The Cheese Guys

 I  share with the world at large that I am a little in love with many people I meet every week at the market. If I were any more in love, I would be unable to leave France; it’s hard enough as it is to leave a bit of my heart here.

Let's start with my cheese guy. He wears a white kurta and runs a small operation. He makes his own soft, ripe and smelly cheeses from goat, sheep and cow milk and sells them in little cakes with a rind of dried cheese. One man’s flavor is another man’s stink, Jeroen finds the chevres flavorful, I don’t. I do love the gateau du fromage frais, cheesecake, sold by the  slice at three euros a piece. I usually buy two pieces expecting to eat them over the week but it doesn’t always work that way, I take a bit every time I pass the table and it’s gone too soon. The fromagier shared his recipe, the key ingredient is fromage frais, fresh cheese made by adding a culture to unpasteurized cow’s milk at room temperature and separating curds and whey a day or two later, voila, there you have it. Add eggs, sugar and bake on a thin pie crust till done. The tang comes from the cheese itself, the golden color from the yolk, and no lemon is added. I could have sworn there was lemon in the recipe. I shared my surprise to the dismay of the man imparting his closest secret, why would he ever add lemon? I had no answer.
The kurta is specially ordered from a store that sells Indian clothes to tourists. My fromagier claims, and I agree, that the kurta is comfortable, elegant, practical and distinctive, and good enough for Pandit Nehru. He has never been to India and is not quite sure if he was Indian in another lifetime. He warns me that after the end of June, the cheesecake will not be made for the duration of the summer in keeping with local custom. I tell him that if there is no cheesecake in July, I have no choice but to go to America where one can buy cheesecake any time of the year. “C’est pas la même chose,” he says, it’s not the same thing. I don’t argue.

The other fromagier, Jeroen's, does not wear a kurta and has a huge selection of hard and soft cheeses, including Dutch, Swiss, Italian varieties. He sells five Comtés of different ages, and as many Rocqueforts. There is always a line, thirty minutes long, and Jeroen joins it while I shop for vegetables and greet my friends. When Jeroen is at the head of the line I join him just so I can make eye contact with the cheeseman who deigns to give me a nod of recognition. He a muscular man, with the physique of a road construction worker, rough hands, longish hair and whitish shirt. His stall includes a fresh cream and fresh and salted butter section, and eggs, two euros for six. I always buy my eggs here. I’ve seen him give a kid a chunk of cheese with “This is delicious and it’s good for you.” Jeoren picks up four or five cheeses each week to better educate his palate. That's the purpose of the sabbatical.