People Dunk This Cheese in Their Morning Coffee

In America, we're no strangers to dunking our donuts in our coffee. In France, they dip Maroilles, the stinky, washed-rind cheese, into their morning café. Or at least they used to.

It's definitely an acquired taste: people from other regions have long turned their noses up at this local specialty from the North, a region that is more closely associated with its working-class coal mining past than with the haute cuisine the rest of France is famous for. And the fact that the cheese has a certain eau de gym socks doesn't really help matters.

But as French people—particularly Parisians—become more and more interested in regional specialties, Maroilles is coming into its own.

French regional cuisine first transcended borders during World War II, when soldiers would share recipes and snacks from home with one another, but it wasn't until French millennials started becoming interested in "authentic" food that the exoticism of not just pho, bo bun, and bagels (yes, really), but regional French dishes that had been ignored for years became a tantalizing option for diners with adventurous palates.

In the case of Maroilles, not only has production doubled in the past 20 years, but the cheese earned its AOP protected origin label in 1996, becoming the only product in the whole region to have the coveted status.

It doesn't hurt that Dany Boon, a famed comedian from the North, highlighted Maroilles' special place in the hearts—and coffee cups—of the region with his film Bienvenue Chez les Ch'tis (Welcome to the Sticks), which made him the highest paid actor in European film history in 2008 and earned the French César for best original screenplay in 2009. The scene featuring Maroilles shows a displaced Provençal attempting—and failing—to enjoy the classic working-class breakfast: an open-faced Maroilles tartine dipped in chicory coffee.

"Maroilles is written into the DNA of Northern cheese culture," says Marwen Amor, co-owner of the Parisian Vache dans les Vignes wine and cheese bar—and its working class background is no longer a deterrent.

While sources claim that kings from Philip II to Francis I were fans of Maroilles, culinary anthropologist Georges Carantino notes that strong cheeses, at least through the 19th century, were usually the dominion of the poor.

Maroilles is no exception to this rule. While a cheese bearing the name has existed in the region since before the year 1000, that doesn't mean that it was the orange, sticky-rinded, stinky cheese of today. Since French cheese recipes only became fixed in the 19th century, Maroilles probably only got its stink on at this point, when the Northern working class developed a taste for strong cheeses—not just Maroilles, but also Vieux Boulogne, deemed the smelliest cheese in the world by researchers at Oxford University.
The reason for this taste for strength, according to Carantino, may have to do with another local product: beer.

"Strong cheeses are cheeses that push people to drink," explains Carantino, noting that Maroilles pairs well with strong liquors like Dutch Jenever or beer. While the rest of France is better known for wine, in this region bordering Belgium, Abbey-style beers and juniper liqueur are much more popular, and beer's low-class reputation did nothing to help Maroilles' cause.

So for years, locals contented themselves with the traditional way of things: unlike the aristocrats of Paris, who ate sweet breakfasts of pastries, bread, and jam, Northerners ate hearty morning meals complete with meat and cheese, and Maroilles tartines were a key component of this.

But the times they are a-changing. Increased interest in Maroilles has once again made it the dominion of the rich, and in fact, Carantino notes that a traditional Maroilles is actually quite dear these days.

Local fromager Alexandre Gravez of La Ferme du Pont des Loups notes that few locals still dip their Maroilles in coffee, and Amor even says that a more common pairing is dry Champagne—which seems like the perfect way for me to give it a try.

After buying a wedge of the uniquely square cheese (wrapped not once but twice to contain the smell), I decide, first, to try it as Gravez suggests: neither for breakfast nor with the traditional pre-dinner cheese course, but at cocktail hour.

"All of the aromas come out, because your tastebuds are on alert," he says.
As an accompaniment to a Champagne aperitif, then, I dig in and discover that, despite its aroma, developed over the course of a minimum of 35 days of aging, Maroilles is surprisingly mild in flavor: nutty and slightly sweet, with a barnyardy funk that's actually quite pleasant. The finish is very long, almost sticky, which makes dry Champagne the perfect foil. The flavor of the Champagne, light and ethereal, doesn't overpower the subtlety of the cheese—but it does take a bit of the edge off.

The next morning, it's time to try the traditional method. Though I've lived in France for 10 years, I've never lost my taste for a savory breakfast, but releasing the pungent aroma of Maroilles into the kitchen first thing in the morning is still a challenge. Still, I persevere and serve it on bread, alongside a cup of black coffee.

For a moment, I just enjoy the two side by side. The cheese takes on a new power now, almost as though it's competing with the bitterness of the coffee. But I can also sense a deeper sweetness, maybe because my coffee has no sugar, that I didn't get with the Champagne.

And then, though it seems strange, I take the plunge: I dip the footy tartine into my coffee and take a bite.

While the bread soaks up a bit more of the brew than I probably would have liked, the cheese's new texture—creamy on the edges and still slightly chalky in the center—proves that working class Northerners of yore knew exactly what they were doing.

While there's no doubt in my mind that Maroilles has earned its place next to a flute of Champagne, I have to admit, I have a soft spot for the—dare I say it— authentic way of consuming this cheese.