re not Roquefort.

The Sapsago or Kraeuterkaese from Switzerland (it has been made in the
Canton of Glarus for over five hundred years) was the least expensive
of the lot. Well-cured and dry, it lent itself to grating and tasted
fine on an old-fashioned buttered soda cracker. Sapsago has its own
seduction, derived from the clover-leaf powder with which the curd is
mixed and which gives it its haunting flavor and spring-like
sage-green color.

Next came some truly great Swiss Gruyere, delicately rich, and nutty
enough to make us think of the sharp white wines to be drunk with it
at the source.

As for the Provolone, notable for the water-buffalo milk that makes
it, there's an example of really grown-up milk. Perfumed as spring
flowers drenched with a shower of Anjou, having a bouquet all its own
and a trace of a winelike kick, it made us vow never to taste another
American imitation. Only a smooth-cheeked, thick slab cut from a
pedigreed Italian Provolone of medium girth, all in one piece and
with no sign of a crack, satisfy the gourmet.

The second Italian classic was Gorgonzola, gorgeous Gorgonzola, as
fruity as apples, peaches and pears sliced together. It smells so
much like a ripe banana we often eat them together, plain or with the
crumbly _formaggio_ lightly forked into the fruit, split lengthwise.

After that the Edam tasted too lipsticky, like the red-paint job on
its rind, and the Gouda seemed only half-hearted. Both too obviously
ready-made for commerce with nothing individual or custom-made about
them, rolled or bounced over from Holland by the boat load.

The Ostiepki from Czechoslovakia might have been a link of smoked
ostrich sausage put up in the skin of its own red neck. In spite of
its pleasing lemon-yellow interior, we couldn't think of any use for
it except maybe crumbling thirty or forty cents' worth into a
ten-cent bowl of bean soup. But that seemed like a waste of money, so
we set it aside to try in tiny chunks on crackers as an appetizer
some other day, when it might be more appetizing.

We felt much the same about the chocolate-brown Norwegian Gjetost
that looked like a slab of boarding-school fudge and which had the
same cloying cling to the tongue. We were told by a native that our
piece was entirely too young. That's what made it so insipid,
undeveloped in texture and flavor. But the next piece we got turned
out to be too old and decrepit, and so strong it would have taken a
Paul Buny