Cheese

Cheese

I’ve never met anyone who aspired to be a cheese-maker. As a child I heard many sentences, probably composed some myself, that began… “When I grow up, I want to be a…” and ended with “train driver, policeman, lion-tamer etc.” but never cheese-maker. Perhaps, somewhere, there are over-subscribed vocational courses in the manufacture of fermented dairy products.

But I doubt it.

Round here, though, if such a profession has suddenly grabbed your interest, you could probably find work. For this is what they do.

An advert for such a position might look like this:

Wanted: Cheese-Maker We offer an opportunity to enjoy idyllic countryside in a picturesque village high in the Pyrenees. The successful candidate will be fond of animals, both bovine and ovine, and be familiar with the process of extracting milk from either. Hours of work are flexible but based around a basic 12-hour day starting at 7 am.

(It is expected that, having accepted the post, the incumbent will prepared to work whatever extra hours necessary for no extra pay.)

We would be very happy to offer two weekends off per month. (but unfortunately that won’t be possible.)

Annual holidays are negotiable.

(However, try negotiating with a cow that is calving or a ewe with an udder straining with milk!)

Apply in writing to the address below enclosing details of experience and a photo of your wife/girlfriend.

(We need to make sure that she is fit and strong enough to support and help in your work. No extra pay, of course.)

Salary: Significant possibility. (+ as much cheese as you can eat.)

It’s a miracle that anyone feels inclined to take the job on. I suppose, most people just fall into it or, more likely in this neck of the woods, are born into it.

That’s certainly the case with Jean-Pierre Lauzart’s son, Yves, who generously invited us into his saloir for first-hand experience of the process.

It proved to be one of the best conjuring tricks I’ve ever seen.

He had already begun by the time we arrived. Three witch’s cauldrons sat at the back of the room each perched on an extinguished gas ring. Between them they contained 200 litres of milk, mostly sheep’s but one of mixed sheep and cow’s - the product of two milkings. Yves explained that the first part of the procedure involved heating the milk to 30 degrees and adding the présure, or rennet, which is required to bring about fermentation. This had already happened and the liquid was turning to solid.

Yves, the conjuror, moves around the saloir preparing for the main event. Each gesture, each action has surely been rehearsed a thousand times in a life which, day after day, repeats the same tasks with the consequence that, to me at least, it is more like witnessing a ballet than watching a man working.

A side door opens and the conjuror’s assistant arrives. Petite, with a fresh country face, she smiles and we exchange pleasantries. This is the first time the we have properly met.

She joins the dance.

The gas is lit and what appears to be a giant cheese cutter is plunged into the mix. She swishes it in well-practised figures of eight, slicing the solids into smaller and smaller pieces.

When this is done she picks up a handful of skewers which they call aiguilles, or needles, and thrusts her arm deep into the cauldron.

She continues to stir while recounting some of her life story.

Working in an office in Bordeaux she had evenings and weekends off, plus a month’s paid holiday a year. Then she came on holiday to Lescun and fell in love with a farmer.

“I’ve had all my holidays,” she says, but not with resentment. Acceptance, perhaps? I don’t probe.

Eventually she judges her task accomplished, the temperature correct and leaves the rest to magic.

While this has been going on, Yves has attacked another of the great pots - an alchemist at work.

Curds And Whey “We sell them in London, you know,” he says and, though I am looking for some sign of pride in his voice, I don’t find it. It was simply a statement of fact.

When all the stirring has been completed there is a brief lull in proceedings during which various pots and other equipment are washed and assembled.

The best, I will soon discover, is yet to come.

The master of prestidigitation positions himself behind the cauldron prepared by his assistant and with an air of stern authority and concentration delves deep into the mix. There is a sense of anticipation as experienced hands perform some secret and invisible act. But then, the climax of the performance, much better than a rabbit from a hat, a round white cheese is hauled to the surface and our magician is transmogrified into a mid-wife cradling the new-born.

And, like an infant, it must be nurtured. It’s skin will thickened to withstand life’s knocks and it must be kept clean, bathed regularly, protected from infection. It must be sheltered. It must even be caressed. For it will be up to five months before it is ready to set forth into the world.

Unlike a child, however, it will begin its life by having the moisture squeezed out of it.

This is achieved firstly, by pressing the cheese into shape between two hands.

The product is then placed in a container full of holes that serves as a colander and pierced with a dozen or so Hey presto! needles creating internal runnels which facilitate the evacuation of the liquid, or the petit lait. The needles are withdrawn and a plastic disk, weighed down with an old fashioned weight, is put on top of the cheese.

Around and about us we see cheeses in all stages of production. Today, as yesterday and tomorrow and tomorrow eight or so will begin their journey from workshop to sales counter.

It seems to me that this is a good example of a cottage industry yet, more than this, it is a way of life.

Grateful for the experience, we part with thanks and, out of timidity or perhaps respect, I don’t ask all the questions that occur to me.

The economics of it al, for example. How does that work? I asked Alf as he’d grown up in a farming family.

“A cheese,” he informs me. “Will wholesale at about 14-15 Euros a kilo. So an average round is worth about 60 euros. Of course, there is other revenue from the sale of lambs and calves plus le prime, which is the European subsidy given to farmers working in mountainous regions.

Even with the costs,” he reckons. “There is still a good living to be made.”

I hope he’s right. Whatever else one thinks about it, the farmers here work hard and, as the number of people involved in this particular way of life diminish year by year, it gets tougher. Yves deserves a break. The couple should have a holiday but who’s going to lend a hand? Who’s going to take over while they’re away?

Fancy a job?

May 4th 2016