The Art of A Charcuterie

Charcuterie is more than an assortment of meats and cheeses.

It’s a story told through taste — each bite shaped by tradition, place, and the artisan who made it. A well-curated board is less about abundance and more about intention: choosing pieces that connect you to the land, the market, and the craft.

We first learned about the art of cheese at Neal’s Yard in London and cured meats in Spain, but Canada has its own story to tell. From Quebec’s raw-milk cheeses — like the earthy Bleu Bénédictin or the award-winning Alfred Le Fermier — to sharp cheddars from Prince Edward County, Canadian cheesemakers have built a reputation that stands proudly beside the Old World. On the Prairies, farmers’ markets offer smoked sausages and venison charcuterie rooted in Eastern European traditions brought over generations ago. Out West, bison jerky and wild game terrines reflect both Indigenous foodways and contemporary craft.

Cured meats tell the same story across cultures. In Parma, prosciutto is aged to silky perfection; in Barcelona, jamón ibérico melts with nutty sweetness. And here at home, Montreal’s smoked meat — stacked high, spiced, and steam-warmed — is just as much a symbol of craft and heritage as anything found abroad.

Building charcuterie at home is about balance. Choose a mix of cheese — a hard, a soft, a blue, and something a little surprising. Pair them with cured meats that contrast in saltiness, sweetness, and smoke. Add accompaniments that lift and highlight: maple-glazed nuts, Saskatoon berry preserves, mustard pickles from Newfoundland, or crusty sourdough. Simplicity is key, but quality is everything.

Charcuterie, at its heart, is about connection. It connects us to artisans and their craft, to the places where food is made with pride, and to one another around the table. In Canada, that means celebrating both the global traditions we’ve learned from and the uniquely local flavours we’ve made our own.

In Canada, pasteurization laws have been in place since the 1930s, introduced to protect public health after outbreaks of milk-borne illness. But for some farmers and food lovers, these rules felt like the loss of a tradition. One of the most colourful figures in this story was Michael Schmidt, a dairy farmer in Ontario who turned his property into “Symphony in the Barn” — part concert hall, part working farm. His music festival brought classical performances into the fields, while also sparking debate over food freedom and the right to sell raw milk and traditional cheeses.

It was a uniquely Canadian mix of culture, agriculture, and quiet defiance — reminding us that our food history is not only about what we eat, but also about the people and communities who challenge the rules to keep old practices alive.