Of dandelions and Camembert

We had arrived at the cheese course.  Without even a second's hesitation, I had ordered Camembert aux fleurs de pissenlit (Camembert with dandelion flowers).  With its hints of botanizing and wild edibles, this choice was irresistable to me.  I didn't quite know what to expect--a wedge of Camembert with a mesclun of dandelion petals, perhaps?  I stared at my plate.  There was indeed a pretty bouquet of mesclun, but it was devoid of any trace of dandelion in either leaf or petal.

It was a cloudy Normandie day, and we had stopped for lunch at an old auberge (small roadside hotel) on our route from home to Fécamp, where we had just done a morning's marketing.  We'd heard the restaurant had come under the new ownership of a young and talented chef.  And within the rather somber confines of the traditional post-and-beam dining room, we'd just demolished a succulent côte de veau aux petits légumes de printemps et à la mélisse (standing rib of veal with spring vegetables and lemon verbena) for two, served tableside by the young red-haired chef (right) from a gleaming copper cocotte.  I was feeling like the cat who sits back to polish her whiskers after downing a choice morsel.

But there was this matter of the mysterious Camembert aux fleurs de pissenlit.  Just where were those flowers?  In the murky light of the Norman afternoon, I peered myopically at my cheese.  And then I saw them, those flowers.  They were in the cheese, tracing delicate wisps  throughout its creamy flesh, staining it with sunny yellow.  Next to the cheese was a fan of thin slices of walnut bread.  But I ignored them for the moment.  A Camembert perfumed with dandelion flowers had to be savored and analysed nature--pure and alone, without any distraction.

I let the Camembert diffuse onto my tongue.  The dandelion gave it a slightly sweet, herbaceous and flowery note which was at once ethereal and overwhelmingly pleasant.  Tantalizing is perhaps the word I'm searching for, for if you were (as I was) unfamiliar with the flavor of dandelion blossoms, you would never decipher that delicate perfume.  I loved it, that much was clear. 

Now, the real question:  Just how did those flowers get into the cheese?  This is the sort of "how-to" analysis I go through whenever I taste something wonderful in a restaurant:  how was it done?  I posed the question to the waitress, an attractive but unsmiling young woman.  "Secret du chef," was her terse answer.

I looked across the table at Denis.  He shrugged.  In small bites, I finished the rest of my Camembert aux fleurs de pissenlit, mulling over how it could have been done.  Having been both microbiologist and home cheese-maker in previous lifetimes, I mused aloud whether, if you mushed up an entire cheese, rind and all, with the petals and remolded it, then allowed it to re-age, would it re-grow a perfect rind envelopped in soft white mold and look once more like a proper Camembert?  It seemed possible, but improbable.  Yet I'd found no signs of tampering on the outside of the cheese.

Fast forward about a year.  We're in the same restaurant, this time on a bright and sunny spring day.  The dining room has had what the French call a 'relooking':  everything has been painted beige, including the ancient buffet, the serving table, and the exposed beams, brightening the atmosphere but making me wince nevertheless.  Once more, my nemesis is on the plate in front of me.  This time, I carefully turn over my wedge of Camambert with dandelion petals, and examine it in the bright light streaming in the window.  And I see it:  The Seam!  A barely perceptible line cut through the rind near the exterior of the cheese.  "Aha!" I crow.  "I see how he did it!  He's cut away a circle in the rind, removed the interior of the cheese, mixed in the petals, and packed it back in.  Then he simply replaces the "lid" and voilà!"

I could hardly wait to try it myself.  We were able to find a good Camembert on the way home, and I was all set for my experiment.  But, shoot!  I'd left the camera in Paris.  I wouldn't be able to document my trial in photos.  But I was eager to begin.  I picked a big bouquet of fat dandelion blossoms in our lawn, which is organic and only receives an occasional mowing.  (I might add here that ironically, dandelions, a European native, are much less numerous in France than in the U.S.  Whether this is due to the invasiveness of non-native plants, or to the French habit of cutting dandelions to feed to their rabbits, or to themselves in the spring, I don't know.  The diuretic quality of vitamin-rich dandelion greens is responsible for their French name, which means "piss in the bed.")

Back in the kitchen, I removed my Camembert from its beautiful box, carefully removed its wax paper wrapping, and set it bottom-up on my cutting board.  Using the point of a sharp knife, I delicately incised a shallow circular cut about a third of an inch from the edge.  Then I carefully pried off the "hat" of rind by inserting the knifeblade under it at intervals.  I scraped the somewhat runny cheese from its interior with a teaspoon, depositing it in a small bowl.  Then with the same spoon, I oh-so-carefully scooped out the rest of the cheese's interior, bracing the rind from the outside with my left hand. This would have been easier if my Camembert had been a tad riper.  On the inside, it was still a bit chalky and not runny.   I added the petals to the cheese in the bowl and mashed it all up together with the back of a spoon.  Then I packed it back into its rind, gradually and carefully.  Finally, I replaced the cap, rewrapped the cheese right side up in its wrapper, put it back in its box, and set it away to ripen at cool room temperature for 36 hours.

Meanwhile, my Camembert experiment got transported back to Paris.  I was very excited about its unveiling and dégustation, and, now reunited with my camera, I planned to photograph it.  But my story wouldn't be complete without photos of dandelions, so yesterday afternoon I headed down the street to Parc Monceau, which is just a short block from our apartment.  I was seized with trepidation. Would I even be able to find a single dandelion flower in the rigorously manicured park à la française?  At that very moment, my gaze, fixed as usual on the sidewalk in order to avoid dog turds, came across a dandelion flower, undoubtedly picked by a toddler in the park and accidentally dropped on the way home.  Yes, Virginia, there were dandelions in Parc Monceau!



My camera to eye, I sought them out.  Most of them were growing out of hard-to-get-at spots where the low fences delimiting the various lawns and gardens met the ground.  These looked a bit dusty and bedraggled, but they were eking out a living by growing in a spot too hard for the gardeners to get at. 

Then I came to a stretch of lawn fenced off to keep people out, with signs that stated Pelouse en repos (Lawn at rest).  Parc Monceau is one of the few Parisian parks where it is permitted most of the year to walk on the grass.  But if you saw the park on a sunny spring day, with every inch of lawn plastered with Parisians having their déjeuner sur l'herbe or simply sunning themselves, you'd understand why the Monceau lawns need rest periods to recover.  And for a lawn to recover its strength, you need to lay off the mower.  So, there they were--fat and sassy, gleaming yellow dandelions, doing what they do best:  "spoiling" the lawn.  Because of the fence, I had to zoom to the best of my camera's ability.  Okay, enough dandelion porn.  I headed home to prepare dinner.

When Denis and I sat down to table, I was so excited for the cheese course I hardly touched my beef daube.  Of course, the suspense included the fear of failure; how would my Camembert aux fleurs de pissenlit taste?


Ceremoniously, I removed the cheese from its box and undid its wrapper.  Just as at the restaurant, it looked innocently like a normal Camembert.  I peeled off its label, which rested directly on the cheese and was incised with a picture of a cheesemaking girl hand-ladling cheese curds into the molds.  Which is exactly how this particular cheese--artisanal, raw milk, A.O.C.--was made.  Holding my breath, I cut a wedge from the cheese.  To my delight, it seemed to have continued to age nicely, being now consistently creamy all the way through.  I closed my eyes, took a bite, and was transported back to that first cloudy afternoon in the dining room of the Bec au Cauchois, tasting something sublime.  Denis, mouth full, nodded approval.  The tale of dandelions and Camembert had come full circle.







If you want to try this at home, make sure to start with a real, raw milk Camembert just short of ripe.  Make sure to let the cheese with blossoms ripen at room temperature, and serve the cheese at room temperature.  Accompany with a crisp, fruity white wine, or, even more authentic, with a bottle of demi-brut Norman hard cider.

If you're in upper Normandie, don't miss out dining at Le Bec au Cauchois (Restaurant Pierre Caillet), 22 rue André Fiquet, 76540 Valmont (about 10 minutes inland from Fécamp), telephone +33(0)2 35 29 77 56; www.lebecaucauchois.com.  Here's Chef Caillet standing in front of his herb beds and auberge. 

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