Le Prochain "Grand Fromage" (The Next Big Cheese)

Although it's been nearly 10 years since I lived in New York City, I continue to make a weekly ritual out of reading the restaurant reviews in the New York Times. I have little practical need to know what's new in the city's food scene (I visit at most once a year), yet I persist, cataloguing the data next to mental lists of good London pubs (I rarely drink beer) and out-of-the-way French country bistros (I don't drive here). Travel destinations and clothing purveyors get similar files; should I ever wish to vacation in Buenos Aires or buy an exquisite pair of stilettos, I'll have the inside track on where to go.

Mine is a kind of expertise that's well-researched, but often derivative. I take some pride in knowing which of Paris' neo-bistros are getting plaudits these days, but I haven't eaten in more than a few. The same is true for cookbooks; based on what I seem to know about new publications, you'd imagine I actually had some of them on my shelf.

So when I tell you that I've found the next sensation in the world of cheese, you might guess that I've merely been trolling the web again. But for what my palate is worth, I've tasted this stuff nearly half a dozen times now, and it deserves any amount of purple prose.

The cheese in question is Brin D’Amour (literally, and unfortunately, "spot of love"), made in Corsica from unpasteurized sheep’s milk and aged in a coating of rosemary, thyme and juniper berries. I like it best when it’s relatively young—perhaps a month old—and still delicately sour and springy. But because of the herbs and its slight saltiness, it epitomizes the Mediterranean at any age, conjuring up a sense of place, that is only enhanced by the accompaniments of tomatoes, olives, rustic bread and tumblers of wine.

After brocciu, the fresh, ricotta-like cheese similarly used in pastas and desserts, Brin D’Amour might be the most well-known of Corsica’s cheeses. But the others I’ve eaten—made, like the vast majority of the island’s dairy products, from sheep’s milk—have been stunners as well. To me, the most distinctive are also slightly soft and creamy, like the lightly tangy, washed-rind U Pecurino. Even the dryer Corsican cheeses are rounded and nutty, less sharp and saline than their Greek and Turkish counterparts and lacking the slight greasiness that sometimes plagues Spanish varieties.

Corsica has all the ingredients--dramatic landscape, beautiful produce and an aura of rustic authenticity--to make it the next big thing amongst food lovers. But while I'd be amused to see roasted kid served up in fashionable restaurants, I'm hoping that its cheese somehow eludes mass popularity. Because while I'd love, for once, to be a trend-spotter, that could mean less for me.

Encore du Potage et Encore de l'Ail (More Soup and More Garlic)

My Parisian kitchen is entirely typical in its diminutive proportions, with the curious addition of a full-size, American-style fridge-freezer. Given that family houses in Europe don't necessarily have one of these, I find its inclusion in my little bachelorette pad puzzling. But while I struggle to fill the fridge--leading to a perennial overpurchasing of vegetables and a vague distress that I am failing at domesticity--I am making good use of the freezer. At present, it contains the requisite bag of peas and a container of ice cream, along with portions of 3 different kinds of soup and a fresh batch of chicken stock. This cryogenic version of the Reine du Potage test kitchen encompasses one winter hold-over (a small serving of chestnut soup), an experimental carrot and dill and a basic minestrone, intended to be enhanced with dollops of homemade pesto. Paris has been blessed with a lovely spring so far, but experience has made me cautious; I'm guessing that gazpacho won't be the only soup consumed in my apartment in the coming months.

The stock is a relatively recent addition. Although I can't imagine that all French households make their own, supermarkets, butchers and even gourmet shops here don't really sell any quality alternatives. So on a rainy May weekend, I brought the big pot down from its home on the top shelf, cranked up my sorry excuse for an oven and tossed in the wings. A few hours later, browned chicken, carrot, onion and some herbs had coalesced into a limpid, golden broth.

Most of the stock was duly packaged, labeled and frozen. But I saved a bit for a spring soup highlighting the evanescent green garlic, also known as wild garlic or ramsoms. My regular market stall had a few flowering bunches, tucked away in a little pail behind the cabbages and cauliflowers. I had read enough rhapsodic prose about the wonders of spring garlic leaves to be both intrigued and a bit dubious. Was this just a trendy favourite of seasonal acolytes, or was it really something special?

The writers and chefs had exaggerated only slightly. Cooked up with leeks, potato and a knob of good butter, the garlic leaves added grassy richness--and perhaps a hint of sweetness--to an otherwise very simple soup. The pale green colour of the final product could have served as a paint swatch for one of those fancy, faux-antique decorating specialists, while the attached blossoms, though too bitter to be eaten, made my supper pretty enough for a photo shoot.

As for the chicken stock, I'd like to think it added something too. Because while I'm looking forward to using it in dishes like asparagus risotto and fresh pea and broad bean soup, another batch will be doing battle for space with more ice cream.

Green Garlic Soup

adapted from Mark Hix in The Independent

Serves 2

Active time: 15 minutes; Total time: 30-40 minutes

2 small leeks

heaping tbsp of good butter

handful green (wild) garlic leaves)

500g potatoes (try to find a tasty variety that isn't too waxy in texture)

enough vegetable or chicken stock to cover

1 tbsp creme fraiche for each bowl

While the butter is melting in a thick-bottomed pan, clean and chop the leeks. Add, season and cook on a gentle heat, stirring periodically, for 5-7 minutes. Peel and chop potatoes and strip garlic leaves from any thick stalks. Place the potatoes in the pan, cover them with stock and simmer for approximately 10 minutes. Add the garlic leaves and continue to cook until the potatoes are completely soft. Puree with a stick blender, cool slightly and serve with a dollop of creme fraiche.