Mahon

On Menorca, the northernmost town in Spain’s Balearic island chain, a stratified cheesemaking industry produces some very popular product in an unusual manner.

For centuries, a specialized class of artisans, los recogedores-afinadores (the gatherer-ripeners) have taken young cow’s milk cheeses from local farmers and put them in subterranean cellars. There, the cheese undergoes a maturation period of two months to two years.

The younger versions aren’t as distinctive as the well-aged ones. But as it ripens, Mahon assumes a complexity that’s hard to resist. Sweet to the nose, it is just a bit sour when you taste it.

In its youthful form, Mahon is sold as fresco (two weeks’ aging) or curado (two months), and the rind is orange. The skin becomes brown over time, and the amber flesh grows sharp and fruity.

Look for duro (ripened six months) or, best of all, añejo (18 months or more). Where the young Mahon tastes like slightly tangy milk, the matured ones are dry and sharp, even piquant. Think of them like the salty old men you might encounter in an island community, always ready to impart the wisdom that comes with age.

PAIRINGS: In the Balearics, they serve Mahon dressed with olive oil, fresh tarragon, and salt and pepper. It’s so simple yet sublime, even more so when paired with a easy-drinking white wine.

Mascarpone

Strictly speaking, mascarpone is not a cheese. It contains no starter or rennet, which means that the bacterial, enzymatic processes that drive the creation of cheese never took place.

Technically, one might say it’s really just a fancy kind of cream. Then again, that’s like arguing that Secretariat was just another horse.

Mascarpone, which might be named from the Italian term for being “really dressed-up,” is soft and sweet, a cream cheese that seems almost closer to gelato than Philly brand.

To make it, they take the cream of cow’s milk, mix it with citric acid (lemon juice), and hang it in cheesecloth to drain the liquid. The concentration of lactose in the solidified cream is what makes it so sweet; most of the salts are in the liquid portion that drips off during production.

For people used to closing their meals with a sweet, Mascarpone is the quintessential dessert cheese. One way to serve it is sprinkled with sugar, chocolate, or ground espresso beans. For grown-ups, dredge it in grappa or a liquer.

More often, however, it’s used in cooking confections, rather than on its own. It is a basic element of Tiramisu, 20th century Venice’s contribution to after-dinner eating. Another confectionary delicacy is torta di Mascarpone, a wondrous cheesecake served all over northern Italy.

These days, Mascarpone tends to be mass-produced by dairy producers, although handmade varieties aren’t so hard to find (for one thing, it’s not so difficult to make).

Pecorino

The word pecora means sheep in Italian, and all over Italy, sheep’s milk cheeses bear the name pecorino, usually followed by some term of geographic provenance.

Pecorino Romano is perhaps the best known, but other varieties also hold substantial interest, especially Pecorino Sardo, the hard, salty version from the island of Sardegna.

Romano is made in Lazio (the Eternal City’s province) from November through June. It’s semi-hard and grainy, with about 36% fat content. It tends to be oily, and sharp to the point of piquancy, and a bit saltier than Parmigiano. It also has an aroma that is, well, sheepish, by which I don’t mean to say it’s retiring.

(Two related styles of Romano, Caprino and Vacchino, are made out of goat’s milk and cow’s milk, respectively. They can be difficult to find in the United States, but are worth searching for.)

Romano makes a good substitute for Parmigiano, especially in dishes that call for a more assertive presence. Like Parmigiano, Pecorino Romano is widely used as a grating cheese. One Roman way of serving it is grated over spinach that’s been sautéed in garlic and olive oil. It also goes well with eggs and shaved thinly over a salad.

Pecorino Sardo (also known as Fiore Sardo) is a cousin, just a bit harder and sharper than the mainland style. Like the island itself, it is earthy and rustic, with a definite salty bite.

Still other great pecorini come from Tuscany. There’s a fair bit of diversity among Pecorino Toscano makers, who get creative with lengths and techniques of ripening periods, to nice effect.

Ricotta

Whey, the spent liquid left over in the cheesemaking process, is a bit of a mixed blessing for producers.

On the one hand, it contributes unique, elemental flavors to the curd. But whey is a pain in the neck to get rid of. It clogs rivers and doesn’t break down in soil very well.

Pigs love it, though, so it often becomes fodder for them. But even that has drawbacks: too much whey in the pen means too much manure in the fields, a different environmental mess.

What to do, then? Economical Italian cheesemakers many years ago had a brainstorm: serve it to people.

They discovered that if spent whey is reheated (ricotta means re-cooked), new curds form. By draining off the now smaller volume of residual whey, you’ve created a terrific fresh cheese. (No bacterial starter is involved. Therefore, it’s not technically a cheese. Since curds form, I’ll ignore that inconvenient fact.)

Ricotta is soft and granular, bright white in color. In most cases, it starts off as the milk of a sheep (destined to be Pecorino) or a water buffalo (Mozzarella). Cow’s milk and goat’s milk varieties are also made, though somewhat less frequently.

Ricotta is a staple in cooking. It’s found in stuffed pastas of all sorts, from cheese ravioli to manicotti. Beyond filling pasta shells, though, Italian chefs get quite creative with it. It goes wonderfully with spring vegetables like asparagus. Used in desserts, it forms a less-sweet component than Mascarpone.

Though it’s rarely served on its own, you can do so. Just cut some celery, salt it, and spread fresh ricotta on top.

Taleggio

In the mountains north of Milan, near the Swiss border, highland cows graze the pastures of the Valtellina. The sweet Alpine grass they eat leads to the raw milk in Taleggio.

The style is hugely popular in northern Italy, but somewhat underappreciated in the United States. It’s an elegant, semisoft variety. Usually, it has a distinct salty taste to it, a quality that’s balanced by a nuanced assortment of buttery texture and the mild aromas of nuts, beef, even raisins.

The cheese softens a bit as it ripens. Often, it is sold on the young side, which you can discern by the firmness of its texture and the whiteness of its paste. It should be neither overly hard nor bright.

It’s not especially known as a cooking cheese, but a number of northern dishes do employ it. Since it mixes well, it blends nicely into risotto. Polenta, a staple of the cuisine in the North, is great with a few slices of Taleggio dabbed over it. Still another method of preparation is to slice, dip in eggs, bread it and fry in olive oil. It’s a marvelous antipasto, and not as decadent as it sounds.

Generally, though, Taleggio is best on its own. Like the best Italian cheeses, it is complex without being showy or cloying. There are many layers of flavor within it, and it boasts a beautiful long finish.

PAIRINGS: Barolo and other full-bodied red wines complement Taleggio, as does hard fruits and crusty bread (French baguettes are generally better than the northern Italian breads, by the way).

Provolone

What do you do with fresh mozzarella that’s begun to age? Centuries ago in Basilicata, they figured out that binding it up and hanging it to dry turns the stuff into a pretty good, though completely different, cheese: Provolone.

Based on the number of Italian food stores that display big, beautiful globes of it in their windows, Provolone is one of the two or three most popular Italian cheeses among Americans.

It’s a basic cow’s milk cheese (one would never waste buffalo milk on this elementary style), with a rind that is washed in brine during maturation. As it ripens, Provolone acquires a piquancy that is quite pronounced in cheeses aged 18 months or more (at which point, it’s labeled piccante). It’s semihard and somewhat oily.

It’s also interesting to note that different communities and regions throughout the South make their own distinctive shapes, which are name-controlled by law. Caciocavello is looks like a bowling pin, and can only be made in specified provinces. Ragusano, the Sicilian version, comes in rectangles, while over in Abruzzo, they braid it.

Befitting its humble origins—Basilicata and Campania have always been poor regions—Provolone is a simple cheese, not particularly complex in flavor or production process. But its directness is a big part of its appeal.

PAIRINGS: For one thing, Provolone may be the perfect sandwich cheese. It also holds up to any number of equally down-to-earth wines and beers, and is a nice buffer upon a cheese board filled with other, more exhausting styles.

Mozzarella

As teenagers in North Jersey, my friends used to argue the relative merits of the “fresh mootz” sold by one or another local Italian grocer. When I moved to Milan I realized how callow we really were.

Da best mootz? Ya gotta ged it from Campania.

Although there are many excellent cow’s milk varieties, the best mozzarella is made from the milk of water buffalo. It produces a softer, creamier, and more deeply flavored cheese. To roll a milky, velvety slice on your tongue is an experience you won’t soon forget.

Today, mozzarella di bufala is flown in daily to big cities in the United States. It generally sold as a fist-sized ball, or in bite-sized morsels called bocconcini (“little mouthfuls”).

One preparation I rarely see in the United States is the burrata (“buttered”), a scandalously luxurious antipasto. A large mozzarella ball is pumped up with extra cream, which blends inside the casing with the milky, curd-like paste. The first one I had, at the restaurant Ribot in Milan, remains to this day the single best thing I have ever put in my mouth.

(An historical footnote: to support water buffalo farmers is to strike a small blow for global justice.

This is because their herds, which had wandered the area between Salerno and Napoli for nearly two thousand years, were almost completely decimated by the Nazis, who wantonly destroyed much of the country on their retreat out.

New water buffalo were imported from India after the war, and after a half-century of successful husbandry, the herds and their milk supply are fully restored.)

Parmigiano-Reggiano

In a culture devoted to food, Italians consider Emilia-Romagna their most advanced culinary region, blessed by an edible providence even Tuscany cannot match. Perhaps the best illustration is Parmigiano-Reggiano, which is at once the most accessible yet sophisticated cheese on the planet.

There’s a kharma to food in Emilia. Cows grazing on the lush, fertile plain yield perhaps the world’s best milk, which becomes the crucial ingredient in Parmigiano. Then, leftover whey from cheese production is recycled back as fodder for local pigs, which eventually become prosciutto di Parma.

Inferior U.S. versions of “Parmesan” are often bright white; the real stuff is more ivory or pale yellow, growing darker as it ages. The cheese is ripened anywhere from 14 months to four years. It peaks somewhere between two and three years, achieving the proper balance between the vibrant, milky flavors of youth, and textured, mature complexity.

Parmigiano is granular and crumbly, but also buttery and rich, never dry. It’s the ultimate cooking cheese, blending into all manner of soups, stews, and sauces. It’s the preferred condiment atop all pasta, except possibly those containing fish.

One little trick to expose the depth of Parmigiano: Place a chunk of it on the front part of your tongue. Draw a long breath, with your lips just open and cheeks sucked in. Then, expel the air through your nose. A florid, sweet aroma should envelope you. You’ll want to gulp down the piece melting in your mouth, and probably reach for another.

Gorgonzola

Art and commerce have always gone hand in hand in Lombardy, from Milan’s glamorous and lucrative fashion runways to the bucolic but prosperous farms of the Po plain. It’s no wonder, then, that this is the home of a lush, heavy blue cheese that somehow blends with modern culinary tastes.

After more than a thousand years, Gorgonzola remains popular, because it’s perfect. An intense, creamy cheese with magical blue veins, it stands with Roquefort and Stilton as part of the holy trinity of blue cheeses.

Gorgonzola comes in two varieties: the standard, young dolce (sweet) and a slightly more aged, sharper style that’s usually called piccante, but also stagionato or naturale.

Normally, I prefer the added complexity of an aged cheese. Not so in this case. The older piccante is firmer with a slightly more assertive aroma and taste than the young one. Although it’s wonderful, but I think it pales versus Stilton and Roquefort. The dolce, on the other hand, is smooth and luscious and has no rival anywhere.

Zola, as the Milanese call it, is a staple of northern cooking. It makes a wonderful, but quite filling, risotto, and also melts into a versatile cheese sauce. With sage and garlic, it’s a traditional northern topping for pasta noodles.

PAIRINGS: On its own, pair it with salty olives, or in a salad composed of bitter radicchio and walnuts. Conversely, spreading it on pears is as swell as a sweet treat gets. Big red wines make a natural partner, particularly Barolo from the nearby Piedmont.

Asiago

Northeastern Italy is a straightforward place. The locals are hardworking and prosperous, and for centuries have struck just the right balance between tradition and the modern.

It is the sort of region you’d expect to produce something like Asiago, a flavorful, even tempered semihard cheese that’s neither boastful nor bland.

Asiago is made in small vats of cow’s milk that settles for six to 12 hours, then skimmed. Like all cheeses, its texture varies with age.

When young, sold as fresco, it’s nearly as soft as refrigerated butter. It gets harder and more interesting as it ripens. In its vecchio variety (aged nine months to a year), Asiago acquires a somewhat dry taste, with mild hints of lemon-butter and nuts. To me, the older the better.

Befitting such a moderate temperament, it’s quite versatile. If you can find the Friuli-made prosciutto di San Daniele (which is more subtle than the Parma type), serve it with that. Spicy sausages are good, too. It’s also terrific grated–try it with pasta or risotto as an adjunct or substitution for Parmigiano, or over polenta.

PAIRINGS: Light- to medium-bodied red wines go best with this cheese, particularly when they’re fruity. Dolcetto and nebbiolo are perfect. So are the better labels of Valpolicella, the classic grape from the Veneto, Asiago’s home region. It’s also a part of Italy where quite a bit of beer is consumed, so fruity Italian lagers, like Moretti, make nice accompaniments.

Bleu d’Auvergne

They know their mold in the Rouergue and Augvergne regions of central France. Roquefort-sur-Soulzon is here, and it’s also the home of a number of other wondrously flavorful blue cheeses, including this one.

Unlike unpasteurized, sheep’s milk Roquefort, the milk in Bleu d’Auvergne comes from cows and is always pasteurized. That notwithstanding, it’s a dense, creamy variety that’s widely available in the United States. If it’s a bit less complicated than Roquefort, so be it. That just makes it more accessible.

Which is not to say this is a small, dull cheese. Just the opposite, in fact. Bleu d’Auvergne, and its unpasteurized sibling, Bleu des Causses, is a bit firmer than Roquefort, though still crumbly. It is also filled with veins, though not nearly so many. The paste also contains considerably fewer holes and fissures

It tastes creamy and tangy, and smelly-sweet in the manner of all good blue cheeses. To me, cow’s milk generally produces a rounder, more familiar flavor, relative to other animals. That’s present here.

Serve Bleu d’Auvergne the way you might use Roquefort, though expect it to be just a bit smaller.

It’s cheaper than Roquefort, so you might incorporate this into blended sauces and dressings. Or, do a head-to-head comparison with the King of Blues (maybe play some B.B. King while you’re doing so), and a Spanish Cabrales. It’s fun.

PAIRINGS: Bleu d’Auvergne is big, so it can stand on its own, or with apples, pears, crusty bread. Red wines: the bigger the better.

Camembert

A tale about Camembert’s supposed origins...

Around the time of the Revolution, a breakaway priest was on the run from the authorities. A Norman farmer named Marie Harel took him in. While hiding there, the cleric shared cheesemaking secrets he learned at the monastery.

In 1791, it is said, Madame Harel put those lessons to work, and invented Camembert.

It’s a good story, but almost certainly not true. For one thing, there’s plenty of documented writing about cheese of this variety existing much earlier in the 18th century. The legend of Marie Harel, however, did give a 20th century mayor of the town of Vimoutiers an excuse to erect a statue.

Like Brie, Camembert’s reputation has been badly tarnished by myriad poor imitations. Too many of the brands commercially available in the United States are simply mass-produced, industrial versions. They bear little resemblance to authentic, “veritable Camembert de Normandie.”

The good stuff is a raw cow’s milk cheese. The rind will be bright white, and the paste a shade or two more yellow. The full-flavored variety has a woodsy smell, like mushrooms or truffles, with an ever-so-slightly salty taste. It should be just a bit firm but still pliant, like the consistency of pizza dough.

By the way, true Camembert and authentic Brie de Meaux are made by the same recipe and techniques, though they hail from different places. They taste so similar as to be nearly identical stylistically. Both are noble centerpieces for a cheese board, with grapes.

PAIRINGS: Camembert makes a great companion to a vast array of wines. Try it with a full-bodied Cabernet or a spicy Zinfandel, for example, and one range of its flavors will be prominent. But you can also pair it with, say, Sauvignon Blanc from the Loire Valley. If you do, you'll notice a different, but equally tasty, dimension of the cheese.

Click here to buy some.

Roquefort

Even in this democratic age, there is a hierarchy of nobility among cheeses. Roquefort, an ancient style that has been enjoyed since before the Dark Ages, is one of the most regal.

This famous blue cheese is made from raw sheep’s milk. It is matured in limestone caves, a subterranean wonderland with naturally cool, moist air.

Formed centuries ago after the collapse of Mont Cambalou, the caves have been built up into a multi-level vaulted structure, housing offices and storage facilities, as well as the manufacturing and ripening areas.

The starter comes from loaves of rye bread, which are baked extra-long and left to rot. As the rye decays, mold spores form. The mold, penicillium roqueforti, is then worked into the curd.

Roquefort has virtually no rind, and should crumble into moist, almost creamy, chunks. The paste is bone white (yellowing is a sign of over ripeness), and drenched with blue-green veins, fissures and pockmarks.

The cheese should taste slightly salty, but not overpowering. The overall flavor is complex and intense. A bit spicy on the tongue, Roquefort is tangy, but with just enough sweetness to make you notice.

PAIRINGS: A big, robust Roquefort can do anything: be the centerpiece of a cheese board, or stand alone as a single perfect dessert. It matches well with apples and most other fruits, as well as vegetables. On the other hand, it makes an intense sauce (don’t overpour) for grilled meats. Pair it with the most complex red wine you can afford, or a dessert wine like Sauternes.

Click here to buy some.

Chevre

Mention chevre, the generic French term for goat cheese, and most Americans immediately think of those ubiquitous logs. In reality, goat’s milk cheeses are produced in hundreds of sizes and shapes, in many countries, and according to a variety of production methods.

Individual varieties--such as the truncated pyramids of Valencay (one of Napoleon’s favorites) or the barrel-shaped Crottin de Chavignol—all have their adherents. That noted, however, virtually all chevres share some basic characteristics, which makes it easier to discuss them as a group.

Artisanal chevre tends to be hand made, and not terribly fancy. (Notable exception: Coach Farms, a big U.S. operation making terrific stuff.) It’s generally young and fresh, though some aging adds complexity to chevre like any other cheese.

In its youngest form, it is bright white, moist, and quite creamy. More ripened offerings are hard, and slightly yellow. But even then, goat cheese is never matured for as long as bigger, harder cow and sheep varieties.

The most distinctive chevres come from the eastern Loire Valley, particularly in and around Berry. Many feature a dark rind, created by a so-called “cindering” process in which the cheese in encased by ash during the maturation period.

PAIRINGS: Goat cheese, as any one who’s dined in an American restaurant in 1980 knows, is a perfect salad component. Because it’s so light, easy-drinking white wines complement far better than most reds. For beer, try a lager like Stella Artois.

Click here to buy.

St. Marcellin

Great things come in small packages. Proof positive: the three-ounce rounds of cheese called St. Marcellin.

Hailing from northern Provence (Dauphiné), they are among the world’s most creamy-dreamy varieties.

They’re fragile little things, with a slight acidity that perfectly balances out the lushness of the cream.

Intense and assertively nutty, St. Marcellin often comes packed in a cute terra cotta bowl, though it is occasionally sold with a chestnut-leaf wrapping.

Over in Banon, a market town a few kilometers to the south, they make a similar cheese. The main difference is that St. Marcellin is a cow’s milk cheese, while Banon is often (though not always) made from goat’s milk. (The general variety started off as a goat cheese; St. Marcellin was an innovation.)

The cheese actually improves if you allow it to ripen a bit after bringing it home. A week or two will impart a woodsy flavor to it that gives a wonderful complexity and balance to the overall taste sensation.

PAIRINGS: St. Marcellin is perfect as dessert, paired with tart apples, or really sweet summer melons. Wine couplings are many, including a robust Chateauneuf du Pape. If you prefer whites, try it with a Gewurztraminer. For beer, Trappist and Abbey ales complement--Chimay red label or Leffe Blonde might work.

Click here to buy some.

Epoisses

At the Abbaye de Citeaux in Burgundy, the monks created an intense, wonderfully complex soft cheese that Napoleon loved to eat with a glass or two of Chambertin.

Of all the great food regions in France, the French themselves generally point to Burgundy as the best. It takes enormous skill to make one of the great red wines from the area, and even the simplest regional dishes are executed with uncommon dexterity.

Epoisses, a complicated, top-shelf cheese, is true to the Burgundian reputation for culinary craftsmanship.

Napoleon wasn’t alone in his fondness for the style. The gourmand Brillat-Savarin loudly sang its praises, and later foodies joined in the chorus. Nevertheless, Epoisses all but died out between the world wars, until 1946, when two local producers revived it.

Thank goodness for them. The cheese is bold and lush, with a refined, creamy texture. Its taste is a heady, swirling mix of salt and sweet, and the thickest cream you can imagine. During the ripening process, the rind is frequently washed in wine, which adds yet another layer of complexity to it all.

This is a cheese-lover’s cheese; it smells like a barnyard, but a really nice, manicured one. Cheese writers tend to praise it effusively. Words like “majestic,” and “memorable” appear in almost any description of it, and deservedly so.

PAIRINGS: Epoisses goes well with red Burgundy, Chateauneuf du Pape, and oaky Chardonnay. But the cheese is so special, you might want to serve it on its own, to show it off. You get the picture: Epoisses is a masterly display of the cheesemaker’s art.

Click here to buy.

Tomme de Savoie

If elegant Beaufort is the proud stallion, Tomme de Savoie is the workhorse of its home region. It is straightforward, not terribly complicated, and deliciously rustic. Just like the Savoyardes who produce it.

There are faux versions of this cheese, made in other regions like the Auvergne, but aged (affiné) in the Savoie. The ones to look for will be actually produced (fabrique) from start to finish in the mountains.

True Tomme de Savoie is sweetish, with just a bit of salt, and tastes like hazelnuts soaked in milk. The aroma can smell like mushrooms and hay.

The rind is thick and dark, with a powdery surface. Inside, the paste is generally ivory colored, and speckled through with small holes. The rounds come packed in wooden cylinders, about eight inches across and two inches thick.

The Tomme is never a great centerpiece on any table; it’s too unassuming for that. Nevertheless, it does have many charms.

As a basic peasant cheese it's terrific, perfect with an apple and a loaf of dense, crusty farmer’s bread. Take it along next time you go for a hike in the French Alps, or wherever you choose to picnic.

Click here to buy some.

PAIRINGS: This cheese goes well with milder saucisson and other smoked or cured meats. Wine pairings should not be too fussy, either. For reds, try a Barbera d’Asti or a medium Zinfandel. Whites of all sorts are nice, too. So are crisp pilseners and other sharp, light-bodied beers.

Comté

In Switzerland, they make the wonderful, wildly famous cheese called Gruyère. Across the Alpine border, they make a similar variety.

But in France, as Groucho Marx observed, they have a different word for everything (even when they’re speaking the same language, I suppose). So the French call their version Comté.

The two types are not exactly identical, but they are mighty close. Like Gruyère, Comté is an all-weather friend. It grates and melts well, but is just as assertive standing on its own.

Decent lowland varieties are available, but the best Comté comes from the Jura mountains, where cows feast on the lush summer grasses of the high Alps. The rinds of the best brands have green stamps and a little bell printed on them.

Comté is always made at small farms—there are no industrial versions—using unpasteurized whole milk. The cheese is pressed into large rounds, and aged for between six to 12 months. This is a longer maturation period than most Swiss Gruyères, producing a slightly firmer texture in the French style.

PAIRINGS: Comté goes as well in a ham sandwich as it does on an after dinner cheeseboard. It grates and melts well, and works in a salad or with a peppery French saucisson. It pairs well with almost any wine, too. I like it with pinot noir, but sauvignon blancs also hold up.

Click here to buy some.

Morbier

The Jura mountains south of Strasbourg are Comté territory. But in the early 19th century, Comté makers in the market town of Morez devised something a bit different.

While making Comté, a layer of fresh curd would be left at the bottom of the barrel at the end of a morning’s work. To prevent a rind from forming—thereby wasting the curd--the cheesemakers poured soot on top, to keep it from drying out.

At the end of the afternoon, they added a new layer of leftover curd, piling it right on top of the first. The two sections were then pressed together and aged into a single wheel. Voilà, Morbier.

A distinctive dark furrow runs through the cheese’s center. It looks like a blue mold, but is actually edible charcoal or ash. Today, it’s just a decorative flourish, but the vein owes its origin to the technique used to create the style.

Morbier is uncooked and pressed, but aged for less time than classic Comté (two months, versus six or more). During the maturation period, the rind is brushed with briny water. It also is often made from pasteurized milk, unfortunately. A few artisans make it the old-fashioned way, but these are only available in France.

PAIRINGS: Like Comté and Gruyère, Morbier is highly versatile. It is a semisoft cheese with a savory, rounded taste and a grassy aroma. It’s more buttery and mild than Comté, and goes great with Burgundies and medium-bodied red wines, as well as Pouilly from the Loire Valley and fruity Alsatian beers.

Sound tasty? Click here to buy.