Since I reported on the darkest corners of the meat industry last year, I haven’t been able to eat anything with a face. It’s a workplace hazard, I guess. Dining on vegetables and grains and tofu is going fine, thanks, but I hadn’t realized how much I’ve been missing the dopamine hit that comes with something like a salty piece of fried chicken, until I was recently presented with a big hunk of cheese at Gem Wine in New York City.
The waiter plopped down our main dish: a voluptuous wedge of salt-flecked Gouda haloed by sturdy slices of firm-but-sweet pear, flanked by a pile of marinated peppers and a plate of roasted celery root. I can’t tell you where in the world the cheese came from, or exactly how bad dairy production is for cows and the environment (fairly, probably), but I do know the sight of it made me foam at the mouth. The heft of the smooth-bottomed cheese knife felt powerful in my hand, and the thick wedge fought back, tugging at the blade in a way mushrooms could never. The flaky, misshapen bits of cheese melted in my mouth, filling the fatty, salty, meat-shaped hole in my heart.
At the end of that meal I sat back in my chair, unbuttoned my cargo pants, and sighed with satisfaction. Then, I started to wonder: Why is large format cheese not the norm at restaurants?
Before you point at the mélange of cheese boards on menus around the country, please hold. Little bits of cheese just don’t have the same carnal appeal as one huge chunk. They’re also less equitable; while you’re focusing on the aged goat, your “friend” has already finished up the matchbox-size Brie sitting stage left. All is fair in love and big cheese. Whether or not you eat meat, I propose that we think of big cheese like we do a roasted branzino or a half-chicken: a sharing dish that can be easily accessorized with a rainbow of veg-heavy small plates.
To be sure, Gem isn’t the inventor of Big Cheese. An eight-minute walk away, the Greek restaurant Kiki’s serves an almighty block of saganaki that’s been rolled in phyllo pastry, fried to a golden crisp, and drizzled with honey. According to a colleague, the Kansas City pizza joint Mama Leones used to give tables giant slabs of provolone on a plate with the bread service. At Hatchet Hall in LA, you’ll find a single big cheddar on the menu, which is served with cornbread. And I recently had my first at-home raclette experience with friends. Melting the cheese with a lamp-like grill and scraping the melty puddles onto bread was thrilling.
There is freedom within the big-cheese-as-main-course framework: A single wheel of Brie baked until it loses all structural integrity (sure it’s already a classic app, but it should be a main); a plate of gussied up cheese curds; a wedge of Stilton, a silky log of chèvre; hell, even the aforementioned fondue (a.k.a., dinner and a show). I have taken this vision so far in my head that I’ve seen whole menus—like wine lists—dedicated to single servings of cheese. I’ve imagined it catching on everywhere: pub salads listing grilled Halloumi or a big hunk of feta as add-ons alongside grilled chicken or shrimp; burger buns sandwiching squeaky slices of grilled bread cheese instead of beef; a resurgence of the underrated ploughman’s lunch.
I am not an economist but trust me: If there’s a market for entire 24/7 bacon-themed restaurants, there is surely one ready to go in on big-ass pieces of cheese.
For restaurants, the argument is simple; A wedge of cheese is no diva. It’s maybe the lowest maintenance main you could serve. With or without intervention, one big piece of the good stuff is a deserving dish. It’s impressive (and hearty) enough to sit proudly in the center of the table, and robust enough to be hacked apart by clumsy hands. Do nothing to it, or do everything—it will still be so, so good. Because it is cheese.
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Ali Francis