On Acquiring the So-Called 'Acquired Taste,' Partie Deux
On stinky goat cheese and sauvignon blanc.
As you know, I’ve been thinking about ‘acquired tastes’ this week. And I’ve been thinking about how many so-called acquired tastes I write about here—whether it’s eaux de vie or aquavit or sherry or whatever—that will never be popular. But then, I’ve already explored the idea that I may be the opposite of an influencer. (I’d love to hear about your acquired tastes by the way.)
Anyway, I’ve been thinking about goat cheese. There are likely two kinds of people in the world: Those who enjoy goat cheese, and those who don’t. If you’re in the latter group, I feel sorry for you, and would suggest you open your mind to a world of adult pleasures.
I have written in depth about my cheese tour of the Loire Valley, the world capital of goat cheese. But even at home, goat cheese is part of my regular life. When my motivation to cook sags, dinner can often be some kind of homemade dip, a simple salad, and goat cheese slathered on a piece of bread—that dense creaminess, slightly nutty, slightly salty, slightly fruity, slightly tangy, full of nuance, complexity, and deliciousness. And I often pair it with goat cheese’s best friend: sauvignon blanc.
But before we get into that specific pairing: What is it exactly that’s stopping goat cheese haters from loving an ash-covered log of Sainte-Maure de Touraine, or a wheel of Selles-sur-Cher, or a truncated pyramid of Valençay?
Perhaps my personal favorite is the famed Crottin de Chavignol, made in the same place as Sancerre wines. Crottin de Chavignol was originally named in the local dialect for a small clay oil lamp—though since crottin in French also means “dung,” and perhaps because of Crottin de Chavignol’s aroma and resemblance to a pile of . . . well anyway, the name stuck.
So, ok. I guess maybe I can see why some may be squeamish about goat cheese. A cheesemaker in France’s Loire Valley once described the difference between Sainte-Maure de Touraine and Selles-sur-Cher as thus: “Sainte-Maure de Touraine is more fruity. Selles-sur-Cher is more acidic. And you have more of the taste of the goat.”
“And how exactly do you describe the taste of the goat?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Strong,” is all he said. Later, in my tiny hotel room, as I unwrapped his pungent Selles-sur-Cher, I fully appreciated what he was driving at. Regardless, it was still delicious.
Perhaps it’s a matter of language. I have a friend named Madame Fromage who is a sort of cheese sherpa. In her book, Madame Fromage (aka cheese expert and author Tenaya Darlington) has a more colorful way of describing Crottin de Chavignol as “dainty toadstools” that turn “peppery and a little angsty” as they age. Valençay she describes as suggesting “patio parties, spring flings, and magical thinking” and “were Harry Potter to wave his wand and develop a cheese, it would no doubt be black and shaped like a stunted sorcerer’s cap.” All of this is, perhaps, a nicer way to talk about goat cheese.
I see similarities in the way many people react to sauvignon blanc. It’s currently the fastest-growing grape variety in the U.S. (while sales of chardonnay and pinot grigio remain flat). Yet sauvignon blanc will always have its haters. As I said in my piece on Sancerre last year: “Wine people reserve a special sneering attitude for what’s come to be known as Savvy B.”
But a part of that hate—as with goat cheese—comes because of certain telltale aromas. For many newbies, the grassy, herbal notes are a turnoff. And then there’s what Wine People with politesse will describe as “gooseberry” or “boxwood.” But we can smell it for what it is: cat pee. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Which often brings this question: “Why would we want to eat or drink things with weird and stinky tastes?” It’s a reasonable and valid question. Look, I tell people, if you’re happy and content with fruity, pleasurable, glou glou reds redolent of berries and cherries or zippy, easy-to-drink whites with tangy lemon-lime and green apple . . . well, then that’s what you should drink without feeling any need to move beyond that. Wine should be, foremost, about pleasure. Pleasure is personal.
There’s a reason why Netflix dating shows, Carly Rae Jepsen, Kraft mac & cheese, High Noon iced teas, weighted blankets, and soft pajama pants remain popular. But if we think more deeply about pleasure, we realize it isn’t always so straightforward, or even comfortable. After all, why do so many of us love sad poems, disturbing horror films, or intense, subtitled psychological dramas?
With other aspects of culture, we inherently understand that without the darker, more confounding elements, there can be no light. Wine is no different. Just as in novels or films or musical compositions, the more complex and ambitious the wine, the more unique and potentially strange aromas, textures, and flavors we’ll find.
Anyway, folks, that’s my best humanties-student argument for giving stinky goat cheese and sauvignon blanc a try. A good Sancerre works well, and I mention three of my favorites below. But I’m going to take things a step further and offer four other sauvignon blancs a little more off the beaten path—from Austria, Alto Adige, and even Catalonia.
Take the cheese and the bottle outside and enjoy the weather.
Seven Serious Spring Sauvignon Blancs That Stand Up to a Stinky Goat Cheese
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