Squacquerone di Romagna

Squacquerone is a rindless, unripened soft cheese made from whole cow's milk across Romagna: the provinces of Ravenna, Forlì-Cesena, Rimini and Bologna, plus part of Ferrara. It is pearly white, glossy, spoonable, sweet with a distinct lactic tang and a faint bitter edge on the finish.

The name is dialect. Squaquaròn comes from squacquerare, meaning to lose consistency, to spread, a literal description of a cheese that will not stand up. Pieces run from 100 grams to two kilos and have no shape of their own.

It was granted DOP status in 2012, one of very few genuinely fresh Italian cheeses to receive European protection. The specification sets the zone, the permitted cow breeds (Italian Friesian, Brown Alpine, Romagnola) and requires a substantial share of the herd's feed to come from the area.

Technically it is defined by absence. The curd is never cooked, never pressed, never given a rind and never given time: ripening is one to four days. It is a cheese that lives for three days and has to be perfect for all three.

Fresh milk and yoghurt, with a clean sour-cream tang that arrives early and a sweetness underneath it. There is a mild, almost almond-like bitterness right at the end that distinguishes it from every other fresh Italian cheese, and it should be gentle rather than sharp.

The texture is the point. It is looser than cream cheese, looser than crescenza, closer to a very thick crème fraîche or a drained yoghurt: it slumps rather than spreads, and it clings to hot flatbread instead of sitting on top of it. There is no rind, no skin and no elasticity at all.

Salt is low. Fat is moderate. Eaten cold from the fridge it is muted and slightly chalky; at room temperature it becomes creamy and aromatic, which is why every piadina kiosk in Romagna keeps it just cool rather than cold.

Piadina, first and always. Warm the flatbread on a dry pan or griddle, spread it generously with squacquerone, more than feels sensible, because the bread is dry and the cheese is what makes it work, and pile on rocket. Add prosciutto crudo for the version sold on every Adriatic beach. In a crescione, also called a cassone, the flatbread is folded into a half moon around the filling and cooked with it inside.

Beyond the piadina, spoon it onto toasted bread with fresh or caramelised figs and honey, drop it onto a pizza the moment it comes out of the oven, or serve it with bitter greens like chicory and radicchio.

It makes an instant pasta sauce: off the heat, slacken it with a little pasta water and toss with tagliatelle or strozzapreti, then add walnuts, speck or roast squash. Above roughly 60C it splits and turns grainy, so never boil it and never grill it on its own.

Take it out of the fridge twenty minutes before eating. Cold, it is chalky and says almost nothing.

Fridge, between 2 and 4°C (36 to 39°F), in its own tub or a sealed container, and used within three or four days of opening. The use-by date on the pack is deliberately short and is the reference: this is not a cheese built to be kept.

Bought loose from a counter, hold it in an airtight container with its own whey, which limits the surface in contact with air. Keep it away from cured meats and aged cheeses, because it takes on surrounding smells remarkably fast. What happens across those days is easy to watch: whey separates into a yellowish layer, the surface loses its gloss, the edges tighten, and the lactic note sharpens.

Freezing is not an option. It thaws into a watery part and a grainy part and will not come back together. It is not a cheese that is aged, and it is not kept under oil. Take it out twenty or thirty minutes before serving: cold it is dense and mute, at room temperature it slackens and turns creamy.

It should be pearly white and glossy, with no rind and no skin over it. A thin film of whey on the surface is normal; a separated yellowish pool means the tub has been sitting. On a spoon it is creamy and spreads slowly of its own accord. If it stands up on the plate the way crescenza does, it is not squacquerone.

The label should read Squacquerone di Romagna DOP and carry the consortium logo, next to a production date and a use-by date only a few days apart. A use-by twenty or thirty days out belongs to a different cheese. The nose is lactic, fresh and faintly acidic, with yogurt and cream behind it.

Watch for squacquerone written without the DOP, increasingly common in supermarkets: it names a style, not a specification, and often covers a generic fresh cheese made anywhere. On a counter abroad the neighbours are stracchino and crescenza, both firmer and sliceable, and cream cheese, which is thicker, sweeter and set with gums.

This is a hard cheese to buy outside Italy, for a structural reason rather than a commercial one: its legal ripening period is one to four days, and a shelf life measured in days does not survive transatlantic logistics. In the US, occasional air-freighted DOP wheels appear at Eataly and a few specialist importers at $18 to $26 per pound; otherwise, look for domestically made fresh stracchino-crescenza, which several Italian-American creameries produce well.

In the UK, Italian delicatessens and a small number of online importers list it seasonally at roughly £18 to £28 per kilo. London producers of fresh Italian-style cheeses make credible versions weekly, and a fresh local crescenza will always beat an old imported squacquerone.

Wherever you buy, look at the production date rather than the expiry date, and check the label for the words Squacquerone di Romagna DOP and the Consorzio logo. A best-before date three or four weeks away means it is a different cheese wearing the name.

The piadina kiosks of Romagna are the obvious answer and genuinely the best one. On the coast: Rimini, Cesenatico, Cervia, Ravenna. Inland: Cesena, Forlì, Faenza. The bread is cooked to order on a flat testo, and you can watch the cheese being spread.

Brisighella and the hills above Faenza have small dairies that sell directly, and agriturismi that serve squacquerone with piadina made in the house, a noticeably different thing from the kiosk version, thicker and more rustic.

Cervia and several riviera towns hold piadina festivals through the summer. In Bologna, the delicatessens of the Quadrilatero sell it by the spoonful, often served with figs and mortadella.

One practical tip: ask what day it was made. In Romagna this is a completely normal question and nobody takes offence.