Please, sir, can I have more Paški sir?
Terrible pun, but excellent cheese
Every time I start to lose patience with Croatia, tired of its people's erratically offered cordiality and disgusted by the ubiquitous and entitled cruise-shipped tourists, I can instantly forgive all trespasses by recalling two luscious words: Paški sir. [1]
Fine, the words themselves aren’t particularly euphonious. But what they represent, “cheese from the Isle of Pag,” is far more lovely. This is the cheese that waltzes through my happiest dreams, the cheese that gives me uncomfortably sexual “feels,” and the cheese I want to be buried with. I know I’m prone to hyperbolic fancies, but honestly, I’m being (almost entirely) sincere here.
Pag is one of the largest Dalmatian islands and is clearly very close to Zadar—a bit of geography I wish I’d known about (or thought to investigate) before I left the city behind. Sometimes, I get so wrapped up in planning what ruins I want to visit that I forget to think outside the urban box. I intend to remedy my error on a future trip (see Resolution No. 3 below).
There’s an old adage about the best use for different kinds of milk: goat’s milk for drinking, cow’s milk for butter, and sheep’s milk for cheese. [2] Time-honored sayings aren’t always reliable sources of wisdom (cats honestly can’t be bothered to steal breath from infants, butter does nothing for burns but make them more delicious, and a full stomach does not cause cramping when immersed in water), but I think this assessment of sheep milk is right on the money. I have a soft spot for the ovine domesticates: not only do they give us wool, but they’re also the starting point for glorious cheese. Some varieties are well-known, such as feta, Roquefort, manchego, and Pecorino Romano. Others, like Ossau-Iraty, Idiazabal, and Azeitão, are somewhat more obscure but no less delicious on that account.
Sheep milk is richer in fats and milk solids than that of cows, so it’s ideal for making cheese. Heifers produce far greater quantities of milk than the daintier ewes, yet the sheep will give you a greater weight of cheese from the same volume of milk. Nonetheless, far fewer sheep than cattle are kept for dairying, so the smaller supply means more expensive cheese.[3]
The native Paški sheep look surprisingly smug and complacent for ruminants; their fame has clearly gone to their heads. But see Resolution No. 4 below.
That is especially true of Paški sir, as it depends on the limited numbers of heritage-breed sheep grazing on Pag. Prevailing winds from the nearby mountains deposit a layer of salt across the island’s low-lying fields of sage and other hardy herbs. The diminutive Paški sheep have evolved to thrive on these seasoned leaves (essentially the world’s most aromatic salt lick), and the taste of their milk reflects their unusual diet. That, in turn, subtly flavors the cheese from which it’s made. [4]
My purchases at the Tržnica Dolac, Zagreb’s central market: a wedge of Paški sir in the foreground, a slab of pršut (Croatian prosciutto) in the back. Not shown: an enormous half-loaf of fresh-baked levain-style bread and the greedy look on my face.
Paški sir has a texture similar to good Parmesan Reggiano: mostly smooth when young, then growing drier and more crumbly as it ages. The older the cheese, the higher the price it commands; I’ve only been able to find (and afford) the juvenile variety, which still set me back €25-30 for a modest wedge.
Young Paški sir (I’ve not been to Pag Island—see Resolution No. 3 below—so this and the other beauty shot were found on the Web.)
Aged Paški sir (see Resolution No. 2 below)
Yet even the youthful cheese is full of complex flavors. You taste the sea salt immediately, followed by a rich tanginess that lingers on the tongue and ends with a hint of floral sharpness from the sage. I know this cheese is sometimes grated atop risotto or pasta, but I prefer it on its own or piled on slices of flavorful Croatian country bread. The wedge in the photo (like similar ones I’ve purchased before) was gone in two days—and it only lasted that long because I showed superhuman levels of restraint.
My resolutions surrounding this cheese
Find a source for it in the United States so I can have it more often than once every six years
Locate and screw up the courage to spend the money on a wedge of the aged version
Visit Pag Island when I’m next in Zadar to see if the stories about salt-encrusted sage are true or merely inventive marketing
Eat one of these remarkable sheep, preferably a young and tender one
1 My admittedly labored pun is based on the root of all Slavic names for cheese: sir/syr. Croatian’s irritatingly complex system of sound shifts is responsible for “Pag” having the adjectival form paški, and if that seems irrational, I encourage you to take it up with the Croats. But to be fair, Germanic ablauts and umlauts (like sing, sang, sung or “one man, two men”) are equally impossible to defend.. ↺ BACK
2 I’ve never had goat’s milk, so I can’t comment on its desirability as a beverage. But I’m comfortable pointing out that the adage assigns no role to novelties such as oat, almond, or cashew milk; I can only assume “pig swill” or “fertilizer” would be their recommended use. Soy milk, obviously, finds its noble end in tofu, as any East Asian farmer could have told the European authors of this saying. ↺ BACK
3 Both are cheaper than cheese made from human breast milk, should your tastes run in that insane direction. https://www.thedailybeast.com/breast-milk-cheese ↺ BACK
4 Apparently, the same is true for their meat. I haven’t had Paški lamb, so I can’t (yet) offer an informed opinion.↺ BACK