Why my love for stinky raclette stretches beyond winter
My friend Joe leaned over the raclette and recoiled as if a snake had snapped at his nose. “Dude,” he said, “that smells like foot.”
Other guests reacted with fewer theatrics, but nevertheless at the end of a party at our Brooklyn, N.Y., apartment nearly 20 years ago, a large wedge of raclette sat untouched. My wife bought it on a whim: one of three blocks of cheese snared from Sahadi’s, the Middle Eastern importer and grocer. The cheese did give off a dank quality that grew more pronounced as I leaned closer, as if the cheese were speaking to me: “I’m worth it.”
I cut a wedge and fell in love. I’ve since learned about the traditional consumption of raclette — a semi-hard mountain cheese native to Switzerland. In the Alps, “raclette” refers to both a cheese and a meal; often it is heated and sloughed from the rind onto other foods. The name is French, from “racler”: “to scrape.”
Or not to scrape … Sure, I’ve tossed slices of raclette on top of soups and onto warm dishes where it elegantly melts into a silken layer with its spiky aroma absent. Raclette melting systems are available for under $50 for those who like cute. But I typically prefer my relationship with raclette to be not cute. Mainlined straight from the refrigerator, its twisting pungency and nutty notes retain a pronounced zing.
I can’t explain my affinity for the stinkier cheeses. I grew up unwrapping Kraft singles and slicing slabs of Velveeta. At some point in my teens, I heard the whispers of the grimier blue cheeses calling me.
Those bright blues remain within my inner circle years later. But they’re not a confidante the way raclette is. For such a strong-headed cheese, it nestles nicely with numerous other strong flavors — and believe me, I’ve tried pairing it with just about any food that isn’t dessert. Cloaking a little raclette around roasted Brussels sprouts instantly cleared my house of its other occupants. Sometimes cheese and I need alone time.
I’ve read conflicting accounts as to whether the rind is edible. Most say raclette — a washed rind cheese — has an edible exterior. I suppose there’s edible and there’s inadvisable.
Unless this cheese possesses some sluggishly slow toxicity, raclette’s rind hasn’t killed me yet, and it’s not from a lack of exposure.
Proper raclette has the specific geographic appellation d’origine controlee designation. But raclette also is having something of a cultural moment. Increasingly fans learn to savor the aroma and unlock the treasures of this lovely cheese. Thus, non-A.O.C. raclettes abound.
H-E-B sells a lovely Mountain raclette. Once I found two pieces there. One was $3 and sickly in size. The other was $48 and could have rolled back to the house. There was never a debate about which to purchase.
Trader Joe’s sells a serviceable sliced raclette in what I believe to be two-serving packages, no matter what the packaging says. Sadly, it stocks it only seasonally, and winter is going.
Sometimes I’ll lay out all the slices and ponder how they’ll be assigned duties. Two for a postwork snack. Two while cooking, several more to layer over lentils or a pork chop.
Once my daughter wandered into the kitchen, inhaled deeply and said, “I think the dog may be sick.”
She looked at the countertop. “Oh, raclette.”