Perfumed as spring
flowers drenched with a shower of Anjou, having a bouquet all its own
and a trace of a winelike kick, it made us vow never to taste another
American imitation. Only a smooth-cheeked, thick slab cut from a
pedigreed Italian Provolone of medium girth, all in one piece and
with no sign of a crack, satisfy the gourmet.
The second Italian classic was Gorgonzola, gorgeous Gorgonzola, as
fruity as apples, peaches and pears sliced together. It smells so
much like a ripe banana we often eat them together, plain or with the
crumbly _formaggio_ lightly forked into the fruit, split lengthwise.
After that the Edam tasted too lipsticky, like the red-paint job on
its rind, and the Gouda seemed only half-hearted. Both too obviously
ready-made for commerce with nothing individual or custom-made about
them, rolled or bounced over from Holland by the boat load.
The Ostiepki from Czechoslovakia might have been a link of smoked
ostrich sausage put up in the skin of its own red neck.
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