It’s one of Britain’s best-loved imports, but now supplies of the ‘squeaky’ Cypriot cheese are running perilously low

Gently, I pull my halloumi from its loose plastic wrapping. I do this delicately, since, like funfair goldfish or those waterproof watches you can buy at the airport, halloumi comes sealed in a bag of liquid, as if the poor cheese was in a rush to reach you and has lost a good part of its weight in sweat. I slice the spongy, cuboid form and let its segments slap and sizzle into the pan, where its edges turn from brilliant, Tipp-Ex white to a golden yellow. The rectangles don’t melt so much as separate at each end, until each resembles something like a chubby letter H, or an artist’s representation of a chromosome.

Halloumi has been a consistent part of my diet for most of the nine years I’ve been in London. Its appeal is in its zesty tang and its odd, formless texture. That tooth-satisfying squish and give that makes it readily applicable to so many methods of cooking; barbecued in strips, cooked with a salad, or positioned as a meat substitute wherever needed.