I’ve never been one to even consider getting myself permanently inked, mon amies. As shallow as it may sound, there’s nothing I’ve ever cared enough about to taint my skin. Not one thing that I think I’ll look at aged 75 and think, ‘Yep, good decision’.
Until last night.
It started as any typical work night does, milling about until I’m directed to either pour wine or eat, I mean serve, cheese and other delicious bit things. And cheese it turned out to be, much to my delight.
Being around great cheese is enough to put a smile on my face at any time, however, as the first cheese order came through, I realised that the night was to be life changing.
Sitting proudly on the order spike, the docket read one serve of Delice. I looked up at the cheese shelf, the Sao Miguel, Heidi Tilset, Chebris and Mossvale Blue all lined up like soldiers in a row. But no Delice- perhaps it was in the fridge due to the forgetfulness of the day staff.
Sure enough, wrapped in layers of foil and marked with masking tape, the Delice de Bourgogne lay cold in the fridge. My mind was racing with thoughts of how tricky and sticky this would make the cheese to serve, which normally cut like fresh tea cake and spread like butter.
I’d gotten it all wrong. As I slowly unwrapped the silver parcel, layer upon layer until the first glimpse of brilliant white sheath, I came to realise that this was the single most beautiful cheese I’d ever seen. Ripe beyond comprehension, the buttery glistening Delice was now oozing across the sheet of foil, no longer constrained by artificial bounds.
I stood for a moment to take it in, not quite believing just how gooey a refrigerated, 80% fat cheese could be. Then it struck me that I was responsible for cutting a 50g portion, neatly, and serving it with utensils other than spoons and straws.
As capable a woman as I like to think I am, re-enforcements were needed to help tame this voluptuous fromage, to catch and contain it before it ran off the bench. I watched as operation ‘Delice to plate’ took place, it require a steady and swift hand, paired with delicate slathering skills.
I couldn’t take my eyes off it as it was delivered to the lucky recipients- whom I doubted were aware of just how seasonally ripe and luscious the cheese was. This assumption proved correct, as they looked up at me after their first taste, a look of simultaneous joy and disbelief. No words needed to be said, just a simple nod of recognition (although this did lead to the invitation of after work drinks, of which I declined….this is another story, mon amies….)
I needed to wrap my taste buds around this immediately, if not sooner. Hastily, I made my way back to the fridge to ‘clean the cheese up’ – aka slathered it centimetres high on a piece of bread and head to an inconspicuous spot. I could feel the velvety texture coat my mouth as the slight tang paired with a subtle earthiness made itself known. Just a touch of chew popping up in the more intense pockets of rind. Eyes closed enjoying the flavoursome ride. Happiness in a bite- a food stuff so tasty that the sheer joy that it brings actually eliminates any calories involved.
I could have devoted this whole post to the splash of 1989 Sauternes I was lucky enough to sample later in the night, or the pan fried foie gras sneakily handed across the pass for secret snacks, but the Delice was the hero of a pretty unreal night gastronomy wise.
And just for the all-important body inking record, (also known as The Bank of Mum and Dad), no permanent markings in the name of the mighty Delice were actually made. It may just take an exceptional Bolli vintage to cross that line, so to speak…
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