Le fromage encore

by jemma margaret

There is an apocryphal quote about having more wine to finish the cheese and more cheese to finish the wine.

So I’ll blame that last glass of wine on why after only a week I return to the subject of fromage.

As per my mother’s advice I returned to the same fromagerie as the week before. However, to be perfectly honest I had to learn from my own mistakes first. You see, some time around last Friday I realized that cheese was probably my favorite dessert (only if accompanied with wine, naturally). So I ventured out to a different outdoor market. My mind was set on something gooey, and as much as an adult as I pretend to be I could not resist the miniature appeal of what looked to be very small epoisses in little wooden boxes. After trying a sample of very strong comté, I asked the vendor whether this was the same thing as Epoisses (and how old that Comté was). She seemed to indicate it was the same only smaller.

But upon arriving home I noted that this cheese was pasteurized…it also smelled a bit too astringent. That is not to say that I did not eat it, but as I told my colloc, I would not buy it again.

Thus being convinced that all cheese merchants are not created equal (and that my mother is nearly always right) I braved a small downpour to make it to Place Monge before they close at 1 (notably the day became beautiful around 2). There was my cheese lady (I also may have spotted my kale people packing up, which gives me hope that they are still in business, just leaving early–in substitution I bought a bunch of what appear to be broccoli greens, will report later on how they measure up). I did not thank her for the prior recommendation for fear of being grossly misunderstood, but I did ask for another one. An aged sheep’s milk.

She gave me a very generous sample. Oh yes, it was perfect, I told her. The prices were not posted, so I tried to request a smaller portion, but embarrassingly ended up one euro short. I apologized and explained that I would just run to the corner bank and return shortly. It’s not a big deal, she assured me, just pay me the extra euro next time. Then she added a few pieces of a ripened goat’s milk.

Will you be here on Friday? I asked (not that I will be out of cheese by then since I am now in ample supply). She will be.

À vendredi! I exclaimed. And with two red and white checkered packages I happily headed back into the rain.