French Raclette

French Raclette from the Alps of Savoie, a cow's milk semi-soft built around one job: melting. The paste is smooth, supple, the color of soft butter, and it gives just slightly under the knife before it ever sees heat.

Taste it cold and you get savory nuttiness up front, real cultured butter and fresh cream through the middle, with a gentle tang on the back of the palate. The rusty-orange washed rind brings a quiet roasted-onion and mushroom note that builds the longer the cheese sits out. Once it hits a flame or a raclette grill, the paste turns silky and pourable, and those onion and forest-floor notes step forward, more assertive than the Swiss version of the same recipe.

This is the cheese the dish is named after, the one you scrape molten over boiled potatoes with a pile of cornichons and pickles on the side. A wheel like this is built for a table of people, a cold night, and a bottle of something Alpine and bright.