"I just want to tell you," the bearded, burly man behind the counter gently warned us, "you're ordering a lot here." My daughter and I were at a London restaurant tantalizingly named The Cheese Bar. We'd already signed off on some gouda cheese puffs, a five-cheese macaroni and cheese, and a baked brie with bacon jam, and we were just getting warmed up. We took his admonition as a challenge. There's something about cheese that makes a person feel unstoppable. And so, so happy.
Over my two recent months in Europe, I drank beautiful wines and devoured breads that could make the angels sing. I ate Black Forest ham from the real Black Forest, and ate a salade lyonnaise in Lyon. But the truest leitmotif of my adventure was cheese. The oozy raclette in Zurich. The after-dinner camembert and chèvre in Paris. The pumpkin-colored mimolette served at breakfast in Lille. Regardless of the place or time of day, nowhere did I go that cheese was not a fundamental aspect of the rhythms of mealtime. And it didn't take long for me to begin to not simply presume that I'd be consuming cheese regularly, but to actively crave it. You say it's dinner time and I haven't eaten tarte flambee yet today? Better fix that!
