Living
in the beautiful city of Florence, one is exposed to some of the most beautiful
art and sculpture in the world. The Duomo, the David or the Arno at sunset
would take anyone’s breath away. But for me, the most exhilarating moment was
when I walked into a 500-year-old cellar filled with beautiful homemade Italian
cheeses, just outside of Bergamo.
Julia
and I bonded years ago with our love for our Italian heritage and, of course,
cheese. So when she told me that she was bringing me to a place she called ‘the
cheese vault,’ I was more than a little excited.
The
moment I stepped in front of Franco’s house, I knew this was going to be a
unique experience.
The
cows were relaxing in the shade, the fresh grasses they ate were piled on the
doorstep, and when I asked Julia, ‘What do we do now?’ she simply said, ‘We ring
the doorbell!’ Her boyfriend, Marco, a man who is the true definition of Bergamasco, came as our translator since
Franco’s dialect is so thick. Months of Italian courses couldn’t help us now.
Franco
appeared in a window, fresh out of the shower. I expected him to send us away,
but this was apparently part of his daily life. He came downstairs and led us
to a small wooden door next to the cows.
This
is when I really started to get butterflies.
When
he opened the door and led us inside, my mouth dropped. A cold breeze hit my
face as I stepped into the dark cellar exposing hundreds of wheels of cheese lining
the walls. Young cheeses, old cheeses, cheeses made from sheep, cow and goat.
Being only a cheese lover rather than a true enthusiast, I suddenly wished I
had enough knowledge to know exactly what was in that cellar. There was an
enormous scale in the corner, a small working desk surrounded by shelves of
cheese (where can I get one of those, West Elm?), and an old gorgeous slicer.
There
was too much to look at, and I could tell there was never going to be enough
time. This was Franco’s job, not a tourist attraction, so I smiled and hoped
the excitement in my eyes would help all the sneaky picture taking.
He
cut a fresh wheel and asked me to try a cheese called ‘Formaggio di Monte’
(cheese of the mountain), made by Franco himself only 4 months earlier from the
cows who were right outside the door. He sliced a piece the way any proper
Italian man slices anything, using the knife to meet his thumb. Its perfectly
salty fresh goodness melted in my mouth. All I could get out was a nod. I
bought almost a quarter wheel for 5 euro, knowing anywhere else in the world it
would be more than double the price.
Franco became a movie star to me and I became a blubbering idiot in the face of stardom. I’ve known how to say ‘what is your name?’ for years but all I could get out was ‘tu…. chiama….’ I said grazie what felt like 50 times and went back out into the daylight.
Franco became a movie star to me and I became a blubbering idiot in the face of stardom. I’ve known how to say ‘what is your name?’ for years but all I could get out was ‘tu…. chiama….’ I said grazie what felt like 50 times and went back out into the daylight.
It
was afterwards, after a feeling of having 4 espresso, I asked Marco for the
details.
If
this is the cheese vault, then Franco is the cheese keeper. He cares for the cheese
for all the makers of the nearby mountains. He cares for them, wipes the mold
from them daily, keeps them in the right temperature, and makes and sells his
own on the side. He is an old man, with no heirs, so one day when he dies, the
cheese vault will die too. Knowing this made my experience even more special,
hoping that trades like this will never disappear.
I
carried the cheese in my purse all the way back to Florence and placed it in
the fridge. The next day I broke off a chunk for my local cheesemonger (any
respectful Italian woman has one of those) and asked for advice on pairings.
Upon instruction, I let the cheese sit for 2 hours, bought some fresh bread and
prosciutto from the market, and waited anxiously.
I
always enjoy trying cheese first by itself, to capture each moment of flavor. I
suppose the phrase ‘the cheese stands alone’ has a different meaning with a
more refined palette. When the cheese was ready, I made a simple plate. It was
just as delicious as the moment I tasted it in the vault. It was soft, mild,
and milky, and then it kicked you in the tongue at the end. The salty ham for a
chaser was more than perfect.
As
I enjoyed the rest of my meal, all I could think was, ‘The David ain’t got
nothin’ on Formaggio di Monte.’
Wonderful story!
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