Belgian Cheese

Abbey cheesemaking and beer. Belgian monasteries brewed and made cheese under the same roof for centuries, and the two traditions shaped each other. That is why so many have rinds washed in ale and flavors running malty and yeasty instead of grassy or sharp. The country produces more than three hundred varieties across Flanders and Wallonia, though the internationally known ones are mostly Trappist and Benedictine: Chimay, Orval, Maredsous. Fromage de Herve is the single Belgian cheese carrying PDO protection. Texturally the category sits in semi-soft to semi-firm territory, supple under a knife and reliable in a melt. It avoids the extremes of a fresh chèvre at one end and a five-year Gouda at the other. Most of it is cow's milk, and most of it is pasteurised.

Milder than its reputation suggests. The rind smells of hops and malt from the ale washing, and first-timers often expect that intensity to carry into the paste, but the interior stays creamy and faintly sweet with a toasted finish. Scourmont Abbey makes several versions: the classic matures roughly six weeks and stays supple and mild, while Chimay Vieux ages at least six months into something firmer and more concentrated without turning aggressive. Either works on a board without dominating the cheeses around it, and both melt cleanly over potatoes or dark bread. Serve it at room temperature, since cold flattens the malt notes completely; twenty minutes out of the refrigerator will do, and cut thin so the rind comes along with each slice.

Match the beer to the abbey where you can. Chimay cheese and Chimay ale were built next to each other and taste like it, the malt in the glass picking up the malt in the rind. Beyond that the rule is intensity. A mild Passendale or young abbey cheese wants a blonde or a wheat beer, while a pungent washed rind such as Herve needs a dubbel or a stout with real body behind it. Lambic works on the sharper cheeses, its sourness doing what a crisp white would elsewhere. Wine is not wrong here, only beside the point. A heavy oaked white will lose, and even a good Riesling ends up arguing with the malt instead of joining it.

They overlap at the edges and diverge at the center. Dutch cheesemaking is organized around Gouda and Edam. Those are pressed wheels ageing toward caramel and crystals, made at enormous scale with real consistency. Belgium built its reputation on washed rinds and monastery cheeses instead, softer, more aromatic, more variable from producer to producer. The overlap shows in cheeses like Oud Brugge, a Flemish wheel following the aged-Gouda playbook closely enough to sit on either side of the border. If you like Gouda and want to move sideways instead of deeper, Oud Brugge is the obvious next step. For something properly different, start with an abbey cheese and let the beer do the rest. The aroma is the main adjustment; Belgian washed rinds smell far stronger than they taste.

Refrigerate on arrival, then bring it out well before serving. Washed-rind cheeses in particular taste of very little straight from the cold, and thirty to sixty minutes at room temperature is what unlocks the malt and cream. Wrap cut pieces in breathable cheese storage bags; plastic film traps moisture against the rind and turns an already aromatic cheese ammoniated within days. Keep the strong ones in a sealed container if your refrigerator holds anything with a delicate flavor, because a ripe washed rind will scent butter and milk sitting near it. Most Belgian cheeses hold two to three weeks refrigerated when wrapped properly. The washed rinds are best inside the first ten days, while the aroma is still lively and the paste has not begun to soften at the edge.