Burrata (Galbani)
What does it mean, to be a cheese?
The dairy pantheon is extraordinarily diverse and admits a striking variety of flavours, textures, shapes and experiences. It is on the face of it as bizarre and wonderful to me that a Parmegiano Reggiano (with iron-hard texture, deep-ocean saltiness and depth) and a Brie (bland, creamy, spreadable and slick) are one and the same food, as that canines as varied in scale as a daschund and a wolfhound can productively wed and produce offspring.
Burrata, though, languishes on the farthest reaches of cheesedom. There is really no cheese like it; any attempt to describe it sounds like a surreal dream sequence. Take a mozzarella; gouge out its innards and replace them with a rich mixture of cream and cheese shreds; then reform the outer shell into a bouncy, flexible pouch and send this Frankenstein’s monster of a cheese on its way. Burrata is a fascinating hybrid of chewy outer shell and soft creamy interior which can only be experienced, never explained – at most a distant uncle of Cheddar and Camembert and the rest of the familiar crowd.
One does not simply eat a burratta unaccompanied. The charm of this cheese is its baffling textural juxtapostion; the flavour itself is exceptionally mild, rich and creamy. Burrata has a sensuous, pearlescent outer shell akin to mozzarella, but even milder in flavour. This wraps a mixture of cream and torn shreds of mozzarella, to form a pert, joyful packet around the size of a tennis ball. Cutting into the package leads to messy liberation of the creamy intestines.
For more serious burratta than the one being rated here, pairing it with a simple tomato salad is likely to fare well. There is really no coherent way to consume this as a standalone snack; in fact the very concept is incomprehensible.
The cheese under review is an export burrata optimised for the cruel vicissitudes of international trade – unlikely to be the pinnacle of the breed. Serious burrata should be eaten within a few days of creation.
I eat this burrata with artery-curdling regularity in two distinct venues which will likely make true Italians wince. First, I briefly grill some thickly-sliced sourdough bread spread with olive oil and salt, then top with a thin layer of rocket, then perch a burratta atop this leafy fortress. The cheese’s rich creaminess is an excellent foil for peppery rocket. Or, if feeling more avant-garde, I top a bowl of spaghetti and red pesto with one of these delightful bundles, turning it instantly into a smooth, buttery treat. This is a great way to bring depth – but probably not health – to this three-ingredient meal.
As it is more an experience than a cheese, a burrata’s essence cannot easily be distilled into the glittering razor’s edge of a numerical cheese rating, but rate it I must. It shines for its fascinating texture and ease of use to improve simple meals, but scores poorly for its light, mild flavour and inability to perform alone. I rate this cheese 7.5.
I love cheese. Most of all I love the strongest Cheddars available; ewe’s or goat’s cheese are also often hits.