Cheddar cheese is a drug. A drug that most Brits abroad struggle to live without. Huge packs are smuggled back through customs every time we go home, much to the delight of colleagues and friends. What could be better than cheese on toast, a cheese and pickle sandwich or just a huge wedge eaten on it’s own.
We’re rightly proud of our cheese and Rome seems to have finally understood our passion. Three shops within walking distance of my home now stock not only cheddar but also stilton. I may never need to go home again.
This swanky restaurant is also a bakery and deli and, as I found out to my delight, stocks two different types of cheddar – two!
I went to Ercoli (a little deli stocking a range of Italian and foreignish foods) searching for Spanish chorizo (which I found). But I also came away with half a kilo of cheddar. Worth every penny.
And just opened, Eat’s on Via Cola di Rienzo (if anyone can explain this apostrophe I’d be very grateful). This new foodhall is even using British cheese in its adverts – British food to entice Italians, whatever next?