When western countries slapped sanctions on Russia for its actions in Ukraine, banning top officials from travel, hitting defence companies with restrictions and shutting off Russian banks’ access to western capital markets, the Kremlin response was swift: ban cheese.

Meat, fruit and vegetable imports were also banned, but the counterintuitive counter-sanctions designed to hit the agricultural sectors of EU economies, have also hit Russian consumers who had developed a taste for western products in recent years. As the EU sanctions were prolonged for another year recently, so the counter-sanctions were too.

In Soviet times, Russians were used to subsisting on just a couple of brands of homemade cheese, but in recent years as more have travelled and western-style supermarkets have opened in Moscow and other big cities, millions of people have broadened their culinary horizons. Few people outside Moscow’s inner ring road may be able to tell their Parmigiano Reggiano from their Grana Padano, but it is not only the chattering classes who have suffered from the cheese ban. Prices have gone up across the board, and even simple dishes such as pizza require mozzarella.

In an attempt to fill the gap left on shop shelves, a whole industry making faux European cheeses has sprung up over the past year, with Russian dairy factories trying to master the techniques that Italian farmers perfected over centuries. The results, unsurprisingly, are mixed.





Chizzi cheddar, Moscow region, 3/10

The Dmitry Medvedev of Russian cheeses: so mild it’s pointless. Photograph: Shaun Walker

Imagine the mildest piece of cheddar you’ve ever eaten, then reclassify it as extra extra mature and imagine something 100 times more mild, and you’ll be approaching Chizzi cheddar. There’s nothing particularly disgusting about it. It just doesn’t taste of anything at all. It’s the Dmitry Medvedev of Russian cheeses, inoffensive and vaguely pointless.

Mozzarella, Bryansk region, 7/10

Fluffy centred and creamy tasting enough to grace a respectable salad. Photograph: Shaun Walker

This brand comes from a region near the border with Ukraine - the same border indirectly responsible for this whole mess in the first place. The factory in Bryansk has been making faux-European cheeses since before the sanctions, and this mozzarella is pretty decent. It comes, as it should, in a bag of liquid, and is firm to the touch but with a good level of gentle fluffiness inside and a delicate, creamy aftertaste. It’s not exactly prize-winning, but it would be fine in a salad or on a pizza. Good effort.

Parmesan Dolce, Moscow region, 0/10

The taste of a gym changing-room floor solidified. Photograph: Shaun Walker

It doesn’t look like parmesan and it certainly doesn’t taste like parmesan. It’s about as close to parmesan as a tin of spam is to slices of vintage jamón ibérico de bellota. It has a metallic, pungently sweaty kick to it, as if someone has absorbed the fluids of a gym changing-room floor into a lump of gluey cheese-like matter. It is quite simply the most revolting piece of cheese I have ever eaten. To top it all, it was also the most expensive of the sample, at 510 roubles (£5.80) for this slab.

Belarusian red cheese, 2/10

A taste as disturbing as its appearance. Photograph: Shaun Walker

I really don’t know why this cheese is red, but it should be noted that a significant portion of Belarusian territory is in the Chernobyl exclusion zone. Its taste as disturbing as its appearance, as if someone has distilled the taste of an oven pizza and recreated it in the texture of week-old chewed gum. It was pretty cheap, about £2, but you can buy a bottle of low-quality vodka for that in Moscow, which would taste nicer and could well be better for your health.

Burrata, Tula region, 9/10

Decadent fruit of a successful Russo-Italian joint venture. Photograph: Shaun Walker

This is a remarkably decent burrata. The firm exterior, the decadent oozing cream that meets the knife - you could be served this at an Italian trattoria and not be at all put out. It comes from the Italian brand Galbani, but purports to be made locally in the region of Tula, which is mainly famous for producing weaponry and a cake-like biscuit called a pryanik that tastes stale even when it’s fresh. It could be the best Russo-Italian joint venture since Silvio Berlusconi christened his “Putin bed”. Bunga bunga!



Parmegrino, Moscow region, 3/10

A gentle frisson of umami on the first bite is not followed through. Photograph: Shaun Walker

Parmegrino might sound vaguely like an Italian cheese, but that’s about as far as the resemblance goes. After the horrors of Parmesan Dolce, expectations for Russian-made parmesan were lowered accordingly. To be fair though, the manufacturers have at least bothered to make this one look vaguely like parmesan, and there is even a gentle frisson of umami on the first bite.

Things go rapidly downhill from there, however. The disintegrating texture is unnerving, and feels as if hundreds of tiny globules of parmesan have been left out on the pavement for a couple of weeks and then stuck back together with glue. To whom the crown in the lower left corner signifying “quality” belongs is unspecified, but my money is on Ivan the Terrible.

Ricotta light, Belarus, 7/10

A passable attempt at ricotta from Europe’s last dictatorship. Photograph: Shaun Walker

The last dictatorship in Europe does not only cater for those who like their cheeses blood-red. This Belarusian company does a whole range of faux-Italian cheeses, and the taste matches the surprisingly sharp branding. This is a passable attempt at ricotta that would work well in pastas or desserts. The impartial Belarusian central electoral committee would doubtless give it 11 out of 10, but even in a fair vote it deserves a respectable seven.

Mozzarella, Argentina, 2/10

Tasteless matter as plastic as its wrapping. Photograph: Shaun Walker

Russian cheese, come back! All is forgiven! This lump of tasteless matter does not look any less plastic when you take it out of its wrapping. Probably more useful as a weapon than as a source of sustenance, it is hard in texture and soul-destroying in taste. I can’t believe it has travelled several thousand miles to get here. Maybe it tasted nicer before it started the journey. Significantly inferior to the Russian mozzarella options.



Fetaksa, Greek-style cheese, 2/10

As close to real feta as Russell Brand is to Socrates Photograph: Shaun Walker

Don’t be fooled by the Greek-ish lettering and relaxing Mediterranean scene depicted on the packaging. This stuff has the consistency of congealed Tipp-Ex and bears about as much resemblance to real feta as Russell Brand does to Socrates. Oxi!

Adygean cheese, 8/10

Adygean is a shining example of Russia’s homegrown cheese-making talent. Photograph: Shaun Walker

Perhaps the best advice is to give up on the knock-offs and enjoy the few cheeses that Russia has traditionally made itself. Those of the Caucasus mountains - adygean, suluguni and chechil - are the best, and are great in salads or grilled. This lump of adygean came from the fresh cheese counter and is mild and fresh - a bit like halloumi, but less salty and rubbery.