We had cheese knives, scoops, graters,
scrapers and a regulation wire saw, but for this line of crumbly
Britishers fingers were best.
The Cheddar was a light, lemony-yellow, almost white, like our
best domestic "bar cheese" of old.
The Cheshire was moldy and milky, with a slightly fermented
flavor that brought up the musty dining room of Fleet Street's
Cheshire cheese and called for draughts of beer. The Stilton was
strong but mellow, as high in flavor as in price.
Only the rum-flavored Canadian Cheddar from Montreal (by courtesy
English) let us down. It was done up as fancy as a bridegroom in
waxed white paper and looked as smooth and glossy as a gardenia. But
there its beauty ended. Either the rum that flavored it wasn't up to
much or the mixture hadn't been allowed to ripen naturally.
The French Muenster, however, was hearty, cheery, and better made than
most German Muenster, which at that time wasn't being exported much by
the Nazis. The Brie was melting prime, the Camembert was so perfectly
matured we ate every scrap of the crust, which can't be done with
many American "Camemberts" or, indeed, with the dead, dry French ones
sold out of season.
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