality in the name Pélardon. The original co-op and various local producers, about 100 in all, created the Association for the Protection of Pélardon Cheese.

In 1989, the decision was made by the people who had formed the association to apply for AOC status of the cheese, mainly to set clear borders around the original cheese-producing region, excluding all competing fake Pélardon producers. The negotiating process wasn’t clean. Of course there were cheese makers large and small, some with big money behind them that claimed that their family livelihood was tied up for generations in the production of this cheese, etc. and the whole process of even defining the areas where the cheese could be produced was quite a messy one. Setting AOC rules on production was difficult enough, but they finally pulled something together and in 1993, an initial request for recognition was forwarded, to be accepted a year later. It wasn’t until four years after that that the final geographical zone of production was finally established, and finally in the year 2000, the AOC was awarded.

What are the rules? Some of the more important ones are translated here, all pretty much common sense, but at the same time, when you read them, you realize why the Pélardon we get these days is so delicious.

The milk has got to come from one or a combination of only three races of goat: The Sannen, Alpine, and Rove. The goats can be bred amongst themselves but no other race may be introduced. The herds must graze freely on pastures falling within the defined production area: 180 days a year on the pastures located above 800 meters in altitude and 210 days a year for herds located below that altitude. The producer must possess at least .2 acres of grazing land per goat, or no more than 5 goats per acre of land. The plants on the pastures must be of the type naturally found growing wild in the appellation zone, and feed must consist of at least 80 % of these naturally occurring plants. Supplementation to the feed is limited to 400 grams per liter of milk produced. The Pélardon is made by slow coagulation and drip straining methods, from whole un-pasteurized goat milk. The addition of powdered milk, concentrate, colorants or flavorings is prohibited. The moulding of the cheese must be done by the skimming method. The use of frozen curds is prohibited. The minimal ripening time of the Pélardon AOC is 11 days counting the renneting and they must be turned every two days. The cheeses can be ripened on site or by an affineur located within the geographical zone of production. The labeling of the cheese must be done in the zone of production.

Anyway, it tastes out of this world. Pélardon, please never change.

Cheese Pilgrammage: Thônes

Driving up towards Bourg-en-Bresse and then hanging a left at Nantua, we cruise by the small roads into the Savoie region and visit with friends in Thônes, about 20 minutes outside of Annecy.

Our first stop in town is to the co-op, where they sell the cheeses from surrounding producers including all locally produced Reblochon, Raclette, Abondance, Beaufort, Tommes of various sizes and kinds, and one of the rare pressed goat milk tommes called the Chevrotin. We find their cheeses on display in their shop where the cave is built right into the rock with cheese stacked on old wood shelving in a controlled environment, the shelves visible through glass walls.

What is a Tomme de Savoie? This cheese is not standardized by AOC because there are so many hundreds of producers each with their own methods, although it is certified as coming from the Savoie region with its own special mark. The Tomme is the Alpine mountain cheese that has the longest history of any of the uncooked Savoie cheeses, historically made from small quantities by the milk farmers with their leftover milk. The cheese for the Tomme is coming from the milk of the Tarine and Abondance (see photo above) cows that dot the countryside of the region.

Nowadays in any grocery store in France, you can get some really forgettable industrial tommes with catchy names implying they come from Savoie. More often than not, they come from big city suburban factories that make absolutely no distinction in the origin, i.e. the cows, that produce the milk that gives way to these cheeses. Lowest price wins, don't care what they're fed, when and how, and the cheese, well, not so interesting.

On the other hand, when you are in the Savoie and happen upon the really good stuff that's been properly made and handled and aged in the right caves, you will be doing yourself a great favor to note the name and place of the producer, ask questions, and appreciate it. You will find that the best examples of this cheese can really be outstanding. A return visit will work its way into your itinerary the next time you pass through the town where you had it the last time - simple. Little by little you will locate the best cheeses and little by little you will be able to tell the difference, and judge.

At the co-op in Thônes, the local farmers have several novel variations on the Tomme theme on offer, one of which I fell in love with, the Tomme au Fenouil. The fennel grains (Anise seeds?) impart such a beautiful flavor and this also adds some interest to the cheese plate. This is one kind of cheese I would eat in thick slabs on bread all day long if I could.

Les fromages de Colette et Pierre Meunier

You have to wonder about those city people who get out of their cars to take photos of cows. I tried to look as if this was something I do all the time, and I recall that in my mind I was thinking that I would plead eccentric artist if ever interrogated by the townfolk that I imagined would be coming around the corner any minute. The cow pulled a Sissy (the cat)- feeling a bit odd about being focused on so intently, she tried to act casual by scratching her ear, then she posed. I called this similarity to cats' behavior to the attention of my husband who murmered something I didn't quite hear.

The perfect excursion: Leave Lyon by car heading west in the afternoon, and as you roll along through residential areas on the outskirts of town, the stones begin to turn a golden color. The more golden the colored the stones become, the smaller the towns become and the more the space between them grows. An hour by slow winding country roads, the little yellow and black ones, some backtracking, and some roads dotted with green, and the color of the stones has deepened to a profound golden mustard color that glows in the afternoon sun. I would not call this France profond, but it is far enough away from our life in centre ville Lyon to feel like we've gone away.

We entered the town of Oingt. The name of the town got me joking with my mother, something Loic was not catching, because in French it is pronounced something like "Wa" which is respectable in every way (some things just don't translate). We pulled over in a municipal lot to locate ourselves on the map and saw that there was a door open and a sign advertising wine and cheese inside. Why not give it a try?



We purchased 8 bottles of wine, a package of aperetif cheeses, and a mi-chevre for the cheese plate. The aperetif cheeses, called Py, are simple and honest and taste of the fresh mild curds they are. The mi-chevre is creamy and tangy.

Arôme de Lyon

We spent the day driving through the countryside yesterday and were surrounded by fields of ancient grape vines trained in antique homage to the sun of the Rhone Alpes as far as the eye could see. We rolled back into Lyon at the end of the day with our trunk full of wine and cheese.

At my favorite restaurant, Pierre serves a little hand moulded log of chevre that he soaks in Marc and covers with raisins as an honorary gesture to the Arôme de Lyon. Back in the kitchen at Tetedoie I also saw the cheese boy prepare a chevre like this with pepper. We enjoy the original Arôme de Lyon on the cheeseplate at the café des Federations, and right now at the fromagerie they look and taste very good.

This Arôme de Lyon is a young St. Marcellin type cows cheese (some are also done with a chevre like a picodon depending on the producer) that macerates in Marc de Bourgogne for several weeks, and then is covered with mounds of the pressed stems, seeds, and skins leftover from the grape production. The cheeses are stored in old oak wine barrels starting soon after the grape harvest, and are set on palettes of 40 ready for sale starting from the winter months. Even so, we get them all year round. You can choose them at various states of affinage since they stay very well in their barrels, and once it's on the palette the Arôme de Lyon becomes harder and more dense with time. They age very well but don’t last long on the plate at home!

I love the crunch of the raisin seeds between my teeth. The raisin crust provides a delightful texture and in contrast, the cool smooth flavor of Marc floods our senses. Adding complexity to that mix, we also taste the counterpoint of the tangy but creamy smooth pâte that the cheese provides. Now that I'm weighing my cheeses I can say that this one weighs about 48 grams.

Les Trois Cornes

Les Trois Cornes is said to be inspired by a story told by the legendary M. Alphonse Daudet (1840-1897) who was mentor to many of the great names of French literature of his time. He was one of the first artists of his day to embrace the work of and defend the Impressionists, a true writer of the modern era. The story is told within the framework of a supposed letter to an young poet who has refused a job at a top Paris circular. I translate the story that gave the fromage Les Trois Cornes a name for your pleasure here.

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What? Grignoire! You, young poet, have been offered a post to write a column in a good Paris paper and you have the gall to refuse? See here sad boy! Take a look at your sorry state of existence, the holes in your shoes. You look like you're about to starve! Look at where your determination to write your pretty rhymes is going to take you. Look at what little you have to show for yourself after 10 long years of service to Apollo! Aren't you ashamed? Write your column, silly boy! Write the column! Your life will improve!

No, you don't want to do it? You prefer to stay free to the very end. Alright then, listen here, to the story of the goat of M. Seguin.

M. Seguin never had much luck with goats. He always lost them the same way - they chewed their cord, ran up into the mountains, and were eaten there by the big bad wolf. Neither the loving care of the master nor fear of the wolf ever stopped them. It seemed to him that the goats would pay any price to prance in the fresh air, free. M. Seguin, who couldn't understand this nature in his goats, was completely stumped. "I've had it!" - he cried, "Goats get restless on my farm, I'll never be able to keep them!"

This didn't stop him from trying, however. One after the next they dissapeared the same way, and after losing six goats he got a seventh - only this time, he took the care to buy a really young one, in hopes that it would get used to him and his farm before it wanted to get away.

And oh what a beauty this kid was! With her beard like a petty officer, her eyes big and green, shiny black boot-like hooves, her striped horns and pretty white fur that curled up around the edges! Such a lovely little kid!

M. Seguin had a little patch surrounded by delicious hawthorn which is where he put his new goat. He attached her by a chord to a post, making sure to leave lots of rope to let her wander just so far, and from time to time, he checked on her to make sure she was alright. The little goat seemed so content to graze on the herbs in her little patch that M. Seguin was simply delighted. "At last!" he exclaimed, "I've got one that isn't bored here!" Unfortunately he was wrong, the goat was getting restless.

One day, the little goat, while gazing up to the mountain, said "Oh it must be so very nice up there in the mountains! How I long to have the chance to prance around freely in the fog without this scratchy rope so tight around my neck! It's fine for a cow or a donkey to be all closed up in a pen, but goats, they need to be free."

From that moment on, the goat was clutched with ennui. She lost interest in the herbs, she lost weight, she didn't give any milk. It was pitiful to see her all the day long laying as far as she could from the post, the rope stretched taut, her muzzle stretched out toward the mountain, sadly bleating.

M. Seguin knew that something was wrong, but he couldn't say what. One day as he came to take care of the goat, she bleated to him in his language: "Look at me, Mr. Seguin. I am languishing here at the end of this rope. Won't you let me go up into the mountain?"

"My God!" cried M. Seguin. "Not again!" This time he tried to talk some sense into the goat, and sat down next to her. "What? You want to leave me, Blanquette?"
"Yes, M. Seguin" she replied.
"Are you missing certain greens, my dear?"
"Oh no, M. Seguin!"
"Can I lengthen your rope?"
"No, it's not that."
"Then what can I do? What do you want?"
"I want to go into the mountain, M. Seguin."
"But my sad one, you don't know that there is a ferocious wolf up there. What will you do when he comes?"
"I'll pierce him with my horns, Mr. Seguin."
"The wolf doesn't care about your horns, my Blanquette. He's devoured creatures with much bigger horns than yours, my dear. Do you remember poor old Renaude, the massive mother of all goats that was here last year? She battled with the wolf all night long, and in the morning, he ate her."
"Oh poor Renaude!" Blanquette paused. "That doesn't mean anything, M. Seguin. Please let me go up to the mountain!"

M. Seguin was at a loss for words. Yet another one of his cherished goats was going to be devoured by the wolf. He put some thought into the love he felt for his dear Blanquette and said - "Good, now I know and I am determined to save you, despite that terrible force that's pulling you to the mountain. I know you'll try and chew your chord, so I'm closing you up into a pen, so you will stay with me forever!"

With that, M. Seguin put the litle goat into a pen in the dark stable, and closed the door with two turns of the key. Unfortunately, he forgot the little window, through which the little goat squirmed through and escaped.

What? You're laughing, Grignoire? You think this is funny? You know very well that you too are a goat, against good M. Seguin. We'll see if you're laughing in a little while!

The little goat felt like she was walking into paradise once she got to the mountain. Never had the old pines looked so beautiful. The forest gave her a royal welcome as well, with ancient chestnut trees stopping to caress her gently all along her procession into the woods. The yellow flowers joyously swayed in the wind to make a welcoming path as she marched into the sunny fields, in fact the whole mountain celebrated her arrival.

Think about her joy, Grignoire! No more prickly rope, nothing more to prevent her from running free! It's there that the herbs were growing right up to her horns. And what glorious herb it was! Delicious, fine, lacy and made from a thousand plants. This was a far cry from the stumpy Hawthorn at the end of her rope at the farm. The flowers! Bulbous blossoms with violet stems, all kinds, brimming with sweet nectar.

She was giddy with happiness and leapt high in the air, among the scrub and the brush, one moment looking out from a glorious peak, the next lolling in a rocky canyon, here, there, everywhere! You might have said that M. Seguin had ten goats running through the mountains instead of one.

Pretty Blanquette was afraid of nothing! She leapt over torrential currents spraying clouds of watery mist. Completely soaked, she spread out on a sunny rock to dry. At a certain moment she saw through a break in the rocks, the farm of M. Seguin far down below, with a faint image of the dark circle of trampled sorry ground surrounding the post that once imprisoned her. Tears streamed down her delicate muzzle as she laughed with joy. "but it's so small." she wondered. "How could that place have held me?"

The poor thing. High up on her perch, she thought she was bigger than the world. In all, it was a grand day for our little Blanquette. In hopping from left to right, she ran across a herd of chamois deer chewing in a patch of wild vine, and made quite a sensation. She was given a place of honor among the vines to chew, and all of the males were gallant with her. In fact, this will rest between us, Grignoire, but one of the chamois had the luck for a turn in the vine with our lovely Blanquette. The two amoureux spent a heavenly hour or two in the forest, and if you really want to know what happened, you'll have to check with those sources unseen that dwell in the moss there.

Suddenly, a cold wind blew over the mountains. The vista turned a rosy purple - and then, it was night. "Already!" said the little goat, a little bit suprised. Down below, the fields were drowned in heavy fog, and all she could see of M. Seguin's farm was the roof of his farmhouse with a wisp of smoke rising from the chimney. She heard the bells of a troop returning to bed down for the night and felt a little sad in her heart. A swallow returning home made a flapping with his wings. She began to shiver.

Then there was a terrible howl echoing in the mountain! She thought of the wolf. All day long she didn't think of him but now... At the same time a horn sounded from way down in the valley. It was M. Seguin making one last effort to save her!

The wolf howled, owiooo!
The trumpet called: Come back my little Blanquette!

Blanquette wanted to return but she remembered that lonely post, the rope, the horrible darkness of the pen. Even though she was afraid she felt that it would be better to stay where she was. The horn finally ceased.

Suddenly she froze in fear as she heard footsteps behind her in the leaves. She made out in the darkness two straight ears, and two glittering eyes. Huge, still, crouching on his haunches, he watched the delicate little goat. He could already taste his dinner. Knowing that he was going to eat her, he took his time, and just watched her. When she turned to see him he let out a horrible laugh. "Ah, M. Seguin has sent me another little goat", he growled, licking his chops.

Little Blanquette didn't know what to do. She remembered the story of the poor old goat Renaude, who battled all night long just to be eaten in the morning, and she thought that perhaps it would be better after all to be eaten right away. Then she lowered her horns to protect herself, like the brave little kid she was. She could never hope to kill the wolf. Goats don't kill wolves. But only to see if she could hold him off until dawn as her dear friend Renaude had done.

The beast advanced, and engaged in a dance with the little goat's horns. Oh the poor little Blanquette, she fought with a clean and brave heart. More than ten times, and I'm telling the truth, the wolf was forced to retreat and take his breath. Each time she fell back into the herb and the little gourmande recharged with some fresh greens and then went right back into battle. This went on all night, and from time to time the little kid glanced up at the twinkling stars and said "Oh if only I can last 'till daylight!" One by one the stars extinguished in the sky and she kept returning with her horns, and the wolf with his teeth.

A gleam appeared in the horizon, and the rooster's call rose from the farmland below. "Finally!" called Blanquette, having lasted all the night. She streched out on a patch of grass, her pretty white fur stained with blood. With that, the wolf pounced and ate her.

Adieu, Gringoire! The story you have heard is true. If you come to Provence, everyone will tell you the tale of M. Seguin's goat who battled all night with the evil wolf, who ate her at daybreak.

You understand me, Grignoire.

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Moral of the story, my friends? Gee I'm not sure but if I ever get offered a post at a big city Magazine, I'll be sure to take it. Danger from the big bad wolf does lurk in the shadows when we embark on creative projects. Reflecting on this story, I suppose if Mr. Seguin had bought his seven goats at once and hired a young boy with some dogs to take them for a stroll in the mountain (and encourage them, play their muse, and maybe help edit) each day, he wouldn't have lost them all and they would have grown in number and today his progeny would have a huge chevre milk cooperative from which he could produce tons of AOC cheese each year. One day at a time, one day at a time, ma Blanquette. 2,000 polished words a day is all I am asking from this majestic wonderland. One thing is for sure, I have fought long and hard to get out that little stable window. I must march proudly into the flowered field and leap the torrential currents as much as my livelihood will allow. Every single day.

Broccio's Double Life

Kind of like the metamorphosis of the caterpillar to butterfly in ewe's cheese form. Around Springtime, the fresh Broccio begins to appear at the fromageries. Les Halles is probably as close as we're going to get to the source of this cheese if we're not going to quit town for Corsica. It was at Les Halles in Lyon that I first learned about Broccio, which is made by adding milk to the leftover whey from cheesemaking. In fact this cheese is the first AOC protected cheese to be made from recycled whey by adding milk and heating it until the milk's curds rise. The curds are skimmed into baskets where they slowly lose their liquid. Some gets consumed right away, and some gets put up to dry. Broccio, named Brocciu at the source in Corsica's local lingo.

Dried and for sale at Les Halles Lyon

Gaperon d'Auvergne

A visiting friend tasted a particular cheese local to Lyon and noted that it tasted much better at the source. If you are ever traveling in France, don't pass over a local cheese because you can get it from your favorite cheese purveyor at home! You'll really miss out on something special. If you love cheese, you know that every fromagerie has certain cheeses they handle well. There's an alternative choice to hitting 5 different cheese shops for the perfect cheese plate, of course. Lets say you have a few hours with which to travel in any direction. You can go a place where cheese is made and experience it first hand, learn something new, and gather up a few to make a plate. Most likely you will come to a new understanding of that region's cheese.

This weekend we went to the Auvergne and brought home some local artisanal Gaperon. We can get this type of cheese in Lyon and it is indeed shipped all over the world, but believe me, the on-site version gave us a whole lot to think about. The original Gaperon was considered to be a low fat cheese, because it was traditionally made with the whey leftover from butter making (buttermilk) which is naturally low in fat. In the local Auvergnat dialect, the word for buttermilk is "Gap". However, most contemporary versions use only whole milk. The fat content of the artisanal Gaperon that we found this weekend was 50 percent. The effect of this on the stages of affinage is really pronounced, developing a beautiful complex flavor starting under the skin and moving in toward the center. It is a raw milk cheese that is flavored with garlic and black and white peppercorns and cured in a ball shaped form for about 60 days before being sent to market.

The photo above is of one of the many black Maries found throughout the Auvergne, this particular one looking out to the volcanic mountains from atop the Notre Dame Cathedral in the town of Clermont Ferrand.

Rouelle Cendrée, je t'aime.

To get me through these last few cloudy days of the season, because it was raining and I lost twice to Loic at Geister, because the music we played had pushed me into a mood, I was destined to find the Rouelle. I looked for a long time at it, happily the fromagère was occupied. Staring for long periods of time at cheese is something that is easy to do but even easier when it is meant to be! Where have you been all my life? Finalement, j'ai trouvé mon bonheur.