Halloumi sti Schara.

Halloumi has been made in Cyprus since at least the medieval period — documentary references appear during the Venetian era — and the method is unusual enough to explain the cheese's behaviour. After the curd is set and cut, it is heated in its own whey until the pieces float, which denatures the proteins in a way that stops the cheese melting later. The hot slabs are then folded, dusted with dried mint and stored in brine. That fold, the mint and the brine are the three visible identifiers of real halloumi; the anti-melting property is the invisible one, and it is why the cheese can be grilled, fried, skewered or dropped into soup and still come out in one piece.

The cheese carries considerable political and economic weight for a small island. Halloumi is Cyprus's largest food export by some distance, and the Greek Cypriot and Turkish Cypriot communities both make it — as halloumi and as hellim — with production and protected-name status having been the subject of long, difficult negotiation. Traditionally it was sheep's and goat's milk only; industrial demand has pushed cow's milk into much of the export supply, and Cypriots will tell you, correctly, that the sheep-and-goat version tastes markedly better and browns more kindly.

Age changes the cheese completely. Fresh halloumi, a few days old, is mild, wet and best grilled. Matured halloumi that has sat in brine for months becomes hard, sharp and much saltier, and is grated over pasta the way Italians use pecorino. Between those extremes sits the block most shops sell, which grills well if you dry it thoroughly and do not overcook it.

The home version has one honest limitation: a charcoal grill gives a smokiness that a kitchen griddle cannot, and if you are grilling meat outdoors anyway, the halloumi belongs on the same coals. Indoors, a very hot dry cast-iron pan is the next best thing, and the dish is still worth making on a Tuesday night in ten minutes flat.