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Country Stores built of weathered gray clapboard and cinderblock are promising oases when I’m tootling along back roads, on the prowl for treats, snacks, and nostalgic groceries. I keep an eye out for time-tested places sporting metal signs that look like patches, where glowing neon script in the window confirms they’re open. I gravitate to stores where thousands of hands have burnished the brass knob on a heavy wooden front door or where a screen door slaps as I walk in, alerting shopkeepers who glance up and say hey or give a nod.
As I browse and marvel my way through the shelves and aisles crowded with oddball inventory, I scan for a massive round of cheese the color of an aging school bus, with a missing wedge that reminds me of Pac-Man’s gaping mouth. Looky here, they sell hoop cheese! A big hunk of that, a sleeve of saltines, and a cold drink pulled from the icy waters of a chest cooler are top-notch road snacks. I learned this early on during my dad’s Sunday drives, when we had no particular place to go and all afternoon to get there.
• • •
Hoop cheese got its name from the wooden hoops used to press and mold curds into solid wheels. At one time, many mom-and-pop stores made their own cheese, in various sizes, out of local cow’s milk. Nuances in flavor and color — from creamy pale yellow to pumpkin orange — were a result of the time of year, the cows’ diet, and whether the cheesemaker tinted the milk. Over time, storekeepers more often bought hoop cheese from regional makers for convenience and consistency. A standard wheel was large, around 22 pounds, and coated in black or red wax.
Many country stores and hometown grocers displayed their hoop cheese on a round wooden platform with a cast-iron knob that rotated it like something used to navigate a ship. A cleaver balanced on a rocker arm, ready to whack off thick wedges or shave thin slices that landed like dealt cards on the wrapping paper.
When I was growing up, other than the occasional package of sandwich slices, I believe hoop was the only kind of cheese we ever brought home that didn’t fit perfectly in the cheese keepers that came from a Tupperware party.
For many of us, yellow hoop cheese remains the benchmark for old-timey Southern cheese, especially when picking out snacks for a road trip down memory lane. It keeps awhile and travels well. It’s not too hard and not too soft, unless you accidentally leave it on the dashboard too long. Even then, crisp crackers can scoop up the molten cheese for impromptu fondue, or as my daughter said when she was little, “fun do.” Some people say hoop cheese tastes like mild, young cheddar or Colby, but for those of us raised and imprinted on it, we simply say it’s cheese-flavored.
As a freshman at Carolina, I discovered a market down the street from my dorm called Fowler’s Food Store. It offered cheeses from around the globe, my first giant step into a world of tasting and cooking with fancier fromage — although no gourmet recipe beats a well-made grilled cheese sandwich with crisp bread and a yielding, stretchy pull. These days, Weaver Street Market tempts me with a glorious array of artisanal cheeses from North Carolina and around the South that have earned honors at international competitions, cheese as good as it gets. But I’ll never overlook my old pal hoop, cheese as good as I remember.
I prefer salted. It should be softened and ready to spread all the way to the edges of the bread. Buttering the bread instead of melting a pat in the pan ensures even cooking.
Use at least two different types, freshly shredded. One must be a reliable melter, such as mozzarella (my go-to), Gruyère, fontina, Gouda, Colby, or American. The other cheese(s) should provide flavor, such as hoop, cheddar, or others you love. Pre-shredded cheeses contain additives that keep them from melting nicely. Your sandwich deserves the best.
A modest amount of mayonnaise acts as a binder, and a dab of mustard adds flavor without masking the cheese. Pinches of salt and pepper add a touch of seasoning. Some people use mayo on the outside of the bread instead of butter. I agree that it makes the bread brown easily, but salted butter is more flavorful.
photograph by Tim Robison
Most of us agree that there is no bad grilled cheese sandwich. I believe we can also agree that a top-notch version qualifies as a feast that satisfies us deep down. This recipe features crisp bread and yields a soft, stretchy pull of melted cheese. Making a memorable grilled cheese isn’t difficult, but little things make a big difference.
Makes 1 sandwich.
2 tablespoons salted butter, softened
2 large slices crusty, sturdy sandwich bread without large holes
1½ to 2 ounces freshly shredded cheese, at least two different types
2 teaspoons mayonnaise
½ teaspoon grainy or Dijon mustard
Small pinches salt and pepper
Butter one side of each bread slice all the way to the edges.
In a small bowl, toss together the cheeses, mayonnaise, mustard, salt, and pepper. Spread the mixture evenly over the unbuttered side of one bread slice. Close the sandwich with the other slice, buttered side out.
Heat a well-seasoned cast-iron or nonstick skillet over medium heat until hot, but not smoking. A sprinkle of water droplets should sizzle and evaporate quickly.
Transfer the sandwich to the center of the pan. Press firmly with a spatula. Cover the pan. Let cook undisturbed until bottom is deep golden brown, about 3 minutes. Press sandwich with spatula and flip. Cover and continue cooking until deep golden brown on the other side, 2 to 3 minutes more. If cheese isn’t completely melted, flip sandwich again and let cook about 1 minute more.
Serve immediately while bread is crisp and cheese is soft.
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