Comté, the Cheddar Cheese of France

Every day in France, at least one farmer commits suicide. Isolation, few marriage prospects, poor status, long hours, no holidays and a low income contribute to this sad situation. But dairy farmers living in the French département of Franche-Comté are an exception. Their farms are home to the most beautiful cows in the world, the brown and cream Montbeliarde. Cow bells tinkling, they pasture on the green hills of the Jura, like a children’s picture book illustration. Each pampered cow has a hectare to graze upon.

‘Why are you called Tas?’ I asked, thinking it wasn’t a very French name.
‘From travelling,’ he twinkled.
‘Is it something Turkish?’ I guessed.
‘Further south.’
‘Tasmania?’
‘Yes, that’s it.’

‘I like your shirt,’ I said.
‘Tas always wears a Comté shirt,’ he puffed proudly.

Then: ‘Tas thinks the internet is a terrible thing. Tas thinks the work of a blogger is imperceptible,’ he announced. 

‘Uh huh.’ I was so confused by the fact that he spoke about himself in the third person, I didn’t have time to feel insulted.

‘Please explain to Tas why the internet is important.’ 

Tas replied: ‘Tas thinks parents who let their children be on the internet in their rooms is not a good parent. Tas thinks families who allow mobile phones at the dinner table are making a big mistake.’

I agreed with Tas but explained that to choose not to use the internet is the equivalent today of refusing to learn to read and write. 

His blue eyes burned at me. 

I clarified, trying to appeal to Tas, by saying that the internet – blogging, social media – is a way of democratising self-expression, publishing and writing. Tas nodded. 

‘This is why only men could work here. A woman is allowed by law to lift up to 25 kilos,’ explained Tas. ‘Today a robot does most of the work, guided by the 15 affineurs (cheese maturers) that work here.’

Fruitières et affineurs

Tasting

You can tell the difference between a Comté made from summer milk and one made from winter milk. During the summer, the cows eat grass and flowers. The cheese is yellow. In winter, the cows eat hay, dried grass. The cheese is an ivory colour.

Everyone was bandying around this term, ‘hay’. Finally, I asked:

 ‘What actually IS hay?’

The country dwellers rolled their eyes. Hay is dried grass. Straw is dried grain stalks. So now I know.

Comté is the most popular cheese in France. Locals eat 30 kilos a year of the stuff.

‘You can eat Comté three times a day,’ asserts Tas. ‘Tas eats Comté every meal.’

France eats the most cheese in the world anyway, around 26 kilos a year per capita.

At the end of our visit to the Fort/cave we tasted a three year old Comté. 

‘When a Comté is this good, you don’t cut it, you chip it,’ murmurs Tas.

The cheese is creamy, dense, nutty, long lasting with crystals. It’s a huge chunk but between the ten of us, we finish it. Comté is well matched with a Vin Jaune de Jura, an almost sherry-like wine. You can use younger Comté for cooking as it melts well.

Outside I take pictures of Tas with some Montbeliarde cows in the lane. He calls out to them, a strange sound, a kind of echoing sing-song:

‘Tas’ cows, they recognise the timbre of a voice. Tas doesn’t know these cows so Tas has to approach them carefully.’

He advances sideways, eventually inclining his head, tipping his leather hat towards them, letting them smell him. The brass bell around the cows neck clangs as the cow allows him to come near, it’s a gentle scene.

Back in the van, I sit in the front next to Sandra.

‘I’d marry him,’ I announce. 

Sandra laughed.