Locker Room Gourmet

“This here Cheese Class is two and a half hours of tasting and history,” I tell Pablo. “Let’s do it. The lecture will convince my gastric brain, while my classmates’ infectious enjoyment will contaminate me.”

Pablo looks confused. “But you don’t like cheese.”

“And I’m the only one. Please don’t share my dysfunction with our classmates. With this class I will learn how to appreciate it. And who knows? Besides, we could make a profit on this. The class is $30. If we eat $31 we’ll be set. How difficult could that be at a gourmet food market? You like cheese. You can eat $31 easy.”

“That’s a lot of cheese.”

I sigh, patiently.

We take our seats in class, at the big wooden table where two women breathlessly ask, “Don’t you just love cheese?”

“Yesss,” I say. I will. I give them my knowingest nod.

"Hello class, I am Hugo Petit, your cheese-monger," says our cheese-monger, Hugo Petit. I do not look at Pablo because giggling will blow my cover. Our monger advises, “The key to a beautiful cheese is to limit oneself.” Appreciative ahhhs spread round the room as Hugo suggests saving a special cheese for bedtime.

Hugo starts us on mild selections, “which some cheese lovers insist are not real cheeses. Uh-ha ha.” He recommends pairing the selections with fresh fruit and honey. Thank you, Hugo, I think I will. I slop sweet toppings over each teensy morsel of fresh Mozzarella, Bel Paese, Chevre, and Robiola. I barely taste any cheese molecules, and those I do are like chewing milk at room temperature. Not bad. I give Pablo a nod and hopeful smile.

Then come the medium cheeses: Camembert, Raclette, Chaumes, and Gouda. One whiff and I hastily add fruit, nuts, dates, and honey to my plate. Ode de L’ocker Room wafts through the climate-controlled supermarket and I slow my body’s need to take in air. A heated exchange on proper Yacht and Cheese Etiquette occurs across the table as Pablo deftly heaps toppings onto my plate. Intent on ignoring flavors, I instead concentrate on texture, history, and the cuteness of the animal the cheese originated from. “Mmmm, goat,” I moan to our tablemates at starboard. She happily muses, “Such complex flavors!” I nod, stifling a gag reflex as stinky, sweaty feet pad across my tongue.

“Finally,” Hugo announces, “it is time for the strong cheeses.” The boaters are worked up into a lather of ecstasy over Roquefort, Blue, Iberico, and other horrors. The stench of moldy, mildewy toe jam spreads throughout my olfactory system like the plague. I am physically incapable of putting these, these things near the mouth-shaped part of my face. All pretense forgotten, the cheeses curl my lip into a snarl. “Why?” I gasp through the fetid cloud, “Pablo, why did you bring me here?”

Before he can answer, magic occurs. Hugo the cheese-monster says, “Not everyone appreciates the strong cheeses.” Amidst the gray-green stink-cloud a shadowy man says, “I sure don’t.” A ghostly figure of a woman adds, “These are too strong for me.” Why, I’m not the only one!

“After class let’s visit the diary aisle,” Pablo whispers. “We’ll figure how much money we save by not buying this cheese you’ve learned to love.” I look away from him so I won’t laugh and take floating cheese molecules into my mouth.

Image from U.S. National Institutes of Health Individual Cheese Pies recipe.