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.
We felt much the same about the chocolate-brown Norwegian Gjetost that looked like a slab of boarding-school fudge and which had the same cloying cling to the tongue. We were told by a native that our piece was entirely too young. That's what made it so insipid, undeveloped in texture and flavor. But the next piece we got turned out to be too old and decrepit, and so strong it would have taken a Paul Bunyan to stand up under it. When we complained to our expert about the shock to our palates, he only laughed, pointing to the nail on his little finger.
"You should take just a little bit, like that. A pill no bigger than a couple of aspirins or an Alka-Seltzer. It's only in the morning you take it when it's old and strong like this, for a pick-me-up, a cure for a hangover, you know, like a prairie oyster well soused in Worcestershire."
That made us think we might use it up to flavor a Welsh Rabbit, instead of the Worcestershire sauce, but we couldn't melt it with anything less than a blowtorch.
To bring the party to a happy end, we went to town on the
Hungarian Liptauer, garnishing that fine, granulating buttery base after mixing it well with some cream cheese. We mixed the mixed cheese with sardine and tuna mashed together in a little of the oil from the can. We juiced it with lemon, sluiced it with bottled sauces, worked in the leftovers, some tarragon, mint, spicy seeds, parsley, capers and chives. We peppered and paprikaed it, salted and spiced it, then spread it thicker than butter on pumpernickel and went to it. That's Liptauer Garniert.
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