Roquefort Quotes

I fucken love cheese so much. I would stab a man in the belly for a pound of Roquefort. I will not stand by and listen to someone tell me that eating cheese is wrong.

In 1411, the French Crown granted a patent declaring that only the cheese of Roquefort-sur-Soulzon could be called Roquefort cheese.

According to the biographical notes, Monsieur Julian Carax was twenty-seven, born with the century in Barcelona, and currently living in Paris; he wrote in French and worked at night as a professional pianist in a hostess bar. The blurb, written in the pompous, moldy style of the age, proclaimed that this was a first work of dazzling courage, the mark of a protean and trailblazing talent, and a sign of hope for the future of all of European letters. In spite of such solemn claims, the synopsis that followed suggested that the story contained some vaguely sinister elements slowly marinated in saucy melodrama, which, to the eyes of Monsieur Roquefort, was always a plus: after the classics what he most enjoyed were tales of crime, boudoir intrigue, and questionable conduct. One of the pitfalls of childhood is that one doesn't have to understand something to feel it. By the time the mind is able to comprehend what has happened, the wounds of the heart are already too deep. She laughed nervously. She had around her a burning aura of loneliness. "You remind me a bit of Julian," she said suddenly. "The way you look and your gestures. He used to do what you are doing now. He would stare at you without saying a word, and you wouldn't know what he was thinking, and so, like an idiot, you'd tell him things it would have been better to keep to yourself." "Someone once said that the moment you stop to think about whether you love someone, you've already stopped loving that person forever." I gulped down the last of my coffee and looked at her for a few moments without saying anything. I thought about how much I wanted to lose myself in those evasive eyes. I thought about the loneliness that would take hold of me that night when I said good-bye to her, once I had run out of tricks or stories to make her stay with me any longer. I thought about how little I had to offer her and how much I wanted from her. "You women listen more to your heart and less to all the nonsense," the hatter concluded sadly. "That's why you live longer." But the years went by in peace. Time goes faster the more hollow it is. Lives with no meaning go straight past you, like trains that don't stop at your station.

Perceptions are always profound, associations deceiving. No watermelon tastes red. Apropos: while waiting for a bus once, I saw open down the arm of a midfat, midlife, freckled woman, suitcase tugging at her hand like a small boy needing to pee, a deep blue crack as wide as any in a Roquefort. Split like paper tearing. She said nothing. Stood. Blue bubbled up in the opening like tar. One thing is certain: a cool flute blue tastes like deep well water drunk from a cup.

There might be one history in which the moon is made of Roquefort cheese. But we have observed that the moon is not made of cheese, which is bad news for mice. Hence histories in which the moon is made of cheese do not contribute to the present state of our universe, though they might contribute to others. That might sound like science fiction, but it isn’t.

Still, we permit the appearance of our meats, sauces, fruits, and vdgetables to dominate our tongues until it is difficult to divide a twist of lemon or squeeze of lime from the colors of their rinds or separate yellow from its yolk or chocolate from the quenchless brown which seems to be the root, shoot, stalk, and bloom of it. Yet I hardly think the eggplant's taste is as purple as its skin. In fact, there are few flavors at the violet end, odors either, for the acrid smell of blue smoke is deceiving, as is the tooth of the plum, though there may be just a hint of blue in the higher sauces. Perceptions are always profound, associations deceiving. No watermelon tastes red. Apropos: while waiting for a bus once, I saw open down the arm of a midfat, midlife, freckled woman, suitcase tugging at her hand like a small boy needing to pee, a deep blue crack as wide as any in a Roquefort. Split like paper tearing. She said nothing. Stood. Blue bubbled up in the opening like tar. One thing is certain: a cool flute blue tastes like deep well water drunk from a cup.

The rosé was dry and crisp and perfect. The baguette was ambrosia: crispy on the outside, chewy on the inside. What was it about bread in France? Like the French version of butter, it seemed to bear little relation to the item of the same name back home. Genevieve sliced a wedge of pâté, topped it with a cornichon, and made a little sandwich. Another glass of wine, a bit of cheese: P’tit Basque, tangy Roquefort, a stinky and delicious washed-rind Brie. Even the pear seemed better than the ones she was used to: the perfect combination of tangy and sweet, the juice running down her arm as she ate. Sated,

I can’t remember what he looked like,” she said, her tone dismissive, bored. “He smelled like high game and liquefied Roquefort, if that’s any help.” I must have looked puzzled. She leaned forward, showed me her teeth. “That’s rotting flesh and stinking, moldy cheese to you, darling.” She paused, regained her equanimity. “I don’t know if he’s alive or dead, Eleanor,” she said. “If he’s alive, he’s probably very rich by dubious, unethical means. If he’s dead—and I sincerely hope that he is—then I imagine he’s languishing in the outer ring of the seventh circle of hell, immersed in a river of boiling blood and fire, taunted by centaurs.” I realized at that point that it probably wasn’t worth asking if she had kept any photos.

Brian and Avis deliver their stacks and try to refuse dinner, but the waiters bring them glasses of burgundy, porcelain plates with thin, peppery steaks redolent of garlic, scoops of buttery grilled Brussels sprouts, and a salad of beets, walnuts, and Roquefort. They drag a couple of lawn chairs to a quiet spot on the street and they balance the plates on their laps. Some ingredient in the air reminds Avis of the rare delicious trips they used to make to the Keys. Ten years after they'd moved to Miami they'd left Stanley and Felice with family friends and Avis and Brian drove to Key West on a sort of second honeymoon. She remembers how the land dropped back into distance: wetlands, marsh, lazy-legged egrets flapping over the highway, tangled, sulfurous mangroves. And water. Steel-blue plains, celadon translucence. She and Brian had rented a vacation cottage in Old Town, ate small meals of fruit, cheese, olives, and crackers, swam in the warm, folding water. Each day stirring into the next, talking about nothing more complicated than the weather, spotting a shark off the pier, a mysterious constellation lowering in the west. Brian sheltered under a celery-green umbrella while Avis swam: the water formed pearls on the film of her sunscreen. They watched the night's rise, an immense black curtain from the ocean. Up and down the beach they hear the sounds of the outdoor bars, sandy patios switching on, distant strains of laughter, bursts of music. Someone played an instrument- quick runs of notes, arpeggios floating in soft ovals like soap bubbles over the darkening water.

CHEESES. Purchase real cultured cheeses only (not Velveeta or single-slice processed cheese), preferably organic and full fat, not skim or reduced fat. The cheese-making process minimizes the undesirable aspects of dairy (such as whey and unhealthy forms of casein). Be careful with blue cheese, Gorgonzola, and Roquefort, which are occasionally sources of wheat.

Today's offerings include grilled tuna in a soy wasabi marinade, and a pan-roasted squab with curried apricot chutney, neither typical bistro fare. It makes me think wistfully of compound butters and pestos of fresh herbs and toasted nuts, of mushrooms and lardons, eggs and roast chicken, none of which appear anywhere on the menu. I order myself an appetizer portion of mussels and a side of frites to start and a green salad. After an extended cross examination of the waiter, Enid orders a beet and goat cheese salad and the veal chop with Roquefort butter.

Because some aged cheeses are fermented with wheat, you want to eliminate them from your diet. These include bleu, Roquefort, Gorgonzola, and some cottage cheese. Cheeses such as mozzarella, Swiss, and goat cheese are fine.

She explained how, during her years of exile in France, she and her cousin Claudette had shared a private tutor. He was a man in his fifties, a bit of a tippler, who affected literary airs and boasted of being able to recite Virgil’s Aeneid in Latin without an accent. The girls had nicknamed him “Monsieur Roquefort

Monsieur Roquefort frequently visited a secondhand bookstall positioned outside Notre-Dame. It was there, by chance, one afternoon in 1929, that he came across a novel by an unknown author, someone called Julián Carax.

the end of 1935, news reached Monsieur Roquefort that a new novel by Julián Carax, The Shadow of the Wind, had been published by a small firm in Paris.

PASTA 4 QUESOS INGREDIENTES: 200 gramos de queso azul o roquefort. 200 gramos de queso emmental. 200 gramos de queso mozzarella. 200 gramos de queso parmesano. 2 taza de salsa madre bechamel. 1 taza de crema de leche. 1 taza de vino blanco. 3 cda de maicena. PROCEDIMIENTO: 1) Se coloca el vino en una cacerola con el queso azul, hasta que se disuelva loco se coloca el queso emmental, se espera que se funda para lo aplicar el queso mozzarella, la salsa madre y la crema de leche se coloca de ultimo queso parmesano y se rectifica de sal y pimienta. NOTA: las cucharadas de maicena son para colocársela a los queso cundo se ralla para que no pierdan su grasa.

consumption. Fungi are used to ripen Roquefort and other blue cheeses. A species of Aspergillus produces citric acid used in colas. Morels and truffles, the edible fruiting bodies of various ascomycetes, are highly prized for their complex flavors (see Figure 31.16). These fungi can sell

When Miss Petitfour made a fancy salad, Minky watched the way the lettuce leaves bent under the slight weight of the Parmesan; when Miss Petitfour had cheese toast for tea, Minky noticed how the cheddar melted into every little crevice and crater of the toast. She licked her whiskers greedily when Miss Petitfour lowered her hand to feed her snippets and smidgens, pinches and wedges, slices and crumbs. Minky loved all cheese--Swiss cheese, Edam cheese, Gruyere and Roquefort, Brie cheese and blue cheese, mozzarella and Parmesan, hard cheese, crumbly cheese, creamy cheese, lumpy cheese. Minky even had a cheese calendar that she kept with, which Miss Petitfour had given to her for Christmas. Each month there was a big picture of a different kind of cheese in a mouthwatering pose: blue cheese cavorting with pears, cheddar laughing with apples, Gruyere lounging with grapes, Edam joking with parsley.

A waiter set a small tart of caramelized pears before each of them and added a dab of licorice ice cream. Next came bananas topped with passion fruit and black pepper, little pirouettes of pleasure. The meal was as large and generous as the chef himself, and by the time he was serving them aged Armagnac with a ripe Roquefort, Stella's head was spinning. Although they were now surrounded by people eating dinner, new dishes kept arriving. Petit fours appeared, and then chocolates. A basket of fruit. Jules and the chef toasted each other with fragrant fruit brandies.

y olía bastante mal, como a sopa de pescado quemada, mezclada con arenques ahumados y esencia de mofeta. Las niñas avanzaron entre un laberinto de mesas, repletas de cacharros extraños y aparatos que no habían visto nunca. Había cables, tubos de distintas formas y tamaños, y tarros de cristal con diferentes ingredientes en su interior: ajos blancos de Barakaldo, queso de roquefort podrido, baba de caracol, criadillas de cerdo, saltamontes en su tinta… Se parecía un poco a una mezcla entre un taller mecánico y un laboratorio de científicos locos, como los que salen en la tele. Al iluminar un rincón con la linterna, un rayo de luz dorada salió despedido hacia el techo. —¿Qué es eso? —preguntó Sofía. Las chicas se acercaron a la mesa de la esquina. Había una caja dorada con un montón de símbolos y botones encima. Cuando la iluminaron con la linterna, otro rayo de luz dorada salió rebotado contra el techo. —Es el trasto que Cipriano estaba usando ayer durante el partido —dijo Irene—. Lo habíamos confundido con una consola, pero es una máquina muy extraña. Mira qué de botones.

GEOGRAPHICALLY INDICATED CHEESES There are more than 150 cheeses protected with GIs in the European, but the highest profile ones are Asiago, fontina, Gorgonzola, Grana Padano, Mozzarella di Bufala Campana, Parmigiano-Reggiano and Pecorino Romano (all from Italy); Comté, Roquefort, Munster, and Reblochon (France); feta (Greece); Gruyère (Switzerland); Stilton (United Kingdom); and manchego (Spain). Try to remember this short list and if you are buying any one of these cheeses, the real thing will only come from the respective nation. Feta, Muenster, and Gruyère are especially frequently copied elsewhere.

Should she be savoring an Aveyronnais sharp cheese, though? Was this a disloyal choice of lunch? In the interests of focus and professionalism, Stella resolved that she should write an admiring paragraph about Wensleydale cheese this afternoon--- and perhaps not mention it first having been made by Cistercian monks from Roquefort.

A fresh fig is a coy fruit. Fresh figs hide out a bit. Their exterior is sober, matte--- a dignified, often dusky, royal purple. But crack one open, and you have a pulpy, fleshy kaleidoscope of seeds. A ripe fig, like the cheeks of a well-fed child, should give slightly when you squeeze. Figs make an excellent transition from summer to autumn cuisine. This is particularly useful this time of year in Provence, when we are eating in the garden one day, turning on the heat the next. Fresh figs are at home alfresco, in a rocket salad with Golden Delicious apples, pine nuts, and picnic cheeses or roasted with slices of Roquefort and a drizzle of honey to begin a fall fireside dinner.

There was a bottleneck up ahead at the boulangerie. A wrought-iron cart, a more elegant version of the pretzel vendors' on the streets of New York, was posted outside. In addition to croissants and pains au chocolat, it was loaded with flattish ovals of yeasted bread. Some were covered with grated Gruyère cheese and bacon, some with a tangle of caramelized onions and anchovies. The script on the chalkboard sign said Fougasse, which I took to be a type of local focaccia. I leaned toward one topped with toasted walnuts, pungent with the smell of recently melted Roquefort cheese.

relations had since curdled into Roquefort cheese,

ROBERT H. COBB. In the 1930s, the hot restaurant for anyone in the movie industry was the Hollywood Brown Derby, located at North Vine Street. Owner Robert Cobb claimed to have invented the restaurant’s signature dish in 1935, and named it after himself: the Cobb Salad. (A more likely scenario: the chefs at the Brown Derby invented it.) The original Cobb consisted of a mixture of greens (iceberg lettuce, watercress, chicory, and romaine), topped with diced chicken breast, tomatoes, avocado, chopped bacon, hard-boiled eggs, chives, and Roquefort cheese, served with a red wine vinaigrette. The Brown Derby closed in 1985 (Cobb died in 1970), by which time they’d sold more than four million Cobb Salads.

It stands for Appellation d'origine contrôlée. It just means some agricultural product that is special to a certain terroir, or place. Like—Roquefort cheese,

Three geese stuffed with apples and onions, served with a Roquefort sauce, stuffing with chestnuts, potato gratin, curried carrots, brussel sprouts with bacon and chives-

Six hundred years after it became protected, there are still only seven producers allowed to make all of the real Roquefort cheese. Today, the mold can be manufactured in a laboratory, but under French law, only mold produced from the naturally occurring spore in these caves can be used, and there are many other requirements too. The milk can only come from three specific breeds of sheep, all of which have to be ranged in this area, where what they eat is natural and regulated. In addition, the time from milking to cheese making is tightly controlled. Every other step of the process, from maturation to cutting to packaging, must also occur here.

In a ready crust of crushed walnuts, flour, and butter, D'Ours lays the pear slices in a pinwheel design. Because they've soaked up the red wine, their edges are etched in burgundy while their centers are white, giving them a candy cane appearance. A perfect Christmas dessert. Next, he crumbles the Roquefort over the pears, noting the irony of fruit desserts. Pairing fruit with sweet ingredients such as honey or sugar brings out the fruit's tartness while tangy cheese can make the fruit seem sweeter. Which might explain why my grandfather salted his grapefruit. "Roquefort has an intriguing history," he says while tapping a traditional flan filling of cream, sugar, and eggs. "You might be surprised to learn..." I stick up my hand and before D'Ours can object, I explain how Roquefort, like most blue cheeses, attributes its blue veins to penicillin mold and that in the past, Roquefort makers (there are only, like, nine in the world), used to put wrapped cheese next to humongous moldy rye bread in caves and let the spores from the rye bread seep into the cheese.

WEEK ONE: Summer Abundance Almond-Infused Hot White Chocolate over Iced Berries Cold English Summer Pudding Fresh and Easy Strawberry Crème Brûlée Peach Cobbler D'Ours with Ginger Ice Cream Limoncello Sorbet and Wild Maine Blueberries WEEK TWO: Simple Comforts Classic Tarte Tatin Warm Cherry Crisp with Vermont Maple Cream Almond Biscotti Tiramisu Old-Fashioned Gingerbread and Lemon Sauce Spiced Pear and Roquefort Flan WEEK THREE: A Multiple Chocolate Orgasm Grand Marnière Chocolate Mousse Torta Caprese Chocolate-Dipped Strawberries Profiteroles with Dark Chocolate Kahlúa Sauce Quick Chocolate Soufflé

A dinner party is the oldest experiment. Trap a bunch of souls in a room. Faces move like painted moons, rising and setting, as talk blows in from the east. The thunk and freckles of a hand slammed down on the table in laughter, the noise of a long night unscrolled like a map. Madeira and Roquefort. Paper towels for napkins. The maroon wall telephone rings: next round of folks on their way!