I live in London, but I travel often to Paris to see my sister. For years, a visit to her meant one thing before I returned home: a carefully chosen wedge of Comté, perhaps a ripe Brie, maybe a small goat’s cheese wrapped in paper, tucked into my suitcase like contraband treasure.
Since the restrictions or bans primarily targeting raw milk products to prevent the spread of lumpy skin disease and foot-and-mouth disease, bringing cheese back into the UK is no longer allowed or at least straightforward. The ritual stopped. And for a while, I felt oddly bereft — as though a small bridge between my two cities had disappeared.
So I began rediscovering London’s fromageries.
In Paris, stepping into a fromagerie always feels intimate. The smell hits first — earthy, lactic, alive. Cheeses sit whole and unapologetic: vast wheels, delicate crottins, ash-coated logs. The fromager asks questions. “For tonight?” “For cooking?” “How strong?” Cheese is cut to order, never pre-wrapped, and you leave with something at its peak.
My first rediscovery was La Fromagerie, founded by Patricia Michelson. Walking into the Marylebone shop, with its ageing rooms and attached café, I realised that London does ceremony just as well as Paris. The cheeses are immaculately kept, the curation precise. Sitting there with a glass of wine and a perfectly timed slice of something nutty and crystalline, I stopped missing France quite so much.
At Neal’s Yard Dairy, I encountered a different revelation. Here, British and Irish farmhouse cheeses are not alternatives — they are protagonists. The staff speak about clothbound Cheddar or territorial blues with the seriousness of affineurs. Knowing they mature cheeses themselves gives each wedge a sense of stewardship rather than retail.
Then there is Paxton & Whitfield on Jermyn Street, trading since 1797. It feels reassuringly old, almost diplomatic in tone. Buying cheese there before hosting a dinner party feels like observing a tradition rather than completing an errand.
When my Paris cravings grow louder, I find myself at Mons Cheesemongers in Borough Market, where Hervé Mons’ selections carry that cellar depth I associate with France. Nearby, Jumi Cheese offers alpine precision — raw, silage-free milk cheeses with clarity and restraint.
Beyond these anchors, London unfolds through smaller encounters: the warmth of Rippon Cheese Stores, the neighbourhood loyalty of The Cheeseboard, the thoughtful balance at The London Cheesemongers, the quiet expertise of Cheeses of Muswell Hill, and the grounded, family feel of Hamish Johnston. Even markets and newer spaces — molten raclette at Kappacasein, or the theatrical conveyor at Pick & Cheese — add their own character.
I still miss walking out of a Paris fromagerie with something wrapped in thin white paper. But what I’ve gained is more rooted. London’s cheesemongers are not imitations; they are custodians of their own landscapes, their own milk, their own timing.
My suitcase may travel lighter now. But my fridge in London feels fuller — and more deliberate — than ever.
