A Cheesemonger’s History of the British Isles by Ned Palmer

Author:Ned Palmer [Palmer, Ned]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Profile Books
Published: 2019-06-14T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIX

Stichelton

The birth of a brand

1688–1837

STILTON IS A QUINTESSENTIALLY BRITISH CHEESE – and perhaps just as quintessentially a product of the eighteenth century. If you think of that period as a time of ruddy-faced country squires quaffing foaming tankards of ale and bumpers of brandy, then a rich, piquant and indulgent cheese like this fits right in. Of course, there’s more to Stilton, and indeed the eighteenth century, than that. While the country squires no doubt did plenty of quaffing, and Stilton-eating while they were at it, this was a time of great and rapid change in Britain. It was a period of unification, agricultural revolution, improvement in transport, growth in commerce, leaps forward in science and technology, and a vastly increased presence for the country on the international stage. In 1755, the author of the annual directory The Present State of Great Britain felt able to boast that ‘Our trade is the most considerable in the whole world.’ And in 1787 The Gentleman’s Magazine reported: ’Of all the cheese this kingdom produces, none is more highly esteemed than the Stilton.’

So what is it that makes a Stilton so great – and, indeed, what makes a great Stilton? First, there are the things all mongers can agree on. Stilton is made from cow’s milk and comes in a cylinder about a foot tall and ten inches across. A good Stilton has a knobbly rind in a light tan shading to orange. Sometimes there are shades of blushing pink on this rind, a phenomenon that some cheesemongers like to call ‘baboon’s bum’. (If you see baboon’s bum on a Stilton, buy some straight away – I guarantee that cheese will be a stunner.) To the touch, the rind of a Stilton should be lightly moist and, when finally you cut the cheese open, its paste should be the colour of old ivory piano keys, with blue veins radiating out in a marbled pattern. The shade of blue is important. Indigo is perfect. If the blue is too light, it will lack intensity. If it is very dark, it will taste sharp, overly spicy and perhaps even a tad metallic. And when you at last put some Stilton in your mouth, it should have a meltingly creamy texture, a bit like a soft fondant icing.

My favourite Stilton, which ticks all the boxes I have drawn above – and has a flavour that has hints of malty digestive biscuit, Marmite and bubblegum – is made by Colston Bassett Dairy in Nottinghamshire, by a brilliant cheesemaker called Billy Kevan and his team. They collect their milk from nearby farms in the area, giving it the terroir of the Vale of Belvoir, a place long famous for cheese. The dairy was established in 1912 and Kevan is only the fourth cheesemaker in a century. There’s continuity for you.

There’s an origin myth for blue cheese. I’ve been told variations of it by cheesemakers, mongers and affineurs from France, Spain, Italy, England and Wales and, as with all origin myths, each teller has patriotically located the story in their own country.

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