✍️ Notebook: A Cathedral of Cheese

My pilgrimage to the soul of Parmigiano-Reggiano

Parmesan was the first cheese I ever craved.

I know now that what I ate in my youth was dusty and industrial: a distant cousin of the real thing. It was pre-grated and sold in a bright green shaker. But I couldn’t get enough of it. As a kid, I’d pour it onto the palm of my hand and then lick it off. I was teased for shaking it onto almost anything savory: hot dogs, fried chicken, rice, scrambled eggs, popcorn.

That’s me in the Cathedral (C. Valenti photo)

Fast-forward a few decades.

I’ve long since learned to love -- not just crave -- real Parmigiano-Reggiano. And even as a middle-aged man with little patience for ceremony, I still treat this cheese with a kind of ritual respect. I never slice it; I break it into small, uneven shards. It’s stored in my refrigerator neatly folded into a cloth towel, which is then placed inside a plastic bag.

All of which helps explain why, on a recent trip to Emilia-Romagna, my first-ever stop in a caseificio felt like a pilgrimage.

The smell was the first thing I noticed when I walked through the doors: warm, nutty, sweet. There was a slight tang that lingered in the back of my nose.

Break the cheese into small shards (Consorzio photo)

Everything there moved with quiet precision. It was part industrial, part monastic. The partially skimmed milk from the evening is mixed with the whole milk from the following morning, cooked until it starts to solidify, then drained and placed to dry out in molds with the perforations that form the familiar “Parmigiano-Reggiano” lettering in the rind, which turns a kind of mustard color as it ages.

The ageing takes at least 12 months, though 24 is the standard minimum -- the Classico. At 36 months it’s called Vecchio (Old) and at 48, it’s Stravecchio (Extra-old). The oldest I’ve ever tasted was from a small batch aged for 60 months.

There’s no official name for 60-month-old Parmigiano-Reggiano. I’ve read the term Extra-Stravecchio (Extra-extra old) in Italian publications, but cheesemonger who gave me the dense, amber-colored, textured shard simply called it “60 mesi.”

At 12 months Parmigiano-Reggiano -- it’s referred to as fresco (fresh) -- is soft and mild, a little chewy and fairly bland. It needs to be paired with something like fruit preserves or figs or honey to become interesting.

Young Parmigiano-Reggiano in perforated molds (EJL photo)

Starting at 24 months, though, the cheese becomes increasingly crumbly and intense. The Classico is what I use for cooking, while I’ll have the Vecchio and Stravecchio on their own. At 36 months, the cheese is a near-perfect pairing for an array of wines: big, structured reds like Barbaresco or Brunello, sparkling wines from Franciacorta, aged whites like Fiano di Avellino, or even a sweet Vin Santo or Marsala. I’d go for the aged versions of most of the same wines with the Stravecchio.

But the 60 mesi? It was a lot to take in. Puncturing the surface of it made it shatter rather than crumble, and you can smell it from across a room.

I’ve only had it once, but in my memory, it was so intense -- umami, caramel, toasted nuts, tobacco -- I wouldn’t know what to pair it with. Maybe a good whiskey? Old port? If anyone has insights on this, please mention them in the comments.

The point is, there’s no shortcut. The recipe for Parmigiano-Reggiano is basically milk, a little salt, and a lot of time. But like most of the best of what this country has to offer, it’s worth the wait.

An old Kraft ad showing the Parmesan of my youth (Wiimedia photo)

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This is the first Notebook post in The Italian Dispatch. These shorter pieces will appear every other Tuesday, in the weeks between the long-form features that have been published until now. Think of the Notebook posts as snapshots with context: glimpses of places, traditions, curiosities, or reflections that still aim to shed light on Italy beyond the usual stereotypes.

Let me know what you think of the new Notebook format in the comments!

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