The Joke That Took 45 Years to Land

Around 554 moons ago, as I chortled my way through Monty Python’s Life of Brian, I laughed my little heart out at one line without understanding its meaning. Now, 45 years later, I’ve just gone: ahhh.

All it took was age. The key to decoding my ancient enigma was something as simple as maturity. Now, as a working-class boy from Bideford, some of the things you never expect to hear yourself mutter include: “It’s a disaster, I’ve left the crème brûlée iron at home,” or scream, “What do you mean they don’t sell fresh anchovies!”

The Changing Face of Taste

For as we mature, naturally, we alter. So too do our tastes. We’re all on an ever-evolving adventure — yet oddly out of sync. Our palate, like a truculent child, seems to follow cap in hand behind our physical development.

This is a long-winded way of saying: one minute you’re a teen snorting cream from a can (OK, I still do that); the next, you’re a middle-aged snob who’s developed a taste for wine — and not the stuff that comes in boxes.

Cravings, Curveballs and Culinary U-Turns

Somewhere in between — between the cradle and the grave — we develop certain cravings. Kippers, Calvados, Gentleman’s Relish, Twinkies, haggis, single malt whiskies, and black pudding are, at some point, all objects of desire. Bold tastes and binary choices: you love them or you hate them.

I’m not sure when exactly smashed avocado on toast crept onto that list — if it did at all. It’s certainly not on mine.

Strange, then, that this toasted fermented grain product smeared with a pulped fruit — so beloved of Gen Z — glows like a fire-ship in the fog as the perfect metaphor for their relationship with food: bland, never offensive, just a bit middle of the road and dull.

Perhaps I’m mistaken. Perhaps I’m missing the point. But our relationship with food should never be the same as our relationship with the world.

“Now, 45 years later, I’ve just gone: ahhh.”

Down With Dull: Let Food Offend

Food should never be bland. We must never shop for ingredients as if we’re conversing with HR. This should be a safe zone where it’s safe to have an opinion. Take no prisoners. Love it. Hate it. Be opinionated. Passion should rule your heart. Right or wrong — let your tastebuds do the talking.

“Love it, love it, love it.” That’s a Bake Off: The Professionals reference, in case you’re wondering. Whatever. Just don’t stalk the middle ground. And have an opinion.

From Treble to Baritone, and Cheddar to Roquefort

It takes time to find your true voice. As we pass from treble to baritone, we fine-tune our palate. We are on a journey of self-discovery. If we’re lucky, our lexicon will grow to include bottarga, spigol, and piment d’Espelette. Along the way we’ll perform U-turns, reverse down culinary cul-de-sacs, and have our Damascene conversions.

Somewhere along this weird and windy road, we encounter cheese. And I don’t mean those shitty, shiny, foil-wrapped triangular obscenities.

When Cheese Becomes Religion

On the whole, good cheese is very good. But great cheese is greater. It’s almost a quasi-religious conversion. You are crossing the Rubicon — and there is no way back. A fine cheese, encountered at exactly the right point of maturity and served at exactly the right temperature, will blow your mind.

Gastronauts, rejoice. When the stars align, cheese is magical. Imagine yourself at the Royal Albert Hall as Ella Fitzgerald hits her glass-smashing high notes. During the pauses, you can hear a pin drop — or the creases crack on a cellist’s trousers as he braces for the next octave. Layer upon layer of sensation. Every note discernible. Complex. Beautiful.

When I saw Ella, it brought me to tears. A good cheese should do the same.

From Disgust to Devotion

I remember, in an effort to find out what all the fuss was about, the first time I tasted my grandfather’s Gorgonzola. It was disgusting. Fast forward fifty years, and my partner and I are chasing around South London delicatessens in search of a fabled Roquefort — like ganjiers hunting a particularly fine batch of weed.

But blue cheese will do that to you.

Will Gen Z Ever Get the Joke?

So, should the news that Gen Z and the TikTok generation are turning up their noses at Stilton fill me with dread? Should I be alarmed? Is my guilty pleasure under attack?

No shit, Sherlock.

The simple reason that demographic hasn’t yet fallen hook, line and stinker for Stilton is that they’re simply too young to appreciate its complexities. Such mature tastes take maturity.

But I’m confident. Like me, they’ll grow up, grow old — and get the joke.

They’ll praise Monty Python, and smile as they realise: Blessed are the cheesemakers.