Kyle Nabilcy
Cracking into the package is a sticky affair. Foil and parchment eventually give way to a wrinkly yellow-orange rind that is not so easy to slice without using a wire.
At the outset, a promise: I will not make a joke at the expense of the aroma of Limburger cheese. I have come to believe that it really does deserve better.
Limburger's persona is fraught with misunderstanding. Primary among those misunderstandings is its country of origin. Prior to the research for this column, I'm sure I would never have doubted that it was a German cheese, had I been asked. In truth, while much of the modern production occurs in Germany, the eponymous state of Limburg is actually in Belgium.
Even more surprising, perhaps, is the extent of Limburger's United States production. There is only one cheese manufacturer in the entire country that makes traditional Limburger. He just so happens to hang his shingle in Monroe, Wisconsin.
Myron Olson of Chalet Cheese Co-op is one of 43 master cheese makers in Wisconsin. His cheese-making career spans over 35 years, and has been recognized with numerous awards. One of the most recent accolades was a Best in Class for his Limburger at the 2007 United States Championship Cheese Contest.
Unlike the pasteurized Limburger spreads sold by the small jar in supermarkets, Chalet's Limburger is carefully crafted to be a true, Old World experience. The moneymaker in the production of Limburger is a little guy called Brevibacterium linens. While also partially responsible for human body odor (that's not a joke; I swear it's true), B. linens imparts not only Limburger's signature aroma, but also the yellowish color of the potent rind. Jaws clenched in determination, I made a trip to the wonderful Fromagination on the Square, where Chalet's Limburger can be purchased for $8.99 per pound in half- and whole-pound blocks. Along with a small package of dried fruits and a delectable sandwich of turkey, camembert, mustard and cranberry, I selected my brick and headed for home.
Limburger is a challenging cheese. It's aggressive in scent and taste. It's hard to find. And boy, is it hard to store without causing a revolt among any other humans in residence in your home. The only beings in my house who were happy about this assignment were the dogs, who sniffed the air lustily whenever the refrigerator opened.
And lest you think this is a slight against Limburger, I will tell you that my dogs also like carrots and beer (one of which they consume frequently; the other, only when they manage to knock over a bottle). They're little gastronomes; I choose to believe they knew what kind of delicacy was putting off that scent.
In honor of Limburger's Monroe roots, I decided to not only taste Limburger on its own, but also in the tradition of the Limburger sandwich at Baumgartner's Tavern: pumpernickel, sharp onion, and a little Dusseldorf mustard.
Cracking into the package is a sticky affair. Foil and parchment eventually give way to a wrinkly yellow-orange rind that is not so easy to slice without using a wire. The texture of the cheese is semi-soft near the rind, but creamy and almost spreadable at the center. After trying it both with and without, I have this recommendation: leave the rind alone. Trying to reduce the potency by cutting it off only makes the flavor profile inconsistent and less enjoyable. Eat the whole thing.
Yet another Limburger misunderstanding is that it will taste like it smells. In the same way that fruit-infused vodka smells more like fruit than it tastes, Limburger is not nearly as funky to the tongue as it is to the nose. Without thinking, I licked my fingers during the slicing, and was surprised by the buttery robustness.
Limburger is possessed of a luxurious mouthfeel and a rich, musky taste. The slices were enjoyable enough; my sandwich was not as satisfying as I thought it would be. In future encounters, I think I'd leave the mustard in the jar, and use a slightly sweeter onion in thicker, whole slices.
I was not my family's favorite person during this experience. Limburger, in turn, did not end up as my favorite cheese. Ultimately, I may be one of the few people who neither loves nor hates Limburger. Odds are decent that I will not be keeping a regular stash in some airtight container in my fridge. But I'm sure I'd eat some if it were around, perhaps, and I could certainly win a dare or two.
The most surprising reaction I had to my encounter with Limburger, however, was the sense of honor I felt in having the opportunity to try it. Myron Olson and Chalet Cheese aren't making Limburger because everyone loves it. They're making it because they love it. To have such a singular passion is commendable, and to be able to have easy and local access to the product of that passion is truly awesome.
