Thankfully that passed — if a little too slowly — and it became The Old Suffolk Punch once again. A reliable if unremarkable Greene King pub. Well I do have one remark, though I imagine it’s about Greene King food menus chain-wide: The Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding wrap with gravy (and chips). Behold:

Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pud ... in a wrap

From the menu my colleagues and I were imagining a bread wrap around slices of beef and some tiny Yorkshire puds, but it was probably the IPA getting in the way of the obvious interpretation. A flat Yorkshire pud-style batter pancake was the wrap. Brilliant. You pick it up by the batter wrap with the beef and horseradish sauce trapped inside and dip it in the bowl of gravy. NOM, NOM, and three times NOM.

Well it was new to me. This update on a classic, I can get behind. And in to my tum.

A soft unpasturised cow’s cheese, made in Switzerland and bought from KäseSwiss.

A round of soft white cheese, smattered with a bright white bloom, and striped with little ridges from where it’s been sitting on racks to mature. Inside it’s soft and pliable, the colour of cream.

This cheese is fantastically milky, and melts away to in my mouth. The thin delicate rind has a slightly crumbly texture, and tastes of heather, flowers and astringent herbs. This complements the utter drippiness of the inside of this cheese, which is smooth, creamy, gently sweet and nutty, and has just a hint of cocoa to it.

Nifelchas

A cow’s milk cheese, also from Switzerland, and bought from KäseSwiss.

This wedge of cheese has a rough rich orange rind, and inside the paste’s a soft yellow, smooth and opaque, and sprinkled with little holes.

The holes (or eyes, as they are properly known) in Swiss cheese are caused by a wonderful array of bacterial action. In the first stage, little bacterias scoff up the lactose, and produce lactic acid. This is pretty standard cheese-making work; we should be thanking the lactose-eating habits of Lactobacillus and Streptococcus just about every time we pop something cheesy in our mouths. In holey cheeses, though, there’s another bacteria hanging about. Propionibacterium freudenreichii shermanii devours the lactic acid, produces other propionic and acetic acids – these give the cheese its distinctive buttery sweet nutty taste – and belches out clouds of C0². It’s the pockets of this that make those iconic eyes in the cheese.

You’ll almost certainly have encountered a sibling of  P.shermanii.  P.acnes lives happily and benignly on human skin, until it finds a greasy blocked pore. Hurrah! it says, Greasy Blocked Pore! and sets itself up a spotty new home.

But back to the cheese. This particular product of bacteria and milk has a rich tangy flavour, which develops as it melts. It’s salty and bright, buttery and rich, with a marmitey umami beefiness. It has a smooth creamy texture, a plummy fruitiness, and the sweet mellowness of hazelnuts and yeast. The rind is chewy and crumbly, and has just a very subtle hint of sockishness.

I foist a lump on Lars, and he says;

Would not kill any animal. Might leave them lying on their backs in a state of happy disfunction.

My cheese was not as melty as this one

My colleague Lars joins me for a cheesy lunch, and fancies something brie-ish oozing out of bread. We acquire a little wooden box of camembert from Mons – it’s the drippiest white-rind cheese they’ve got for sale today. It’s covered in a slightly patchy and uneven fuzzy white mould, and a rich, sticky orange rind peeks out from underneath this. The pale creamy yellow paste’s exposed when I cut a wedge, and while it’s not quite as oozy I’d count perfect, it’s still pretty moist.

It smells wonderful, but luckily no officemates complain. The rind is slightly crumbly, with an initial, unexpected grassiness and a hint something odd under its butteryness. It takes me a while to identify the savouryness of moules. The paste inside is gloriously melted under the rind, and a tiny bit chalky towards the centre. It tastes great: creamy and mushroomy, with a rich buttery mouthfeel, and hints of walnut and truffle and earth, but also with a slight astringency, a twiggy prickle, a lactic tartness and just the faintest whiff of ammonnia.

Lars thinks that this cheese “could kill a small animal – not a beaver, but maybe a frog.” I have no idea what he’s talking about! I think this cheese will be even better in a week or two, when it’s had time to get oozy and melty, and even more mushroomy mellow, but we’ve almost polished off the box between us, and I can’t see the little wedge that’s left, wrapped in the office fridge, surviving beyond tomorrow.

It’s gloriously rich and buttery, smooth and soft, melting in my mouth. There’s a bright rich spicy, blue taste, and some underlying caramel sweetness, and a fruityness that’s not too dense and not too tart – pears and apples, I think. Lots of toasty, smooth hazelnut flavours, and a decent, but not overwhelming, amount of salt round it out. The rind’s delicious, too – the fruit and caramel notes come to the fore out at the edges where the veining’s less intense.

Corruptible Vegan is definitely corrupted by this cheese. She hacks lumps off and eats it straight from the knife.

Cheesy woofer: When Finn smells me taking this out of my bag he spontaneously sits down in anticipation, wagging his tail with hungry glee. How can I not let him sample it? He declares it delicious, and eats even the bluest bits from the centre.

Conclusion: Delicious, and proper Christmassy, this cheese. We have another wedge of this waiting for Christmas evening and a glass or two of port.

Lunch is a thin wedge of this odd-looking cheese. The outer third the of the cheese is blue, and further towards the center it’s a soft pale crumbly primrose yellow. There’s not much veining in the blue, as such – it’s dense and widespread enough that the cheese itself appears to be a marbled, mottled blue colour.  This cheese isn’t pierced with a blue mould – instead the blue mould is left to work its way in naturally.

I start to eat this from the centre outwards. The cheese is soft and moist, with a crumbly, granular texture. It’s slightly tart and acidic,  and nutty and fudgey, especially towards the rind. It tastes of bubblegum and flowers, and also wonderfully buttery. As I nibble along my slice, from centre to edge, the cheese suddenly starts to taste blue. It’s very mellow. All the sweet, tart, floral flavours of the inside are still pinging about, but with an overlay of gently spicy blue. The rind, when I reach the outside, is crumby and sandy, and not all that interesting to eat. The rest of the cheese is, though! It’s subtle and delicious, and unusual – like no other blue cheese I’ve ever tried.

Finn

Soft raw-milk cow’s cheese, made in Herefordshire and bought from Neals Yard Dairy

This is a squat little barrel of cheese, and I have half of one for my lunch. It’s got a white bloomy rind, and a pretty soft pale yellow paste; darker towards the edges. Towards the middle there’s a slightly chalky, crumbly texture.

The rind’s bitter, tasting of nettles; dark green and undergrowthy. Inside, it tastes sour and tart and salty, very creamy and with a smidge of rancid butter, There’s a green floral aftertaste – this might be the influence of the nettley rind – and just the merest hint of truffley mushroom. This cheese is delicious now, and I reckon it would be rather differently delicious in a week or two; softer and even creamier, with those hints of mushroom coming to the foreground, and a mellower caramel taste. This little cheese doesn’t get the chance to become a melting puddle of mushroom, though; it gets gobbled up in one go!

Soft unpasturised sheeps cheese, made in Berkshire and bought from Neal’s Yard Dairy.

Our slice of this cheese has a thick wrinkled white and yellow rind. Inside, the paste is slippery and silky, melting onto the paper in an oozy sticky mass. It’s salty! There are hints of bacon to this – smokey and savoury. It’s milky and fudgy, and there’s a hint of hay about the rind. I love this cheese; it’s rich and salty and soft and feels wonderfully indulgent.

Hawes Wensleydale

Hard-ish cows milk cheese from North Yorkshire, bought from Neal’s Yard Dairy.

This slab of crumbly cheese has a pastel orange interior. The whiter rind looks like it’s been wrapped in cloth, but I get no strings in my mouth when I eat some of it; instead, there’s a surprising (and very tasty) bright juicyness. This fruity taste carries to the rest of the cheese. It’s smooth and sweet – hints of honey, maybe – and orangy. Cheese-scoffing chum says that it tastes of lemon curd, or maybe tango – sweetly citrus in flavour. Texture-wise, this cheese lives on the border between hard and soft; it’s solid enough, but wonderfully moist and creamy.

Cheesy Woofer: Finlay says GROMPF to this cheese.

Strathdon Blue

Soft blue cow’s milk cheese from Ross-shire in far-north Scotland, again bought from Neal’s Yard Dairy.

This is a slice of pale soft cheese – slightly orange towards the rind, and paler yellow in the middle. It’s scattered all over with large pockets of pretty, powdery green mould. Cheese-scoffing chum claims that it tastes soapy around the edges; I hadn’t noticed this before, but I do now that he mentions it. This takes a smidge of the shine from this cheese, for me. It’s still good, though – spicy and creamy and salty, with a hint of mushroom.

Washed rind cheese, from Switzerland, bought from Kaseswiss.

My wedge of rubloz is pretty pungent, soft and squishy.The inner paste’s a pale creamy grey colour, and it’s coated in a darker biscuit-coloured rind. The rind is thick and feels crumbly. The cheese has a good strong whomph of washed-rind sockishness. Aside from that, it’s sweet and toffee-ish, mellow and creamy, a slight bit yeasty, but with a hint of bitterness underneath. There’s a bright fruity strawberry acidity that takes me by surprise, and really brightens up the cheese. Cheese-eating companion declares that this cheese looks like pie and smells like a wet dog. (He likes both pie and dogs very much.)

Bi-Caillou

Ash-coated raw-milk goats cheese, from France, bought from Mons.

This is a little goaty square of cheese; ashy-covered, mottled and wrinkled. There’s a liquid layer underneath the rind, and it’s a crumbly, chalky white in the center. The rind has hints of TCP; phenolic and sweetly medicinal. The sticky liquid underneath it is sweet and creamy and nutty, like almond cream. The dense, slightly chalky textured centre melts in my mouth with a fresh bright taste. It’s very sweet and creamy, a little bit grassy, and salty, but not overwhelmingly so. Theres a tart sour aftertaste that cuts through the creaminess.

Komijnkaas

Hard raw-milk cow cheese, from the Netherlands, bought from Boerenkaas.

This is a gouda with cumin in it; there are visible speckles of seed in the cheese. It tastes… of cumin! Possibly too much of cumin – the (young and fairly mild) gouda goodness is lost underneath it and the cumin dominates everything. I think that an older cheese would be better able to stand up to the spice. Cheese-eating chum points out that a good aged gouda would be even nicer without the addition of cumin, and I’m inclined to agree. Sorry, cumin-cheese. I am a grumpy old curmudgeon and like my cheese unadulterated.

Salers de buron

Hard raw cows milk cheese from France, bought from Mons.

This is slice of hard, slightly crumbly, moist yellow cheese with a thick crusty rind. It tastes initially sweet and peppery, and then of farmyard, of manure, of grassy grassy poo. I try another sliver, further from the rind, and again, it’s dark and earthy and tastes of POO. I try again; more POO. I give up. Cheese-1, Marna-0. DEFEAT! I might have to give this another go at some point, though – I feel that I’ve not given it a fair tasting.

Perhaps it is THE MAN with THE KEG who safeguards the pub who makes it so great – (if you squint in the above picture you can see him but pub correspondants will be out with their cameras to capture his full glory soon) – plenty vicarious fun can be had in merrily eyeing the door for a minute or so. The man with the keg stands above the door, bearing the keg.
Given kegs are not very light…oOne day that keg is going fall and rain a rain of BEER on the righteous/unrighteous. I have debated whether I would welcome the deluge were it to rain on me. On the plus side, I would smell like a champ. On the negative side, I could have DRUNK that beer. Is the keg a deterrent or an incentive?

Is it true that yon man is called TAN O SHANTER btw? Anyone?!

And speaking of beer, the Chandos can always keep its beer well – unlike the next pub in the list, where I have had sulphurous pints a plenty. OK OK, the Harp down the road might serve a load of indie beer and have liver and bacon bubbling away behind the bar, but good luck if you can ever fit in there without praying to the baby Jeebus and sacrificing a few fried chicken bones well in advance. The Harp also has a split personality – a strangely ornate room upstairs, a bit conference room-y and a little corridor downstairs and whilst I should be so fond of the little indie pub, it can feel a bit insidious in a way that the Chandos never has a pretension of bein’.

To be fair, sometimes it can be crowded, and it is a little southern than my drinking companions usually prefer. It can feel sparse, if you like things like carpets on the floor. Still, one of my softest pub spots is for the Chandos. It is the pub where I like to go and have a pint when I don’t feel like just catching my train and going home, it is where I have gathered Pub Drunks Who Like Doctor Who To Talk About Doctor Who, it is where I dragged my friend to come and meet me straight off her plane from far away climes, and the pub where I made my debut as Russell Brand in Trig Brother 2006 with a knitting needle with a shiny tin foil covering. This is all downstairs, of course. Upstairs has witnessed horrors of which we fear to tread, but the Chandos is all about the downstairs, the booths, the spiral seats in the centre and those stained glass windows.

Apparently they do food as well, but in years of going there, I have never seen anyone eat there. Either downstairs is for VAMPIRES, or food is restricted to upstairs (this is more likely, but THIS WILL NOT STOP ME FROM CHECKING THE DOWNSTAIRS CLIENTELE FOR *~SPARKLES~*). Yay, the Chandos <3

Brillat Savarin

French unpasturised soft cow’s milk cheese, bought from Une Normande à Londres

We have a quarter of a squat round wheel of this cheese. It’s smooth and fluffy white on the outside, and softly creamy-white on the inside. In the mouth it’s silky-smooth, incredibly rich, intensely creamy. The melting texture reminds me of posh chocolate truffles. Tastes are subtle, a gentle mushroomishness, a hint of buttermilk, and just the tiniest whiff of the fermented almost-rancid taste of really nice butter. This is a seductive old crooner of a cheese, and incredibly more-ish.

Mystery Blue Cheese

French blue cheese, bought from Une Normande à Londres

This is a slice of one of the cheapie (3 for £5) cheeses that this stall often have on special offer. It’s soft-ish, and moist, densely speckled in mould. It tastes of salty bacon and walnuts, is resonably creamy, and a smidge stiltonish. It’s a little bit sweet for me. I like it enough to scoff several chunks of it, but the sweetness becomes a bit opressive and sickly. But I have a shockingly unsweet tooth, and am probably being unfair to this cheese.

Goat Camembert

Goat’s milk, camembert-style cheese, bought from Une Normande à Londres

This cheese is, according to those officemates not participating in the cheesefest, most decidedly a transgression of the smelly-cheese office-rule. (NO SMELLY CHEESE IN THE OFFICE, in case you were wondering.) A clutch of them beat a hasty reteat to lunch elsewhere.

This is definitely the most distinctive cheese of the lunch, even if it’s made us very unpopular with the rest of the office. Colleague L. renames it INDUSTRIAL CHEESE. I’m not sure it is a very camemberty camembert; the whiff that drives the rest office out is a B. linens washed-rind reek. The rind is a gentle (damp) orange under its sparse white furring. It lacks the soft and mellow smoothness of a lot of washed rind cheeses. The goat in this one wins out, splintering my mouth and making me catch my breath. It tastes boozy and meaty, slightly plummy, and there is a hint of mushroom under all of this – very well hidden! It’s a bit of an extreme cheese, and I find it pretty hard going – we all do. A decent wedge of it’s double-wrapped and tucked away in the fridge after we’ve eaten our fill.

My favourite’s the Brillat-Savarin; so smooth and civilised! I know that it didn’t have very stiff competition here, but it really is wonderfully indulgent and delicious. L agrees with me. D favours the blue cheese, but reckons that his taste buds might have been burned out by the camembert, leaving him unable to properly appreciate the subtle nuances of the Brillat-Savarin.

Picos de Europa, Valdeón

Mixed cow and goat  blue cheese, from Spain, bought from Brindisa

A blue beast mashup cheese! I find this very exciting. My wedge of this cheese has a pale orange bloomy rind, and pale cream paste with a generous sprinkling of green powdery mould. It tastes bitter, and cocoa-powderish. It’s reasonably salty, slightly sour and lemony. Towards the rind the veining is less intense, and it tastes sweeter; creamy, smooth and with a hint of almonds. The sweetness here is a good contrast to the bitter saltiness of the centre of the cheese. This isn’t such an intense blue that my mouth hurts, but not is it a huggy mellow sort of cheese; it’s too bitter and spiky for that.

Tetilla

Soft-ish pasturised cow cheese, from Spain, bought from Brindisa

Tetilla is Spanish for breast, says the internet. Google image search agrees, at least if you have safe-search switched off. Oops! This is a slice of a rounded conical cheese. It’s hard on the outside, and softer and oozy inside, scattered with tiny holes. It tastes very creamy and buttery, with a big initial whomph of alcoholic pineapple, and a slight lingering sourness. The cheese gets harder towards the rind, which is chewy and comparitively tasteless, but is strangely very pleasant to eat.

Soft, white-rinded, raw-milk sheep cheese, from Sussex, bought from Neal’s Yard Dairy

Flower Marie comes in little brick-like squares. The rind is white with gentle pink tinge, and adorably soft and velvety-furred and strokeable – like a baby animal. The cheese inside’s pale and creamy, a touch crumbly in the centre, and sticky – almost liquid – directly under the rind.

It tastes bright and light and salty and fruity, and very rich and creamy. There’s just a hint of a herbal, floral flavour, and soft and gentle caramel and nutty flavours. Towards the rind there are hints of mushroom. Overall, it’s sweet and rich and mellow, gentle, varied and subtle.

Woolsery

Hard pasturised goat’s cheese, from Dorset, bought from Neal’s Yard Dairy

The centre of this wedge of cheese is hard and dense, with a slightly crumbly texture. It’s a very pale cream colour; the rind’s a darker beige with a smattering of intensely bright yellow mould.

The rind is delicious – juicy and bright and sparkling. Inside the the cheese lightly salty, fruity (citrussy tangerine, and predictable pineapple), and gently nutty (almond and pine nuts). It’s mild and mellow and creamy and sweet. Initially it’s crumbly in texture, but it has a melt-in-the-mouth smoothness as well.

Dorstone

A raw-milk, ash-coated soft goats cheese from Hereford, also bought from Neal’s Yard Dairy

I have half a little round of a young goats cheese. The centre of the cheese is bright white, soft and gently crumbling. This clean white inside contrasts beautifully with the ash-covered outside. White and green bloom and soft rind wrinkles appear over the ash, giving a very pretty rippled, dappled effect.

It tastes salty and bright and goatishly lemony inside, with a light moussy crumbling texture. My mouth tingles from the rind, which has a bitter greenish tang to it, and a hefty dose of saltiness. There’s a sliver of creamy liquid directly under the rind; sweet and nutty, and a wonderful contrast to the bitterness and salt of the rind.

Colleague D joined me in this cheesy lunch, but refused to name a favourite – like asking him which of his children he loves best, he claimed – before admitting that the Flower Marie just about pipped it. I think it’s my favourite too; it has such a sweet and evocative name, neat little brick shape, and velvety soft skin, that I was charmed before I even tasted it.

The Spirit Group (the managed arm of Punch Taverns) have, however, waded into the murky territory of food science, which they should really have left to the experts. Their winnovation is not to throw the word ‘posh’ before things but instead ‘vegetarian’. Now of course, in theory I applaud this. As a (recently lapsed) vegetarian, British pubs have been excellent in offering choices for those who do not wish to eat dead animals, albeit within the strictly limited repertoire of the pub menu as mentioned above. At its most unadventurous this may mean offering a green salad, or replacing meat with Quorn wherever it appears.

So if Punch Taverns wish to substitute fish with cheese (halloumi in this case), I can only be intrigued. Halloumi is a sturdy cheese, one that doesn’t melt easily, so would seem to be ideal for this project. The problem is in the execution. Three very large chunks of halloumi have been battered and deep fried. This is already too much for one digestive system to bear, but it also strips the halloumi of its distinctive salty taste and squeaky texture.

Ultimately, if I hadn’t already left behind my vegetarian resolve, eating this hideous slight to the glory of both fish and halloumi would surely have started me questioning the faith. I can only think that Punch bears some grudge against vegetarians. Can we have the Quorn back now?

(Incidentally, the pub we were in, the Imperial, is not one that appears on the Top 25 list, but it was on the shortlist. For the area, just off Leicester Square, it’s a comfortable pub which offers a pleasant environment for a pint of ale, especially now that they’ve removed the TV screens. Just be wary of that menu.)

Raw French goats cheese, from Mons

Cone du Port Aubry is, as the name implies, conical. Internet anecdote says that the cheesemaker nicked his wife’s bra and used it as a cheese mould. If this is true, then the cheesemaker’s wife has alarmingly large and pointy breasts. My slice of cheese is a pale off-white on the inside, turning squishy towards the rind. The rind’s darker and partially covered in a pale grey bloom.

It’s surprisingly dense inside – the texture’s like plasticine – but it melts in the mouth. Initially the cheese tastes astringently herbal, and lemony-goaty. This fades into a contrasting creaminess with hints of coffee and chocolate and hazelnut. Towards the rind a soft mushroom taste appears, alongside some surprising fruity moments – tangerine, pineapple – and some prickly pepperyness. There’s very little bitterness in the rind; it’s soft and sweet and bright.

Ragstone

Raw goats cheese, from Herefordshire, bought from Neal’s Yard Dairy.

This cheese log has a bright white centre, and a pale yellow rind covered in a white bloom. The centre of the cheese is bright and smooth and light and creamy and tastes of lemon rind. It’s much saltier towards the edges, and stickier and softer. The rind’s bitter, slightly musty and tongue-tingling, and pepperish. The combination of the bright lemon centre, salty squidgy layer, and dark prickly rind is deliciously savoury.

Tarentais

Raw goats cheese, French and bought from Mons

I have half a round of this for my lunch. It’s a pretty multicoloured mould on the outside – mostly orange. There’s a yellow translucent layer under the rind, and a chalky white centre.

It tastes fizzy! This is an excited little cheese. The inside is bright and salty; quite sharp and lemony initially but fading to a softer almond fudge flavour later on. Nearer the rind it’s softer, and tastes of grass and sour green apples. The rind itself is sharp and prickly and very intense in the way that old goat cheeses can be.

All three of these are very good cheeses. The Port Aubry’s the most complex-tasting and surprising of the three, the Ragstone’s subtle and wonderfully balanced, and the Tarentais is very bouncy and excited and fun.

Selles sur Cher

A French raw goats cheese, bought from Mons

This little flat round cheese has a greeny-grey charcoal rind, speckled with a white bloom. There’s a soft squishy translucent layer directly underneath the rind, and a putty-like dense bright white layer in the center. The clean white paste inside contrasts really prettily with the dark rind.

The rind tastes prickly and peppery and medicinal; hints of TCP. Inside it’s soft and smooth, and melts in my mouth. It’s very creamy, for a goat’s cheese and has small bursts of thyme and rosemary flavours and a gentle sweet nuttiness.

Cheesy Woofer: Finn eats this cheese after some persuasion. He doesn’t recommend it. (However, I do! It’s very tasty.)

Kirkhams Lancashire

A semi-hard raw cow’s cheese from (can you guess?) Lancashire, bought from Neal’s Yard Dairy

The Lancashire is a crumbly pale yellow slab of cheese. It has a soft buttery texture, tastes tangy and sour, and reminds me of gooseberries and lemons. It’s almost fizzy in its exuberance – Pete compares it to eating cola bottles. It’s creamy, too, but in a sharp yoghurty way. This a giddy teenaged slab of Lancashire we’re eating. It does get calmer as it ages; I’ve had older, sweeter, creamier versions of this in the past.

Cheesy Woofer: The hound LOVES this, scoffs all he is given in one big drooly gulp, and makes huge puppydog eyes asking for more.

Knockalara

A soft pasturised sheep’s milk cheese, from Ireland, bought from Neal’s Yard Dairy

This is a wedge of pale yellow rindless cheese, with a buttery rich texture.

I think it’s yoghurty; almost like eating a block of yoghurt, in fact. There’s a hint of raisin sweetness underneath. This would be an excellent cheesecake-cheese, and I have a hankering to make a lemon cheesecake with this in the title role.

Lex reports that it’s tangy, the flavour lingers, and the texture’s interesting; solid yet spreadable.

Yarg

A hard pasturised cow’s milk cheese from Cornwall, bought from Neal’s Yard Dairy

This appears as a wedge of pale cheese; moist and dense towards the rind, and very pale and chalky towards the center. Most excitingly, there’s a green nettle rind; very pretty.

It tastes juicy, smooth and creamy, and tangy, and it crumbles towards the middle. The nettle rind provides a bright fresh lingering bitterness that contrasts beautifully with the smooth sweetness of the cheese. It’s a lactic cheese and its sour tang reminds me of Caerphilly, especially towards the centre.

Lex thinks that this tastes wonderfully simple and ordinary.

Crozier Blue

A blue pasturised sheep’s cheese from Ireland, bought from Neals Yard Dairy

This cheese has a yellow soft rind. It’s pale and soft, slightly crumbly inside, and lightly speckled with green mould.

It’s smooth, creamy, moist, and with a very good balance between the blue and the salt and the creamyness; quite a civilised and restrained cheese with a warm nuttiness. I’d feed this to people who don’t think they like blue cheese, to convert them.

Lex says: Bursting with flavour. Creamier and softer than most blue cheeses, yest still stong, Very more-ish, and would be awesome with Port.

“It takes a more adventurous homegrown spud to volunteer for our sizzling Jamaican Jerk Chicken. Some spuds simply ‘dreaded’ not being picked so they went back to their roots (man!) to prove their worth. But the ones in this bag just chilled out ‘cos they knew they ware far better than the rest of the others.”

Well done Walkers, skirting accusations of racism and cultural stereotyping in three needless sentences to add nothing to a bag of crisps that tastes just like you mixed up the roast chicken powder with the picked onion powder.

Soft raw cow’s cheese from France, bought from Mons

St. Felicien comes in a shallow round wooden box. It has a wrinkled white and cream coloured, softly bloomy rind. When I cut into it I see exactly why it’s sold whole, in a box; it’s entirely liquid, and the creamy cheese puddles out of the rind. It’s the colour and texture of double cream. I fetch a spoon.

Creamy probably goes without saying, but this cheese is also surprisingly sour and bitter. It’s got both a lemonishness and a taste of soured milk. It’s also got a bit of herbal astringency, reminding me of thyme. It’s bitter in the aftertaste, and it leaves my mouth tingling. The rind (I have to fish a lump out of my sea of cheesy ooze) is creamier, if that’s possible, and softer and sweeter; it has nutty fudgey notes. The St Felicien is so oozy and liquid that I was rather expecting a slightly tart and funky cream, but it’s more complex than that, with a big contrast between the sweet creaminess and the bitter and sour ends of the cheese. It’s good!

Chaource

Raw cows cheese, from France, bought from Une Normande à Londres

We have half of a small round of this for lunch. The rind is orange and white, mottled and pale and wrinkled. Directly under the rind it’s pale and soft and creamy. The middle of the cheese is slightly chalky.

The rind has a hint of pungent washedness, a hint of mushroom, and bit of plumminess. It prickles my mouth and throat. Further in, the saltiness of this cheese really kicks in. Nearer the rind it’s creamy and mushroomy, nutty and sweet and slightly toffee-ish, and intensly salty. The center is sharp and sour and intensely salty. Cheese-scoffing chum says that it tastes a bit of pickles. It reminds me of buttermilk. I like this, but I think I’d also like to try a slightly older version of it; I think it will turn stickier and oozy as it ages.

The locker had been in use recently I had assumed by the phonecall, accidentally left full at the end of September. Unfortunately the same could not be said of the Quavers. After eating the first one, I noticed something wasn’t right. Checking ont he packet I discovered the truth. The Quavers had an expiry date of the 30/12/08. They were ten months out of date. So what happens to cheesy Quavers after they have expired?

They taste of Humbol Messerschmitt Grey Enamel Paint. Who knew?*

*Note, I know what this paint tastes like from an accidental brush sucking moment as a child when painting an airfix kit.

This rind’s ochre, orange and white, bumpy and mottled, with specks of a bright yellow mould. Inside the cheese is a pale cream colour – crumbling slightly towards the centre, moist and squishy further out.

The centre tastes sharp and tart, juicy and rich and full of fruity flavours;  apples and apricots. It’s smooth and creamy, with a buttery texture, and it melts away to nothing in my mouth. Towards the rind it turns mushroomy – still with that creamy richness.  The rind itself has a pungent grassy, earthy tang; straw (like the smell of freshly mixed henna), wet composty earth, and a touch of cowpat. All of it’s suffused with a gentle herbal taste, and the varying flavours and textures work really well together.

Conclusion: I wish I’d bought a bigger wedge of this!

Cheese stats: Small round of goats cheese, bought from Neals Yard Dairy[1]

The stawley has a creamy yellow and white white wrinkled rind. A sticky, translucent layer lies just below the rind, and the cheese becomes a denser, opaque white towards the centre. It’s thick, and solidly sticky, and the texture reminds me of putty or plasticine. (I didn’t test this by attempting to sculpt anything from my lunch.)

The rind tastes bright and acidic and fruity – predominantly pineappley. (Q. for Food Science; Why does my cheese keep tasting pineapppley? This is the fourth pineapple-flavoured cheese.) The white paste tastes creamy and goaty. It’s dense and thick and melts slowly in my mouth. It rewards patience; the taste opens out as it melts into this bright excited lemony explosion.

1. I forgot to write down any detail for this cheese, and it is TOO NEW to be mentioned on the internet.

Harbourne Blue

Cheese stats: Blue goats cheese, also from Neals Yard Dairy. This is the goaty sibling cheese of Beenleigh Blue.

The last goats blue I tried had me running for water, and gasping for breath, but this one couldn’t be more different. Harbourne blue is white, firm and crumbly, with scattered specks of blue-green moulding. There’s no rind. In my mouth it feels slightly waxy – almost a plastic texture, and crumbles and melts quite easily.

It’s surprisingly well-mannered; mild, creamy and nutty (walnuts and hazelnuts), fruity with hints of flowers. And more than any of this, it’s sweet; a milky, fudgey sweetshop-ness that the cheese pusher seller and I narrow down to the taste of the icing on a coffee cake. This goes well with the walnuttishness. Even the patches of blue are restrained in their spiciness, although they do give the cheese some bite. There’s a touch of sharper grassy goaty tang, but that’s kept very much in check by the sweet milkiness.

Cheesy conclusion: I really enjoyed the way the Stawley opened out from a dense creamy cheese to a huge burst of lemon; it felt like I was discovering secrets. The Harbourne Blue was a tad too sweet for me, though; I prefer my cheeses with a bit more bite. But it wasn’t a bad cheese! Just not the right cheese for me.

The swallet has a wrinkled rind, and is a rich cream colour underneath a faint white bloom. Tiny patches of blue-gray mould are scattered across it. Directly under the rind there’s a melted liquid layer. Inside it’s a paler cream – almost white – and very light and fluffy.

It tastes deceptively mild and intensely creamy. It feels like eating rich thick yellow cream with a spoon straight from the tub. (I am a greedy pig and love to eat cream by the spoon.) It’s very full and rounded and mouth-filling, and also light and fluffy, almost moussey. Subtle flavours of fudge, grass, hazelnut and pepper ping about my mouth.

Cardo: a washed rind, raw milk goats cheese from Somerset, also bought Neal’s Yard Dairy

Cardo has a biscuit-coloured wrinkled rind – fairly hard and dry – and a creamy yellow moist paste.

My little slice of cardo is soft and melts out of its rind as soon as I try to cut a piece. In my mouth, it feels like silk; soft and smooth and slightly slippery. And it’s intensely salty, especially eaten after the mellow mild swallet. It tastes of gentle washed rind savoury sockiness, and rich dark plummy fruit flavours. There are undertones of herbs and flowers and nuts, and of goaty tang.

Cheesy continuity:

It’s a Geotrichum candidum moulded rind that gives the swallet its velvety wrinkled appearance and liquid layer – just like St Tola.

Cardo’s so called because it uses the cardoon thistle as rennet, like Torta de Barros.

Conclusion: These two made a fine cheesy double act; the creamy gentle swallet and salty fruity cardo were great contrasts. The cardo is a very gentle washed rind – none of the unfortunate people who share an office with me (and my cheese) were moved to complain about the smell – so not a scary cheese at all. The swallet is absurdly creamy, and has a wonderful soft fluffy texture. I think that the swallet just about wins it, if I’m forced to choose a favourite, but they were both quite delicious.

This cheese has a dark, crumbly, dusty grey rind, and contrasting pale creamy yellow interior.

The inside of this cheese is BEEFY – a huge blast of umami dominates the taste initially; lots of bovrilly, marmiteish intenseness – it reminds me of beef broth. This fades into a creamy yoghurtyness as the cheese melts. (It melts surprisingly easily for a semi-hard cheese.) There’s a fruitiness skirting the edges of the beef; cheese-eating chum is reminded of sour green apples, and I am tasting a hint of pineapple and a smidge of grass. The impressively pitted rind tastes musty; undergrowth, compost bins and leaf mould. I really like it, but this might be an acquired taste. It comes partially wrapped in cloth (which I do not eat, not being a goat), so maybe this rind isn’t really meant for eating.

Conclusion: Really meaty! This is a pretty tasty cheese. It feels like a winter cheese; intense and hearty. I’d like to try melting it on top of French onion soup, or making it into warming cheese toast

This is our lunch! Clockwise from the top left you have salty ricotta, Raschera, St Denis and Roquefort.

Raschera
Mostly cow, with a bit of sheep, Italian, from Gastronomica

This is a soft pale elasticy wedge of cheese, scattered with little holes. It’s initially very creamy, and melts in the mouth, leading to both a sharp fruity bite – think gooseberries, and a contrasting sweet milkiness that reminds me of those pink and white milk-teeth sweets

Katie’s verdict: ‘Delicious – a bit like dairylea for grownups.’

Salty Ricotta
Mystery beast (I would guess sheep, or possibly cow), Italian, from Gastronomica

Our block of ricotta is kinda funny looking, for a cheese; hard and plastic and waxy in texture, and a dull off-white colour. We umm about the texture for a bit, before Katie nails it; It’s exactly like vegan cheese.

It’s chalky and dry – desiccating out mouths with its saltiness and then crumbling away. It reminds Katie of feta, although it’s not as sharp. Underneath the salt, it tastes of herbs (thyme, rosemary and marjoram, I think – savoury and astringent) and has a subtle sweetness and creaminess.

I liked this so much that I sat at my desk later and ate the leftovers, despite being completely stuffed from lunch. And the next time I’m making pizza at home, this is on the shopping list.

St Denis
Raw washed rind goats cheese, from France, bought from Une Normande à Londres

Denis Denis, oh with your mould so blue
Denis Denis, I think you smell of poo

After Katie came up with that little ditty, we had to try the cheese. And the song lied; St Denis is not a bit blue, and doesn’t really smell of poo.

It’s a washed rind, but a very mild and subtle example of that variety. It’s got a dry hard ochre-coloured rind, dusty and crumbly. Inside there’s a pale creamy paste; it’s soft and sweet and creamy. A hint of vanilla mixes wit the cream to remind me of rice pudding. There’s a gentle mellow herbalness adding a bit of variation and complexity to the taste.

Katie pronounces this cheese to be entirely unscary.

Roquefort
Raw blue sheep milk cheese, from France, bought from Une Normande à Londres

Katie’s nervous of this cheese! This is a small slice of it; soft and moist and pale, with huge pockets of pretty green-grey mould.

It’s brighter and lighter in taste than most blue cheeses; very sharp and acidic, very spicy, and very salty. It’s got a lemon-rindishness, and a slight bitterness that makes me think of cocoa powder, and there’s a hint of rancid butter somewhere in there too. It is delish!

Katie tries it and makes some alarming faces, but appears to have no lasting ill-effects.

Cheesy conclusions

Katie’s top cheese vote went to the Raschera. I liked best the Roquefort, for its intense lemony blue-ness, and was pleasantly surprised by the salty crumbliness of the ricotta. All of these were tasty cheeses.

The battle over the future of pubs is being fought, as we’re constantly reminded in the media. You can judge the healthiness of a pub in many ways, but one surely has to be its range of potato products.

Packets of crisps are getting ever more rarefied, as Walkers are forced out from some higher end establishments by competition from Salty Dog, Tyrrell’s and some brand that only sells their stuff in little cardboard boxes as I spotted in an East Dulwich pub the other week. You can pay over £1 for some of these brands.

There’s also the bowl of chips, which just could be the new battleground in the fight between community boozer and gastropub. One might berate £3 or £3.50 as being simply too much, except that given the escalating price of a pint in many such places, this is generally less than a beer costs. Plus, you can still justifiably consider yourself short-changed if you get scarcely more than a handful.

And now, from a recent visit to the reliably posh White Horse in Parsons Green, the bar has been raised yet again. No triple-fried hand-cut muck for these people. Only the finest “crispy new potatoes” served intermingled with capers and olives.

Though would it be heresy to suggest I liked them? Under £3 and more character than some of the pub’s habitués.