Kronenbourg 1664 - Pairing Food with Beer

Everywhere

It's a strange life when you regularly receive emails offering free beer. Usually, it's some unknown brand of Eastern European lager, brewed for seven centuries by left-handed Slovakian Kings. This week, however, it was Kronenbourg. A French big label beer, probably brewing up millions of litres a year, and definitely employing Eric Cantona to tell all about the quality of their hops. Now they want me to say a thing or two about them. I can't blame them really: if Eric isn't working, I'm an obvious second choice.

The angle here isn't some imagined world where Gaelic farmers drive Ferraris and are worshipped for their craft. Rather, it's the serious business of what to eat while drinking beer. So, instead of the usual bag of Mr Porky's, a borrowed dining table - that looks far more rustic than my landlord's - found itself modelling a couple of cold beers, a handful of Alsatian sausage, and a cheese that smells so French it brings tears to your eyes. Sadly, not a pie in sight.

The cheese, a Petit Munster, left a lingering smell on every surface in touched, including my fingers. Not dissimilar to a certain brand of cheesy crisps - "this cheese taste like Wotsits!" - the taste is far lighter than the orange dusted rind would have you believe, yet still manages to bring through a dose of the lingering flavour. The sausage is that German stereotype frankfurter, far better than Ye Olde Oak, though I'm still not a fan of a boiled sausage. I suppose I could have grilled it, but I was following orders.

What about the beer?! I can hear everyone (hi Mum!) shout. It was a Kronenbourg. Plain and simple. Cold, plain, and simple. Standard, cold, plain, and simple. It was a Kronenbourg. Did the food enhance it? Well, it gave me something else to taste and something else to think about, so it was a worthy accompaniment; not one that's likely to kick a bag of Scampi Fries into touch, mind you. I had fun though and that's the main thing, I suppose. To the overture of Eastenders I arranged the plate, took some nice photos, and sipped and nibbled. It's not a trip to France, but the musty cheese definitely took me part-way there.

Wine and Cheese Night - Streatham

Streatham, London

There is nothing more middle class than cheese. Once solely the preserve of the class, good schools, houses, wine, and even France have all been placed within reach of the common man by scholarships, five percent mortgages, blossom hill, and cheap ferries. Quality cheese, though, is reserved exclusively for those who can afford to serve it alongside £10 savoury biscuits and atop £50 serving slates. House parties that once rang with conversations of interest rates and red runs in Chamonix now hum with talk of small artisan producers found in Italian caves and whether fig juice is a good substitute for rennet. The words 'Cathedral' and 'City' dare not be breathed.

Having been invited to one of these bastions of middle class values - the Wine and Cheese House Warming - I knew that to blend in seamlessly with the discerning crowd I would need two things: a bottle of my local corner shop's finest port and two quality cheeses from those good folks at Long Clawson Dairy*.

Although upstaged by a glamorous cheese 'n' pineapple hedgehog, the cheeses were a critical success. The perfect distraction from some god-awful cheap port that no-one would own up to having brought along. The confusingly named Claxstone Smooth Blue was probably the most popular, which you'd expect being a Supreme Champion at not one but two regional cheese awards. As someone who has been left scarred by the stench of festering blue cheese filling the car on long journeys back from France, the Aged Leicestershire Red was my kinda' cheese. Dry, smooth, and nutty, this was the perfect spoon for the accompanying homemade green marrow chutney.

As I grow older, I can find myself slipping further in to the middle class abyss. Gone are the days of cheese strings, Babybel, and grated 'mozzarella'. Bring on the stinking bishop!

*Disclaimer: Long Clawson Dairy provided the cheese free of charge. A good review was not required, neither was self-parodying comment on the middle class.