The Karl Lagerfeld of cheese
between cheeses and fashion,’’ he says. ‘‘For example, I also present an autumn-winter collection in France but, to my mind, the cheeses of spring and summer are always better. That is when the best and richest milk is produced and the cheeses are full of life and freshness – you can taste the young grasses and the flowers and the newness of the season.’’
One of the pleasures of a conversation with Poulard is appreciating his Gallic habit of mind. Like many Frenchmen, he views his profession through a philosophical lens and expresses himself with panache.
‘‘Cheese is essentially a feminine product,’’ he declares. I must have made a dubious face. ‘‘How is that, you ask? Well, the farmer is busy out in the fields tending to his animals and his crops.
‘‘At home, in the kitchen or in the barn, it is the farmer’s wife who makes the cheeses.
‘‘But of course, one must also not forget les abbayes [the monks]. They have always been great gourmets.’’
Listening to his observations and anecdotes, it becomes clear that Poulard’s passion for his subject is inseparable from a love of the French countryside and its time-honoured artisanal practices.
He is so closely attuned, in fact, that he can sometimes tell you the name of the cow or goat or sheep that produced the milk for a particular cheese.
With a chuckle, we pass over General de Gaulle’s famous dictum about the difficulty of governing a country that has 246 varieties of cheese.
‘‘Actually it is many, many more,’’ he says.
‘‘Many cheeses in France today are protected and regulated by appellations, which is a good thing, but that is by no means the end of the story.
‘‘Every farm and village and town and region has always had its own way of doing things.’’
Does that mean it is still possible for new varieties of cheese to emerge, even from France?
‘‘Of course. That is always up to the individual inspiration of the cheesemaker.
‘‘Every cheese,’’ he continues, ‘‘expresses a moment of time, and culture, and weather.’’ And sometimes, perhaps, a touch of whimsy . . .
‘‘Come and look at the cheeses before you go,’’ he says.
Halfway along the table a name tag catches my eye.
‘‘Ah, Sein de Nounou,’’ he murmurs, smiling down at a dusky-coloured raw goat-milk cheese whose conical shape, produced by the funnel used to make it, is unmistakable.
‘‘This is a traditional cheese from central France.
‘‘It was common, you know, in older times, amongst families of a certain standing, to employ a wet nurse and nanny [nounou] for the children.
‘‘Some families, perhaps, still do. So for many, this is a cheese of evocation and memories . . .’’
Outside the function room, 150 cheese lovers have gathered and are waiting for the evening’s tastings to begin.
It was time, with reluctance, to go.
The writer travelled courtesy of Aircalin.