WE WILL SERVE NO RIND BEFORE ITS TIME

You've seen Bookmobiles, you've heard about the Popemobile, but did you know that in Portland there's a Cheesemobile? Every two weeks, a red truck with a cow, a goat, and a sheep painted on its sides makes the rounds of restaurants and quality shops to show chefs and purveyors what's new and what's hot in the world of what Clifton Fadiman once called "milk's leap to immortality." A hundred and fifty cheeses line the racks of the truck, tempting the buyers who talk about a Reblochon or a Fourme d'Ambert with the enthusiasm of sommeliers discussing a Ch‰teau Pétrus.

Tom Kooiman, the cheese guy at Provvista importers who drives the van, gives out tastes to his customers, but this is no lactophilic version of a Good Humor truck, with Tomme de Savoie substituting for Toasted Almond. If you want to try his goods, you'll have to shop in those stores or dine at one of the dozen or so restaurants in town that have recognized Portland's growing cheesy sophistication and have put cheese plates on their menus.

It's been a slow if persistent evolution; as yet nothing in town comes close to such New York restaurants as Artisinal and Picholine, each of which has a maître fromager and serves 2,000 pounds a month of mostly unpasteurized cheese. Artisinal boasts some 200 separate varieties, and the cheese steward will show you his treasures like a reverential guard revealing the bars of gold under Fort Knox. Anyone who's been to elegant restaurants in France remembers the cheese trolley, that rolling cart bearing scores of cheeses brought to the exact degree of ripeness by an affineur, whose job it is to turn the cheeses in their cave. This is a job Greg Higgins once held at a creamery--he learned to respect cheese, and he serves an excellent selection at his eponymous restaurant.

Portland may not be the most sophisticated cheese town, but it is gradually making headway. The largest number of cheeses--most of them French--show up at the Heathman, where Philippe Boulot has put together 17 varieties you can order ˆ la carte (in 2-ounce portions ranging from $4.10 for an aged, sheep's milk Roquefort and $4.30 for Le Maréchal rubbed with herbs as it ages, down to a $2.20 buttery, aromatic mountain Cantal) or in a selection of six on a plate accompanied by a terrine of apple and Calvados, hazelnuts, and quince paste ($12.75). Boulot buys several thousand dollars' worth of cheeses a month and tempts his customers by displaying them in the restaurant. The French would never dream of gussying up a cheese plate with fruits and other frou-frou, but it's common in Spain--and in Portland. Paley's Place will put plums, pears, even pumpkin rind preserved in grape musk next to its raw Basque sheep's-milk cheese; Castagna, which sells a single cheese on its dessert menu, might pair a good Manchego with figs and ground cherries or, in the winter, add honey comb and spiced almonds to the plate. The idea is that cheese becomes more attractive as a dessert item when fruit shows up alongside.

This is partly a cultural issue. We're not used to thinking of cheese as dessert; and, whether from diffidence or health, we certainly are reluctant to have cheese plus dessert, common enough in Europe. Castagna's Monique Siu laments she doesn't sell as much cheese as she'd like, noting that diners think cheese is something one can buy in a store and eat at home; when people eat out they want the chef to make them something special, preferably with chocolate. Melissa McKenny, pastry chef as well as cheese guru at Bluehour, tries to broaden her customers' tastes by educating her waitstaff in the restaurant's cheeses and having them pass that information on to the diners. Her mantra: "Don't be afraid to try." Bluehour has a selection of five cheeses that change monthly, and at any time might include a Wabash cannonball (an aged farmstead goat cheese layered in ash), a creamy Explorateur and an English Montgomery cheddar.

Franois Kerautret of Peterson's, a Seattle importer, also brings his cheese truck to Portland restaurants. Kerautret predicts cheeses will take off in the region the way coffee and microbrews have. He brings in cheeses from Ireland, Spain, England, Switzerland, Belgium, France and Italy, and he urges us to think of good cheese not as a snobbish or sophisticated thing, but rather simple, natural food. "I tell people to order cheese for dessert so they can have an extra glass of wine; that usually does the trick! And as with wine, you have to be unafraid. Learn a little and dive right in." And don't be afraid to ask your server what this cheese is and what wine goes best with it.

Since cheese for dessert is not yet a common option, restaurants tend to serve cheese plates as appetizers as well as after the entrée--again, an absolute taboo in France. Laslow's, Lucere and Paragon do so; wine bars, such as Noble Rot, of course, feature plates to accompany their vintages. There are many ways to group cheeses on the plate: by textures (ripened, washed rind) provenance, taste, season and animal. While most of the restaurants in town go for variety (typically from soft to semi-soft to hard, or mild to medium to strong), no one focuses a plate on single style, such as all-blue, or a single country, such as all-American. Such groupings suggest a developed palate, a connoisseur's pleasure in making fine discriminations. For the moment, education is the byword. We may lack the nuanced appreciation of the cheesemonger in the shop in Paris across the street from which I once lived, and who, when I asked for a wedge of Epoisse de Bourgogne, before deciding on which piece to sell me wondered if I were serving it that night or the next. Nevertheless, we've come a long way from ordinary Brie and Camembert, let alone cheese spreads and processed cheese. Trust restaurants to take you to the next levels and beyond.

WWeek 2015