There was a girl who had a goat. By the standards of her species, she (the goat, that is) was not excessively surly or truculent. She permitted herself to be milked, and rarely butted the milkmaid. The girl turned the milk into cheese. News of this reached Peter Rich. Peter, who runs Jeroboams, is one of the more important wine and cheese entrepreneurs of our times. He asked for a sample. She sent him four chèvres. He ate one — delicious — and put the other three on the shelves. They quickly vanished, to be scoffed with enthusiasm, and repeat orders.
He phoned the goatherd and asked for 24, with the promise of repeat orders. The girl was astonished: ‘But I’ve only got one goat.’ ‘Get more, then,’ barked Peter. She did, and became a part of the British cheese revolution.
That is something else which has gone better in Britain over recent years. We have always been good at hard cheese and blue cheese, but British soft cheese, especially from the goat, has improved dramatically. Our makers regularly win tasting competitions, to the Frogs’ fury. Crécy, Poitiers, Agincourt, Waterloo, Oran, the Olympics: all that, they can just about forgive. But to be bested by the Rosbifs at cheese-making: insupportable.
It serves them right. French chèvre can often be disappointing. You see some in a Provençal street-market, and it looks so enticing. An evil, dark greeny/bluey colour, it is virtually suppurating, like Satan’s eye. You are assured that it was made by Grand-Mère Genevieve by a process handed down over the generations, from witch-matriarch to witch-matriarch. So you cut into it, already salivating, almost expecting it to fight back. The interior turns out to be a bland white colour, with a texture and taste to match: barely worth grilling on toast.
The other year, there was just such a disappointment. I was staying in a house near Apt, which has a magnificent street market, but this chèvre was unworthy of that setting. There were donkeys in our garden. Placid, gentle creatures, they had spent their lives giving donkey-rides to children and being overfed as a reward. When we left, the failed fromage was still in the pantry. So I fed it to a donkey, which enjoyed it. The French are best for chèvre d’âne. But if you want a reliable goat cheese, trust the British makers.
These days, Jeroboams is best known for wine, and whisky. It owns Milroy’s in Soho; there is no finer whisky emporium. But Peter also supplies wines to the Conservative party, for use in the VIP suites at the party conference. I have the details of this year’s selection, at Birmingham. These will come as a disappointment, both to misery-gutted lefties and to old-fashioned Tories. The lefties will already be composing press statements about extravagance; for the price of one bottle, you could feed a family of eight for a month in Toadthwaite. The Tories will hope to hear that Dom Pérignon was followed by Latour with Yquem for pudding.
Not so. There was an excellent Chablis Premier Cru, Les Monts Mains ’10. Alternatively, there was a Sancerre ’11, Dme Serge Laloue. Neither is a great wine; neither would claim to be. But they are really sound drinking. We moved on to a Rioja Alta, Viña Alberdi: unmistakable classic Rioja but not excessively so. The oak and egg-shells did not overwhelm the wine. One does not associate subtlety with Rioja, but this was subtle, as well as powerful. A 2008 Haut-Chaigneau from Lalande de Pomerol was straightforward claret. Finally, there was a Fleurie. I am sure that it was a good example of its kind, if you like the kind.
All in all, it was a very pleasant and well-crafted selection. Politics costs money. No doubt the Tories are hoping that some of those who are entertained in the private rooms will end up by paying for their hospitality, and more. So the organisers have to find the right balance. They succeeded.
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