Only the rum-flavored Canadian Cheddar from Montreal (by courtesy English) let us down.  It was done up as fancy as a bridegroom in waxed white paper and looked as smooth and glossy as a gardenia.  But there its beauty ended.  Either the rum that flavored it wasn’t up to much or the mixture hadn’t been allowed to ripen naturally.

The French Muenster, however, was hearty, cheery, and better made than most German Muenster, which at that time wasn’t being exported much by the Nazis.  The Brie was melting prime, the Camembert was so perfectly matured we ate every scrap of the crust, which can’t be done with many American “Camemberts” or, indeed, with the dead, dry French ones sold out of season.  Then came the Roquefort, a regal cheese we voted the best buy of the lot, even though it was the most expensive.  A plump piece, pleasantly unctuous but not greasy, sharp in scent, stimulatingly bittersweet in taste—­unbeatable.  There is no American pretender to the Roquefort throne.  Ours is invariably chalky and tasteless.  That doesn’t mean we have no good Blues.  We have.  But they are not Roquefort.

The Sapsago or Kraeuterkaese from Switzerland (it has been made in the Canton of Glarus for over five hundred years) was the least expensive of the lot.  Well-cured and dry, it lent itself to grating and tasted fine on an old-fashioned buttered soda cracker.  Sapsago has its own seduction, derived from the clover-leaf powder with which the curd is mixed and which gives it its haunting flavor and spring-like sage-green color.

Next came some truly great Swiss Gruyere, delicately rich, and nutty enough to make us think of the sharp white wines to be drunk with it at the source.

As for the Provolone, notable for the water-buffalo milk that makes it, there’s an example of really grown-up milk.  Perfumed as spring flowers drenched with a shower of Anjou, having a bouquet all its own and a trace of a winelike kick, it made us vow never to taste another American imitation.  Only a smooth-cheeked, thick slab cut from a pedigreed Italian Provolone of medium girth, all in one piece and with no sign of a crack, satisfy the gourmet.

The second Italian classic was Gorgonzola, gorgeous Gorgonzola, as fruity as apples, peaches and pears sliced together.  It smells so much like a ripe banana we often eat them together, plain or with the crumbly formaggio lightly forked into the fruit, split lengthwise.

After that the Edam tasted too lipsticky, like the red-paint job on its rind, and the Gouda seemed only half-hearted.  Both too obviously ready-made for commerce with nothing individual or custom-made about them, rolled or bounced over from Holland by the boat load.

The Ostiepki from Czechoslovakia might have been a link of smoked ostrich sausage put up in the skin of its own red neck.  In spite of its pleasing lemon-yellow interior, we couldn’t think of any use for it except maybe crumbling thirty or forty cents’ worth into a ten-cent bowl of bean soup.  But that seemed like a waste of money, so we set it aside to try in tiny chunks on crackers as an appetizer some other day, when it might be more appetizing.