Unterwasser: Cheese of My Youth

When I was a kid growing up in the Midwest, my folks spent money on two things: theater tickets and really good cheese. Every Saturday, my mother drove downtown to Cheese & Puppets, the one shop that sold imported cheeses, and brought home baguettes and stinkers. Emmenthaler, Raclette, Gruyere. Then we feasted, oh we feasted.

My mother liked Alpine cheeses because they reminded her of her youth in Switzerland. Iowa, where we lived, was a Kraft ghetto, so those Alpines, with their strong barnyardy smells and nutty flavor profiles, took her right back to Geneva, to Zurich.

Now, twenty years later, I find myself waxing nostalgic for those firm, zippy Alpines – probably because they remind me of my mother, who was and is every bit as firm and zippy as those cheeses (with her cleaning regimen and her love of fast cars and red capes). That’s why I fell hard for Unterwasser last weekend. It was and is everything I love about the cheeses of my youth – it’s strong in a sweet, nutty way with a firm body that turns creamy the minute it warms on your tongue. And the scent of barnyard, there’s only a touch of it.

If I had to name a perfect Alpine cheese, it would be Unterwasser. Last weekend, I shared it with friends over a cheese-laden brunch, and we all agreed (even a pair of Texans) that it was a knock-out, a dream – especially when we drizzled a little caramel over it.

Yes, I did say caramel. Vermont’s Fat Toad Caramel, a not-too-sugary cajeta from goat’s milk, made for a spectacular pairing. The sweet, milky taste of the sauce pulled out the warm, nutty notes in the cheese. Sweet mother of us all, what a glorious discovery.

If you want to get your sweaty palms on some Unterwasser, your best bet is Fromaggio Kitchen. This Cambridge cheese shop offers great info on Swiss cheeses via the store’s blog, and the tiny Fromaggio Kitchen outpost in New York City’s Essex Street Market (where I bought my Unterwasser) is staffed by knowledgeable cheesemongers.

Unterwasser, which means “Under Water,” is a washed-rind cheese made from raw cow’s milk. Try it in the morning with warm baguette, a latte, and a side of really good caramel sauce. You won’t believe you’re eating an Alpine. 

Bleu du Bocage for Breakfast

What is this heaven? Why, that’s a wedge of goat's milk blue with a shrapnel shard of chocolate-covered bacon, atop an oaty biscuit. It’s what I ate for breakfast yesterday, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

Call it the new oyster shooter.

I first read about Bleu du Bocage in a column by Janet Fletcher. Janet writes a brilliant cheese column for the San Francisco Chronicle, and she is my oracle. If Janet finds “toasty and faintly meaty aromas” in a cheese, I know that I will be able to find them, too. She has an astonishing nose.

About Bleu du Bocage, Janet wrote: “Note how pleasantly the cheese dissolves on the tongue, melting like butter.” She also smelled “roasted nuts and bacon.”

Oh, Janet, yes!

And so, this beautiful cheese needed a porcine accent, me thought. Plus a little dark chocolate, and yes, some walnut-flecked oat cakes. Fan me now, I can’t think about this pairing with out sweating just a little.

I bought this wedge at Fromaggio Kitchen in Essex Street Market on the Lower East Side. Bleu du Bocage is not easy to find, so once I saw it – I knew it was the one, my breakfast blue. The cheesemonger, Jor Kane, formerly of the Almanac Market in Philadelphia, told me he could taste creamed spinach on the finish.

I took a whiff and a nibble. Spot on! Creamed spinach, there it was. Meaty on the front end, vegetal on the finish – the Loire Valley has blown my mind again.

Incidentally, this blue also danced along nicely to port-fig truffles.

Note: These little treasures, like the bacon, came from Roni-Sue (also in the Essex Street Market). The Walnut Oat Crackers, mentioned above, come from the Fine Cheese Company. They are extraordinary.