Robiola, O Robiola. Wherefore art thou, Robiola?

We recently got in a case of Alta Langa’s Robiola Bosina due Latte. Shrieks issued from the cheese counter as soon as the box was opened and its contents discovered. We were THAT excited about this cheese.

Let me put it another way: IT’S MY FAVORITE!!! As in, totally worth gratuitous page formatting and three exclamation points. (And I’m such a punctuation snob.)

Beautiful, square, bloomy-rinded little pats of pure, milky heaven: that’s what was nestled within the pretty packaging in the box.

Robiola

So what if we charge an arm and a leg for them (not that any person in the store has a say in how much things cost—that’s all corporate’s business, so don’t yell at us for it!). Robiola Bosina due Latte is just worth it.

But Robiola Bosina isn’t the only Robiola my colleagues and I swoon over. Another Alta Langa cheese, the cow-sheep-goat blend La Tur, also sends us into fits of joy and madness. Little pots of ooey-gooey goodness—how the heck could that ever be bad?

So this brings me to my point: just what is this delightful thing that brings all the cheesemongers to the yard, this cheese we call Robiola?

Well, it’s a family of cheeses. There are many different Robiolas beyond the measly two varieties we gush about to every sentient being who will listen.

Robiolas come from all over northern Italy, particularly Piedmont and Lombardy. There’s a Robiola Piemonte (from Piedmont), and a Robiola Lombardia (from Lombardy, go figure). There are Robiolas made from cow’s, goat’s, or sheep’s milks, or any combination of two milks, or all three milks.

There are even baby Robiolas called Robiolina. Ermahgerd, adorbs!

You can find Robiolas with either a bloomy or washed rind, shaped like a wheel or made into a square, and aged anywhere from a soft and creamy no-more-than three weeks to a dry and tangy no-more-than three months.

There are even Robiolas in the Banon style, wrapped in cabbage or other leaves like tasty little presents.

At the store, we recommend our Robiolas plain with bread or crackers, or with a little bit of fig jam or Amarena cherries on bread. We even sampled it out once on hot cinnamon bread. And another time, on Ines Rosales sweet tortas.

But frankly, I just eat it plain, straight off the knife when I’m at home.

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