Euro-zone: French, English, Spanish and Italian cheeses.

Foreign foods that find popular footing in the US tend to feature some exciting or mildly challenging aspect. Tapas, for example, questions the structure of a traditional one-plate meal—a concept that has proven so popular in recent years that I yearn for the days when I didn’t have to forfeit my plate to the rest of the table. Korean galbi and Japanese teppenyaki have a lively interactive element that is enjoying a resurgence; whether they are worth the increased laundry expense I can’t say. And then there is sushi, which must have seemed very chic (and slightly frightening) when first witnessed here. Oliver Stone used the allure of raw fish to great effect in Wall Street (1987): the main character, Bud Fox, celebrates his I have arrived moment with an excellent cardigan, The Talking Heads and a hand-cranked nigiri machine.

The common theme is we seem to prefer when our foreign food is foreign, which is perhaps why the cheese course is so misunderstood. Assuming a few wheels of the stuff made it over on the Mayflower, cheese is no more foreign than beer or bacon. And yet the instant it is served between the main course and dessert the tone changes entirely. Cheese becomes fancy, overly indulgent and misplaced. Sad, considering the cheese course is actually an exercise in practicality, harmony and ease.

It may not seem like a real problem, but often a main course is finished before the accompanying wine. The appearance of a cheese board is a practical way to extend the savory aspect of a meal until whatever has already been poured (or is left in the bottle) is finished. It is also a relief to those with larger appetites who might have had a second helping had it been offered. From the perspective of a host, laying out a pre-arranged cheese course is an effective stalling tactic while dishes are cleared, desserts finished and coffee brewed.

But what dour hosts we would make if practicality was our only concern: the arrival of cheese must also be a welcome sight for the diner. I’ve often found pivoting from my main course to dessert too jarring. Some greater harmony can be achieved with a cheese course bridging the gap. The fat, the salt, the mouth-coating richness are an ideal lead-up to something bracing and sweet—almost creating anticipation for the grand finale. This principle is often reinforced by the presence of some compote, honey or fresh fruit alongside the cheese. I often serve cheese with digestive biscuits—themselves an ideal concession between savory and sweet.

And the cheese itself? Rather than specific names, successful cheese courses depend upon a basic understanding of the categories: fresh, semi-soft, bloomed rind, blue-veined, firm and hard. Like wine, the general idea is to move from fresher or lighter to more aged and assertive. A cheese course can be organized by category, country, type of milk, or a degree of randomness. While few dishes are easier than laying out a few hunks of the stuff, admittedly choosing from the vast variety can be bewildering. Fortunately, those people wearing lab coats behind a cheese counter are brimming with knowledge on a hair-trigger release. My cheese monger knew my name and preferences by the third visit.

The most important aspect to a cheese course, though, is temperature. Anything colder than your dining room is going to noticeably mute the full range of flavors. I take mine out at least two hours before service. Arranged on a parchment covered cutting board or slab of marble, your cheeses can sit uncovered in a cupboard until needed. Hard cheeses sweat, softer cheeses ooze and those in between take on a difficult-to-place glow. The ripe flavors and correct texture is revelatory to those who haven't had room-temperature cheese before. Strangely, more than colorful descriptions or interesting histories, it is this step that has most often made believers out of cheese course skeptics.