picture: pointer Tomato and

picture: pointer Omelet with Cheese Sauce

The French use grated Gruyère for this with all sorts of sauces, such as the Savoyar de Savoie, with potatoes, chervil, tarragon and cream. A delicious appearance and added flavor can be had by browning with a salamander.

picture: pointer Spanish Flan—Quesillo

picture: pointer Polish Piroghs (a pocketful of cheese)

picture: pointer Cheesed Mashed Potatoes

If there's a chafing dish handy, a first-rate nightcap can be made via a

Appetizers, Crackers, Sandwiches, Savories,
Snacks, Spreads and Toasts

In America cheese got its start in country stores in our cracker-barrel days when every man felt free to saunter in, pick up the cheese knife and cut himself a wedge from the big-bellied rattrap cheese standing under its glass bell or wire mesh hood that kept the flies off but not the free-lunchers. Cheese by itself being none too palatable, the taster would saunter over to the cracker barrel, shoo the cat off and help himself to the old-time crackers that can't be beat today.

Some Pied Piper took the country cheese and crackers to the corner saloon and led a free-lunch procession that never faltered till Prohibition came. The same old store cheese was soon pepped up as saloon cheese with a saucer of caraway seeds, bowls of pickles, peppers, pickled peppers and rye bread with plenty of mustard, pretzels or cheese straws, smearcase and schwarzbrot. Beer and cheese forever together, as in the free-lunch ditty of that great day:

On the more elegant handout buffets, besides the shapely cubes, free Welsh Rabbit started at four every afternoon, to lead the tired businessman in by the nose; or a smear of Canadian Snappy out of a pure white porcelain pot in the classy places, on a Bent's water biscuit.

Next to nibbling cheese with crackers and appetizers, of which there is no end in sight, cheese sandwiches help us consume most of our country's enormous output of Brick, Cheddar and Swiss. To attempt to classify and describe all of these would be impossible, so we will content ourselves by picking a few of the cold and hot, the plain and the fancy, the familiar and the exotic. Let's use the alphabet to sum up the situation.

A     Alpine Club Sandwich

B     Boston Beany, Open-face

C     Cheeseburgers

D     Deviled Rye

E     Egg, Open-faced

F     French-fried Swiss

G     Grilled Chicken-Ham-Cheddar

I     International Sandwich

J     Jurassiennes, or Croûtes Comtoises

K     Kümmelkäse

L     Limburger Onion or Limburger Catsup

M     Meringue, Open-faced (from the Browns' 10,000 Snacks)

N     Neufchâtel and Honey

O     Oskar's Ham-Cam

P     Pickled Camembert

Q     Queijo da Serra Sandwich

R     Roquefort Nut

S     Smoky Sandwich and Sturgeon-smoked Sandwich

T     Tangy Sandwich

U     Unusual Sandwich—of Flowers, Hay and Clover

V     Vegetarian Sandwich

W     Witch's Sandwich

X     Xochomilco Sandwich

Y     Yolk Picnic Sandwich

Z     Zebra

For good measure we will toss in a couple of toasted cheese sandwiches.

picture: pointer Toasted Cheese Sandwich

This toasted cheeser is so good it's positively sinful. The French, who outdo us in both cooking and sin, make one of their own in the form of fried fingers of stale bread doused in an 'arf and 'arf Welsh Rabbit and Fondue melting of Gruyère, that serves as a liaison to further sandwich the two.

Garlic is often used in place of chopped chives, and in contrast to this wild one there's a mild one made of Dutch cream cheese by the equally Dutch Pennsylvanians.

England, of course, together with Wales, holds all-time honors with such celebrated regional "toasting cheeses" as Devonshire and Dunlop. Even British Newfoundland is known for its simple version, that's quite as pleasing as its rich Prince Edward Island Oyster Stew.

picture: pointer Newfoundland Toasted Cheese Sandwich

"Fit for Drink"

Greece was the first country to prove its epicurean fitness, according to the old saying above, for it had wine to tipple and sheep's milk cheese to nibble. The classical Greek cheese has always been Feta, and no doubt this was the kind that Circe combined most suitably with wine to make a farewell drink for her lovers. She put further sweetness and body into the stirrup cup by stirring honey and barley meal into it. Today we might whip this up in an electric mixer to toast her memory.

And, speaking of Roquefort, Romanée has the closest affinity for it. Such affinities are also found in Pont l'Evêque and Beaujolais, Brie and red champagne, Coulommiers and any good vin rosé. Heavenly marriages are made in Burgundy between red and white wines of both Côtes, de Nuits and de Baune, and Burgundian cheeses such as Epoisses, Soumaintarin and Saint-Florentin. Pommard and Port-Salut seem to be made for each other, as do Château Margaux and Camembert.

A great cheese for a great wine is the rule that brings together in the neighboring provinces such notables as Sainte Maure, Valençay, Vendôme and the Loire wines—Vouvray, Saumur and Anjou. Gruyère mates with Chablis, Camembert with St. Emilion; and any dry red wine, most commonly claret, is a fit drink for the hundreds of other fine French cheeses.

Every country has such happy marriages, an Italian standard being Provolone and Chianti. Then there is a most unusual pair, French Neufchâtel cheese and Swiss Neuchâtel wine from just across the border. Switzerland also has another cheese favorite at home—Trauben (grape cheese), named from the Neuchâtel wine in which it is aged.

One kind of French Neufchâtel cheese, Bondon, is also uniquely suited to the company of any good wine because it is made in the exact shape and size of a wine barrel bung. A similar relation is found in Brinzas (or Brindzas) that are packed in miniature wine barrels, strongly suggesting what should be drunk with such excellent cheeses: Hungarian Tokay. Other foreign cheeses go to market wrapped in vine leaves. The affinity has clearly been laid down in heaven.

Only the English seem to have a fortissimo taste in the go-with wines, according to these matches registered by André Simon in The Art of Good Living:

To these we might add brittle chips of Greek Casere with nips of Amontillado, for an eloquent appetizer.

The English also pour port into Stilton, and sundry other wines and liquors into Cheddars and such. This doctoring leads to fraudulent imitation, however, for either port or stout is put into counterfeit Cheshire cheese to make up for the richness it lacks.

While some combinations of cheeses and wines may turn out palatable, we prefer taking ours straight. When something more fiery is needed we can twirl the flecks of pure gold in a chalice of Eau de Vie de Danzig and nibble on legitimate Danzig cheese unadulterated. Goldwasser, or Eau de Vie, was a favorite liqueur of cheese-loving Franklin Roosevelt, and we can be sure he took the two separately.

Another perfect combination, if you can take it, is imported kümmel with any caraway-seeded cheese, or cream cheese with a handy saucer of caraway seeds. In the section of France devoted to gin, the juniper berries that flavor the drink also go into a local cheese, Fromage Fort. This is further fortified with brandy, white wine and pepper. One regional tipple with such brutally strong cheese is black coffee laced with gin.

French la Jonchée is another potted thriller with not only coffee and rum mixed in during the making, but orange flower water, too. Then there is la Petafina, made with brandy and absinthe; Hazebrook with brandy alone; and la Cachat with white wine and brandy.

The English sip pear cider (perry) with almost any British cheese. Milk would seem to be redundant, but Sage cheese and buttermilk do go well together.

Wine and cheese have other things in common. Some wines and some cheeses are aged in caves, and there are vintage cheeses no less than vintage wines, as is the case with Stilton.

Lazy Lou

Once, so goes the sad story, there was a cheesemonger unworthy of his heritage. He exported a shipload of inferior "Swiss" made somewhere in the U.S.A. Bad to begin with, it had worsened on the voyage. Rejected by the health authorities on the other side, it was shipped back, reaching home in the unhappy condition known as "cracked." To cut his losses the rascally cheesemonger had his cargo ground up and its flavor disguised with hot peppers and chili sauce. Thus there came into being the abortion known as the "cheese spread."

My academic cheese education began at the University of Wisconsin in 1904. I grew up with our great Midwest industry; I have read with profit hundreds of pamphlets put out by the learned Aggies of my Alma Mater. Mostly they treat of honest, natural cheeses: the making, keeping and enjoying of authentic Longhorn Cheddars, short Bricks and naturalized Limburgers.

At the School of Agriculture the students still, I am told, keep their hand in by studying the classical layout on a cheese board. One booklet recommends the following for freshman contemplation:

These six sturdy samples of Wisconsin's best will stimulate any amount of classroom discussion. Does the Edam go better with German-American black bread or with Swedish Ry-Krisp? To butter or not to butter? And if to butter, with which cheese? Salt or sweet? How close do we come to the excellence of the genuine Alpine Swiss? Primary school stuff, but not unworthy of thought.

Pass on down the years. You are now ready to graduate. Your cheese board can stand a more sophisticated setup. Try two boards; play the teams against each other.

The postgraduate may play the game using as counters the great and distinctive cheeses of more than fifty countries. Your Scandinavian board alone, just to give an idea of the riches available, will shine with blues, yellows, whites, smoky browns, and chocolates representing Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Finland, Iceland and Lapland.

For the Britisher only blue-veined Stilton is worthy to crown the banquet. The Frenchman defends Roquefort, the Dane his own regal Blue; the Swiss sticks to Emmentaler before, during and after all three meals. You may prefer to finish with a delicate Brie, a smoky slice of Provolone, a bit of Baby Gouda, or some Liptauer Garniert, about which more later.

We load them all on Lazy Lou, Lazy Susan's big twin brother, a giant roulette wheel of cheese, every number a winner. A second Lazy Lou will bear the savories and go-withs. For these tidbits the English have a divine genius; think of the deviled shrimps, smoked oysters, herring roe on toast, snips of broiled sausage ... But we will make do with some olives and radishes, a few pickles, nuts, capers. With our two trusty Lazy Lous on hand plus wine or beer, we can easily dispense with the mere dinner itself.

True, imported wines and cheeses are expensive. But native American products and reasonably edible imitations of the real thing are available as substitutes. Anyway, protein for protein, a cheese party will cost less than a steak barbecue. And it can be more fun.

Encourage your guests to contribute their own latest discoveries. One may bring along as his ticket of admission a Primavera from Brazil; another some cubes of an Andean specialty just flown in from Colombia's mountain city, Mérida, and still wrapped in its aromatic leaves of Frailejón Lanudo; another a few wedges of savory sweet English Flower cheese, some flavored with rose petals, others with marigolds; another a tube of South American Kräuterkäse.

Provide your own assortment of breads and try to include some of those fat, flaky old-fashioned crackers that country stores in New England can still supply. Mustard? Sure, if you like it. If you want to be fancy, use a tricky little gadget put out by the Maille condiment-makers in France and available here in the food specialty shops. It's a miniature painter's palate holding five mustards of different shades and flavors and two mustard paddles. The mustards, in proper chromatic order, are: jonquil yellow "Strong Dijon"; "Green Herbs"; brownish "Tarragon"; golden "Ora"; crimson "Tomato-flavored."

Some years ago, when I was collaborating with my mother, Cora, and my wife, Rose, in writing 10,000 Snacks (which, by the way, devotes nearly forty pages to cheeses), we staged a rather elaborate tasting party just for the three of us. It took a two-tiered Lazy Lou to twirl the load.

The eight wedges on the top round were English and French samples and the lower one carried the rest, as follows:

The tasting began with familiar English Cheddars, Cheshires and Stiltons from the top row. 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.

The French Münster, however, was hearty, cheery, and better made than most German Münster, 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. Then came the Roquefort, a regal cheese we voted the best buy of the lot, even though it was the most expensive. A plump piece, pleasantly unctuous but not greasy, sharp in scent, stimulatingly bittersweet in taste—unbeatable. There is no American pretender to the Roquefort throne. Ours is invariably chalky and tasteless. That doesn't mean we have no good Blues. We have. But they are not Roquefort.

The Sapsago or Kräuterkäse from Switzerland (it has been made in the Canton of Glarus for over five hundred years) was the least expensive of the lot. Well-cured and dry, it lent itself to grating and tasted fine on an old-fashioned buttered soda cracker. Sapsago has its own seduction, derived from the clover-leaf powder with which the curd is mixed and which gives it its haunting flavor and spring-like sage-green color.

Next came some truly great Swiss Gruyère, delicately rich, and nutty enough to make us think of the sharp white wines to be drunk with it at the source.

As for the Provolone, notable for the water-buffalo milk that makes it, there's an example of really grown-up milk. 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.

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. In spite of its pleasing lemon-yellow interior, we couldn't think of any use for it except maybe crumbling thirty or forty cents' worth into a ten-cent bowl of bean soup. But that seemed like a waste of money, so we set it aside to try in tiny chunks on crackers as an appetizer some other day, when it might be more appetizing.

We felt much the same about the chocolate-brown Norwegian Gjetost that looked like a slab of boarding-school fudge and which had the same cloying cling to the tongue. We were told by a native that our piece was entirely too young. That's what made it so insipid, undeveloped in texture and flavor. But the next piece we got turned out to be too old and decrepit, and so strong it would have taken a Paul Bunyan to stand up under it. When we complained to our expert about the shock to our palates, he only laughed, pointing to the nail on his little finger.

"You should take just a little bit, like that. A pill no bigger than a couple of aspirins or an Alka-Seltzer. It's only in the morning you take it when it's old and strong like this, for a pick-me-up, a cure for a hangover, you know, like a prairie oyster well soused in Worcestershire."

That made us think we might use it up to flavor a Welsh Rabbit, instead of the Worcestershire sauce, but we couldn't melt it with anything less than a blowtorch.