One of our contributors goes on the hunt for a very special kind of cheese...
It was almost exactly ten years ago, whilst visiting a girlfriend in the Czech Republic that I was introduced to the aromatic subtleties of Olomouc cheese (from the Moravian town of the same name; pronounced Olla-moutz). She knew I’d heard of its reputation for being a bit of a tabflapper, but also that I had yet to try the stuff. With this in mind, she had lovingly afforded a half kilo wedge from the local less than an hour before my arrival and stuck it away on a plate in a kitchen cupboard as a surprise in case I fancied a bit straight away. Fnarhoooaaah!
Now. Some of you will already know that I’m a keen devotee of haute cuisine. I’ll eat absolutely haute; but when all the customary greetings were all done and she announced her surprise and opened the cupboard door and took out the plate, it was a resounding ‘Ooyahferk - fwooo! whaaat the? Errr… No thanks, babe!’I should here point out that, although it was on a plate, it was also in its crust and wrapped in clingfilm and stuffed in a tightly closed biscuit tin. Yep. It made Gorgo smell like Dairylea. Rapid and successful duckout here.
During all of this, I made the boldest attempt to smile warmly at the missus, who was throughout chucking me a look which could have pulled up the Grand National from the commentary box. In fact, we’d grappled so hard with the bloody stuff that its humongous ming went almost unnoticed (apart from at the Yorkie’s table, where the odd shuffle of chairlegs went up) and we relaxed with a couple of post traumatic beers, during which time a very disturbing thought dawned on me. Let’s see. It jumped out and glued itsen to the plate and then it glued itsen to the fork and then it glued itsen to me choppers and then it glued itsen to me tongue and back to the fork. Now. Why then didn’t it glue itsen to the breadcrumbs in the first place? How did it get out? No… how did it leap out? I want to know exactly what them sinister crispy little bastards know that the rest of us don’t!
I didn’t get to try the stuff again until a very recent visit to Prague, this time with the wife. We’d just taken a break from the tourist bustle and adjourned to a tiny backstreet restaurant. Then I saw it. There. On the menyuuo. Deepfried Olomouc cheezo on the go.
‘Yeah! Yer gotta try this, Chuck! It’s esoteric! It’s gitt! It’s not what them Yorkies at the next table’ve bought. Plus, if you get traditional Czech nosh, then they usually offer yer an erperratiff!’ She seemed less than convinced, having heard my previous tale.
Well, we went for it. The deepfried cheeso was promptly served up on two plates of garden debris. Fine… until yer chopped into these small brown breadcrumbed diskettes with yer knives and the gloop came gushing out like you’d just stomped on a tube of Bostic. The natural response was to attempt get some of the flush on yer knife or fork before it hit the salad or plate and immediately solidified. The pair of us wrestled for at least five minutes to chip the fucker off the plate with our forks and then off our forks with our knives and then off our bloody teeth with both our tongues and forks simultaneously.
During all of this, I made the boldest attempt to smile warmly at the missus, who was throughout chucking me a look which could have pulled up the Grand National from the commentary box. In fact, we’d grappled so hard with the bloody stuff that its humongous ming went almost unnoticed (apart from at the Yorkie’s table, where the odd shuffle of chairlegs went up) and we relaxed with a couple of post traumatic beers, during which time a very disturbing thought dawned on me. Let’s see. It jumped out and glued itsen to the plate and then it glued itsen to the fork and then it glued itsen to me choppers and then it glued itsen to me tongue and back to the fork. Now. Why then didn’t it glue itsen to the breadcrumbs in the first place? How did it get out? No… how did it leap out? I want to know exactly what them sinister crispy little bastards know that the rest of us don’t!
Well; it’s now three twenty five I the morning. As I speak to you here in my Lion King pyjamas, I have a pair of nightlight binoculars trained on the remaining diskette which I sneaked home and removed from the freezer half an hour ago. No-one has ever thought of having a look at what an unattended one does before. Hah! I’ll be ready for them this time… hah!
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