Funny stuff, Camembert. It starts out being bland: if it wasn't for la recherche des temps perdus, no Englishman would touch it. Then, it gets runny, a very unEnglish thing for any cheese to do. Then it starts to smell like an unwashed sock: this is when it is at its tastiest. So, clothes peg on nose, you wolf down a goodly portion of it.
Then you leave the remainder unloved and unremembered in a cupboard until, one day, you are aware of ammonia fumes in your kitchen. Do not call the Fire Brigade: it is only the Camembert in the late stages of entropy. At this point, a sensible Englishman gives up on nostalgia for les fromages de la belle France, and goes back to Caerphilly. Caerphilly is a nice cheese, even if it is Welsh. At least it won't asphyxiate you.
No comments:
Post a Comment