Tasmanian Honey
I have been tantalized by honey for months. In June, at an outdoor market on the Loire river in France, I carefully deliberated over a set of four jars of varietal honey. Every type of honey, I was learning, has a flavor distinct to the flowers that were pollinated by the bees that made it. Honey is derived from nectar that bees extract from flowers, and clover nectar is different from thistle nectar which is different from rosemary nectar. You could draw a comparison with the grass that cows feed on: the beef tastes different depending on what the cows eat. But it would be more accurate to equate the difference between two honeys with that between beef and lamb: they’re both meats, but from two entirely different animals.
The star of that French set was the “miel d’acacia.” Spread on toast, stirred into tea, or simply licked off the spoon, that particular honey had an enchanting sweetness and a multilayered taste that lingered on the tongue. I had every intention of proudly placing that French honey in my kitchen cabinet when I returned to Australia. From Paris, I flew to New York with the four jars (packaged into a small straw basket with a tiny wooden honey-dipper), and then on to San Francisco. But when I touched down on my last stopover in Auckland, things changed.
At that moment, I learned that both New Zealand and Australia had thriving honey industries. Unfortunately, I was taught this lesson by a government official who was in the process of issuing me an “infringement notice” for failing to declare contraband material, namely my French honey. The Kiwis prize their honey production and export businesses so much that they do everything possible to protect their hives from disease. No foreign bee products are allowed in. I didn’t stay in New Zealand long enough to appreciate the national honey, just long enough to lament the loss of the French stuff.
When I finally settled down in Australia, I was determined to restock my four jars of honey. The Australian Honey Bee Industry Council explains that “most Australian honey comes from the native eucalypt box, gum, stringy bark and iron bark tree families” and that “Australia’s eucalypts in particular are good sources of honey and help give the honey its distinctive taste and density.” I showed up at Melbourne’s Slow Food festival last weekend, ready to attend a tasting workshop in the dedicated “honey room.” But I was thwarted again–the honey classes were so popular that they had filled up in minutes, leaving no room for me. I was wandering around without a beehive to call my own when I ran into the Tasmanian Honey Company stall. I chatted with one of the owners, who works with several unusual cool-weather rain-forest plants in Tasmania (which, like the islands in New Zealand, is geographically isolated enough to be home to several unique species). The company’s signature product is leatherwood honey (considered by the Slow Food organization to be an “endangered” food). Thick and as spreadable as butter, leatherwood honey has a strong molasses flavor. Some tasters have called it musky or even meaty. My first time out, I found it overpowering and preferred the Christmas Bush honey, another districtly Australian product with a milder but still rich and spicy taste. I bought I jar–just three more to go.
