I was somewhere around Madison, on the edge of the lake, when the cheese began to take hold.
I was driving the wrong direction down a one-way ramp in a crowded parking garage. I cut off a woman in a Lexus, and she screamed at me with a fury I’ve never heard outside of Massachusetts.
“I’m a journalist,” I screamed back, but my windows were rolled up and I have a very timid voice, so I don’t think she heard me.
I spun the car in a violent U-turn and sped up the ramp to the sunlit roof.
I searched desperately for an open space, but every one was taken. I was already late and hopped up on the McCafe. The fear sweats were starting to soak me through – It was the 2017 Sambuca Smackdown all over again. I spotted a car backing out and made my move, swerving into its spot as soon as it was gone.
“You’re not one of those that get a headache from cheddar, are you?”
It was noon, on Tuesday, March 1, as I ran across the parking garage roof down to the Monona Terrace Convention Center. The greatest cheese minds of my generation were gathered there to crown the tastiest cheese in the world. I realize that sentence may sound absurd, but it is no exaggeration. The 34th World Championship Cheese Contest was kicking off, and 53 international judges were on site to evaluate 2,978 entries in 141 classes. The judging squadron came from as far away as Italy, Brazil, the Netherlands, Australia, Ecuador, Switzerland and Oshkosh. Today would be the first day of pre-judging, followed on Wednesday by the announcement of the class winners, and then on Thursday by the crowning of the world champion.
This biennial contest of the world’s greatest cheeses, hosted by the Wisconsin Cheesemakers Association, has been running since 1957. This year judges would be sampling cheese from Ireland, Japan, Turkey, New Zealand and 26 other countries.
My editor expected me to file a story on the contest after the winners were announced on Thursday, and to include a subtle plug for our Wisconsin Cheese Bracket, which you can vote in now. But before I could write the story, I needed to get inside.
It’s time to pick your Milwaukee favorites for the year!
I rushed into the hotel, where I was greeted by an older woman.
“I’m here for the cheese championships,” I said. “I am the media.”
“Oh,” she said, and I saw that, as often is the case, she had initially assumed that I was a child. Betrayed again by my cherubic cheeks and smooth skin, I informed her that I was, in fact, a reporter of some renown with Milwaukee Magazine. Before I could provide her with an extensive CV and glowing letter of recommendation from my mother, she waved me down to the lower floor where the cheese was being judged.
Down I went.
As I took off my coat, I immediately became aware that I had neglected to apply deodorant that morning. Thankfully, as I walked into the room full of cheese, I realized that no one would be able to tell.
I entered the large ballroom arrayed with red curtains. A rectangle of tables was arranged around the center of the room, and on these tables were wheels upon wheels of cheese. Along the edges of the curtained area, judges were seated two to a table, each sampling the cheeses assigned to them.
“What makes a great cheese is love.”
The crew to beat in this year’s fromage fest was Mountain Dairy Fritzenhaus, a Swiss cheesemaker that has been operating since 1847. Its Gourmino Le Gruyère AOP was the 2020 world cheese champion.
No Wisconsinites were on the big stage in 2020 – the runner-ups were from Switzerland and The Netherlands. There were whispered hopes that some of Wisconsin’s great cheese makers might be able to defeat the reigning champion Fritzenhaus this year. Personally, I was hoping that Renard’s from Door County might be the perfect David to topple Fritzenhaus’ Goliath. The artisanal maker crafted some damn impressive cheddar, and what a story it would be if some homegrown Wisconsin underdogs took down the reigning favorite.
Another reporter had arrived earlier than me (which means, on time). He was a corpulent man with graying hair. This man, I immediately knew, was my rival. He was an experienced journalist; I could tell from the way he carried his notebook (and also because his name tag said he was working for a national outlet). For the sake of this article, I will refer to him only as Mike, a veteran of writing and the reigning king of the cheese journalism game.
Well, I wasn’t here to mess around. If Mike thought I was going to roll over just because I’m not a big, experienced journalist like him, than he had another thing coming. I would outreport him with pure grit and viciousness and the fiery energy of youth. I would cut him off at every turn, find every angle he couldn’t, abuse, crush and bury him until he begged for journalistic mercy.
“Hey there,” he said.
“Oh, hey,” I said.
“Nice day out today, huh?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sunny.”
I would destroy him.
First, I wanted to get my hands on some of that Fritzenhaus Gouda to see what the big deal was. I asked a woman if I could please have some cheese, and she said, “I’m not the person you ask about that,” and I was very embarrassed.
I moved swiftly along the judges’ rows, snooping on conversations. I jotted down the best quotes I heard on the floor:
“All cheese is special.”
“What makes a great cheese is love.”
“I’m not big on flavored cheeses.”
“Me, I’m a Colby guy.”
“Worst piece of cheese I ever ate in my life.”
“You’re not one of those that get a headache from cheddar, are you?”
“Is my old friend still working with you? Last I heard he was in charge of milk procurement.”
“We’re Wisconsin guys; we see it, we eat it.”
Was Mike getting quotes that good? I doubted it.
The judges carefully examined each sample, tasting it with a scientific exactitude. Mounted iPads allowed them to record their thoughts. Cheeses, butters, yogurts and other dairy products were all up for consideration. Some of the contest’s classes could be appreciated by an amateur cheese enthusiast, such as “Cheddar, Sharp” or “String Cheese,” while others were meant for the true connoisseur of cow-related cuisine, like “Whey Protein Concentrate 80, Instantized,” or “Washed Rind/Smear Ripened Sheep’s Milk Cheeses.” And there was also a brand new category this year: “Cheese Curds” (both flavored and unflavored). I was going to keep a particular eye on that one.
Each entrant is required to provide samples of their product for the judges, and there is one rule which I feel obliged to quote and format exactly as it appears on the entry guidelines:
“Entries must be sent in their original, manufactured form.
DO NOT CUT YOUR CHEESE!
Cheese received that is cut or trimmed from its original form will be eliminated from the competition.”
Moving from table to table, I was struck by the melange of accents among the judges. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a man with a pronounced Yooper accent engage in conversation with someone from The Netherlands. It was a joy to behold.
I spent the rest of the afternoon bathing in the cheeses (figuratively) and allowing myself to be taken in by this new world of high-class competition. I didn’t hear too much talk of Fritzenhaus, and so I became cautiously optimistic about Renard’s chances.
By late afternoon, the massive wheels were being packaged back up, and the judges were retiring for the night. My rival Mike had left hours before me, and having watched him the entire afternoon, I saw that he had spoken to one judge, took a few notes, and that was all. Clearly, he was just writing a quick turnaround story, a hackjob by an over-confident veteran who thought he didn’t have to put in the work anymore because he worked for a fancy national media company.
I set up a battle station with my laptop and began chatting with my editor across the internet.
“Worst piece of cheese I ever ate in my life.”
“I have consulted with the cheese connoisseurs. This story is shaping up to be something monumental.”
“How many words have you written?
“Zero, but I can tell it’s going to be great. I am Hunter S. Thompson’s bespectacled, sober, polite, shy, Catholic reincarnation, and the world will know my name. The cheese stands alone.”
“Oh God, Archer. Please don’t make this like the Ryder Cup story.”
“There’s this cheesemaker, Fritzenhaus. They’re from Switzerland. They won in 2020, and it looks like they’re the favorites to win again. Renard’s from Door County is competing, and I think they can win this. They’re David, and Fritzenhaus is Goliath. It’s the perfect underdog story. Like Rocky but with cheese.”
“Wow. Great. Fantastic.”
“There’s also this reporter here. His name is Mike. He’s old, and he’s better at journalism than me. I’m going to defeat him to prove myself. I’m going to do to this man’s spirit what Frank Sinatra did to his first marriage. Can I write a diss track? Are we allowed to publish diss tracks?”
“Don’t write a diss track.”
“I’m going to write a diss track.”
“I will edit it out of the story, Archer.”
“You can’t stop me.”
I wrote the best diss track against Mike ever. It’s called “Slinging Shade.” Here it is:
That night, I returned to my homestead invigorated and refreshed – a battle-tested warrior of the Wensleydale, high off the bloodsport of competition.
I woke the next day desperate to know who had won the classes. If a cheese didn’t take first place in a class, it obviously wouldn’t win the top spot on Thursday. With shaking hands, I consulted the class winners:
First, I had to check Cheese Curds, because if Wisconsin lost that I was going to have a conniption.
I bowed my head.
“Father,” I whispered. “This Lent, I promise I’ll stop turning in stories thousands of words longer than the word count at which they were assigned to me. I only ask that my Wisconsin brothers achieve cheesy victory.”
I opened the results.
All three Cheese Curd winners were from Wisconsin. From first to third:
- Decatur Dairy, of Brodhead
- Arena Cheese, of Arena
- Nasonville Dairy, of Curtiss
“Father,” I whispered. “That thing about the word count? I meant it as a metaphor.”
I checked the other categories.
Gruyère: Mountain Dairy Fritzenhaus, Switzerland.
It was inevitable. Fritzenhaus couldn’t lose their go-to category. But still, that didn’t necessarily mean they would take the top spot on Thursday. I scrolled down.
Traditional Waxed Cheddar, Mild to Medium: Renard’s Rosewood Dairy, Wisconsin.
I closed my eyes and whispered, “Hellz yeah.” With my David taking first in their class, they were perfectly primed to topple Goliath tomorrow.
I quickly checked the internet for any sign of Mike’s story on this. Nothing. Fantastic. I opened up a blank word document. Maybe I could get a start on the story now. But I figured I had a whole day until the championship was announced, so no need to rush. I’d wait until the David and Goliath narrative played out, and then craft my cheesy magnum opus.
The judges spent the rest of that Wednesday judging away, and after a feverish night of Gruyère nightmares, I woke on Thursday and waited breathlessly for the 2 p.m. announcement of the winners.
Unable to attend in person, I was forced to watch as their names were read out on a livestream.
- Second Runner-Up: Pichler Othmar and Team, Austria
- First Runner-Up: Hans Näf, Switzerland
- And the 2022 World Champion: Mountain Dairy Fritzenhaus, Switzerland
Fritzenhaus’ Gourmino Le Gruyère AOP, once again, could not be beat.
I slowly closed my laptop.
The wall across from me was painted a yellowish off-white. Like a fresh wheel of gouda. God was laughing at me.
My story was dead.
What if David and Goliath ended with Goliath stomping David in the face? What kind of ending would that be? The local underdog takes it on the chin, OK that’s it, bye.
I opened my laptop again, and stared at the blank page.
As I considered what story I could write now that the underdog tale was ruined, I was struck by a sudden dark certainty. I searched google the world cheese championship contest alongside Mike’s name.
He had already published his story announcing the winner. It was live online. It was raking in likes on Twitter, more on Facebook, and came up at the top of search results.
My phone vibrated. My editor wanted to know when I was going to file my story. We were late on the scoop. Other outlets were already publishing.
The blank page stared back at me.
Slowly, I looked up at the ceiling, and the gouda-colored paint peeled back and opened to the gray sky, and far above, I saw a shadowy, monstrous thing looming over me, and too late I realized what it was and could only stare as the bloody boot of Goliath flew down at my face.
