An Ode to Cheese

Its no secret that the genesis of this blog can be found in some emails I sent to friends during my recent trip to Germany. I spent seven weeks living in Berlin ostensibly for opera auditions, but truthfully to gorge myself on the wonderfully cheap food and art that Berlin has to offer. I feel its only appropriate that my inaugural blog post be dedicated to the stinky delights of that most moldy of food sources - cheese.

Cheese. Fromage. Käse. I don't know who first said himself, "Gee, I bet if I curdled this spoiled milk and let it sit in a cave for a few years until it smells like a dirty sock it would taste frickin' awesome." But I do know that this person has my eternal thanks. Yes, I am a cheese addict. And I'm talking the real McCoy here. None of this cheese-product-velveeta-shit. I have been known to utter the phrase, "I would rather die that be lactose-free". In other words, give me cheese or give me death. As a resident of New York City I know of any number of dealers who can satisfy my cheese fix. But when you want the good stuff - I mean high quality, artisanal cheese, made according to standards that would make the USDA blush - well then you have to cross the pond.

One highlight of my cheese extravaganza occurred at a Christmas fair in Berlin. Remember when I said that one of Berlin's attractions for me was it affordability? Yes, well, I did all that I could to thwart that affordability at every turn. In a city full of free Christmas markets selling a variety of reasonabley priced items, I visited the only one that charged a fee. And of course, once past the Christmas market militia I couldn't afford any of the handcrafted leather sculptures or decorative wooden....blocks (I'm not kidding. There was really a guy selling them for upwards of 250 Euro). What I could do, however, was eat.

A word on the German Christmas market, or Weihnachtsmarkt: Its kind of like a winter barbeque. A foodapollooza, if you will. You've got your wurst, your roasted nuts, your flammkuchen, your soups, your chocolate, your stollen, your baumkuchen. Depending on the neighborhood you've also probably got an assortment of Turkish delights. And let's not forget the many stands offering various types of hot alcohol. What's not to love, really? In fact, why beat around the bush? I went to that market to eat, dammit. And eat I did.

At first I did a quick round to get my bearings. You don't want to give yourself away to just any roasted nut purveyor, right? You want it to be special. Also, if I didn't plan carefully I was liable to fill up on standards like bratwurst before reaching the main attraction. So I waited, and my patience paid off in the form of Raclette.

As with many other great cheese ideas, it all started in Switzerland. Some medieval farmers took a wheel of cheese named Raclette, toasted it over a fire, scraped it onto some potatoes, and the dish (also called Raclette) was born. Perhaps you scoff, saying, "What could be so special about toasted cheese? I throw some cheddar on bread in the toaster oven all the time." Well, to that I say you're a cheese heathen who is going to burn in the fiery, lactose-intolerent depths of hell. Raclette is so simple, and yet so right. The flavor bears a relationship to Emmentaler or Gruyère, but perhaps with less sweetness and a bit more substance. This is a serious cheese. No frivolous dairy here. The Berlin Raclette stand was run by two men, one to scrape the cheese and the other to season it. The wheel of cheese itself was cut in half with each side strapped to a rotating device that would toast the top of one and then deliver it for scraping while the other side got its share. This warm bubbly goodness was offered on either potatoes or fresh bread. And then, because its Germany, ham is scattered on top (The ham isn't truly that essential. I think it's just German law that everything must include a portion of ham. Seriously. Even the ice cream.)

So here I am, with a plate of melted, toasty cheese. And I pretty much slather my face with it. I am exstatic over its gooey deliciousness. It seems that the only way to complete this experience is to indulge in a steaming hot cup of Glühwein (mulled red wine which I'm fairly certain contains hallucinagenic properties). I go over and get the the most expensive cup of Glühwein ever, and that's not even including the cup deposit. But I don't care. I'm riding a Christmas market high. I'm enjoying the trashy pop renditions of carols. I'm watching people dressed up as bears and christmas trees wander the crowd begging for change. Mind you, I have no idea if those men were real or Glühwein induced, but who cares? I'll take a trippy Berlin Christmas market over a tee-totalling Bryant Park one any day. Moral of the story? We need more outdoor drinking in New York. And cheese. We always need more cheese.

Tune in for the next installment of "Hungry Like the Wolf"- 101 NYC Christmas Parties I Have Crashed, or, How I Ate My Way Through the Holidays.