Chapter 13 To BrieNot to Brie
TO brIE OR NOT TO brIE
The Meaux countryside unfolded beneath The Celestine Queen in shades of winter green and brown.
The tour group gathered in the atrium as they drifted over rolling pastures divided by old stone walls, and bare-branched trees lining country lanes.
Finally, in the distance, they spied a cluster of traditional stone buildings that looked like they’d stood there for centuries.
“There,” Bayard said, pointing toward the fromagerie as they passed over it. “La Maison du Lait. One of the oldest continuously operating Brie producers in France. We’ll be dropping our anchor in the River Marne shortly, and proceeding by land from there.”
“I can’t wait to try the cheese today!” Even though she was in her human form at present, Minerva could feel her whiskers twitching.
That happened sometimes when she was particularly excited, as she was today.
Brie cheese was her absolute favorite, and everyone in the know knew that the best Brie was from Meaux, France.
“This visit will be a little different from the others. The fromagerie we are visiting is very small and bespoke. The tour won’t take us very long, but we’ll be spending some more time there doing a wonderful hands-on activity that they are arranging for our group.
” Bayard smiled mysteriously and pressed his fingertips together, as if struggling to contain a delicious secret.
“Hands on? Is that really all you’re going to tell us?” Minerva squeaked. “Should I wear anything special?”
“No need to dress any differently than you have for the other tours. Anything else you need will be provided.” This was all he would say about it. He checked his pocket watch. “I’d best be going. We’ll be dropping anchor very soon!”
When the shuttle bus pulled into the parking lot of La Maison du Lait, two women emerged from the main building to greet them.
“Bienvenue!” called the taller of the two, a woman with short silver hair and warm brown eyes. “Welcome to La Maison du Lait. I am Margot Rousseau, and this is my wife and business partner, Claire.”
Claire was smaller and rounder, with laugh lines around her eyes and flour dusting her apron.
“Margot handles the cheese-making,” she explained.
Her English was excellent, softened by her beautiful lilting accent.
“I handle everything that happens to the cheese after it’s made.
This includes the packaging, presentation, and all the goodness that goes on in our test kitchens. You are all in for a treat today!”
“Come, come. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First we tour, then we create.” Margot winked at her partner.
The tour group followed them into the main production building.
Unlike some of the more commercial fromageries they’d visited, this one felt lived in and well loved.
Broad beams crossed the ceiling overhead and the walls were decorated with a gallery of wooden rounds that documented over a century of package design.
The floor was immaculate, with stones worn smooth by the centuries of feet passing over them.
Bookshelves, crammed full of cookbooks and books about cheesemaking, were fitted into every spare corner.
In the hallway, assorted antique tools and retired farm equipment hung from hooks on the wall or sat on display in spotlit niches like pieces of art.
“What do you suppose this thingamabob is for, Bay?” Zephyr spun the screws on a wooden framed object.
“That looks like part of a cheese press to me. Did you see this weapon over here? I’d hate to meet someone wielding one of these in a dark alley!” He pointed to the massive guillotine-like cutter on display in a glassed-in case.
Zephyr and Bayard couldn’t resist tinkering with some more of the pieces, trying to guess their original purpose.
“All of these items are from our farm, and were used in cheese production right here for centuries,” Margot proudly explained.
She pointed out some of the more decorative metal plates and some charming figurines on a high shelf on the wall.
“These are molds for shaping the cheese and those figurines were carved from dried curds, if you can believe it.”
“That one looks a lot like Fred!” Wren exclaimed, pointing to a small carved duck at the end of the shelf near the door.
“That one is our mascot.” Claire smiled. “You can see her in our logo as well. She brings us good luck! Shall we continue the tour?”
The first thing everyone noticed as they reached the production room was how much smaller and more intimate it was than the industrial operations they’d seen elsewhere.
Wheels of Brie in various stages of ripening were set out on wooden shelves along the walls, their soft white rinds glowing softly in the morning light.
“Brie is what we call a bloomy rind cheese,” Margot explained to the group. “The white coating you see is actually a mold. It’s called Penicillium candidum. It’s sprayed or dusted onto the cheese’s surface, where it grows and creates that distinctive velvety rind.”
“And the magic is in the mold?” someone asked.
“The magic is in everything. Not just the mold but the way it all comes together,” Margot said.
“The mold must grow at exactly the right rate. Not too fast, not too slow. For this to happen, the temperature must be precise. The humidity must be perfect. Too much of anything, and the rind becomes bitter or slimy. Too little, and it never develops properly.”
“That does sound like some complicated spellwork,” one of the passengers nodded. “I bet your family’s grimoire is a big, thick one!”
“Oh, now you’re speaking her language,” Claire laughed.
“I’ll never tell.” Margot smiled mysteriously, and winked at the passenger.