Since I moved to France two years ago, I’ve learned not to be in a hurry on market day. Everyone wants a chat. This is never more apparent than on the cheese stalls of our village market on Tuesdays and in the nearby town of Pezenas on Saturdays. We discuss what I bought last week, the merits of the new season cheeses, and I sometimes come away with a mini jar of jam or mildly spicy piment d’espelette jelly, a “free” gift for spending a ludicrous amount because if you put something in front of me I haven’t tried before I will not be able to resist.
The French love of cheese is legendary. General de Gaulle is supposed once to have said, “How can you govern a nation that has 246 different kinds of cheese?” Skip forward a few decades, and the consternation over Nicolas Sarkozy’s flashy Rolex habit was as nothing to the outrage when it was revealed he planned to nix the cheese course from state lunches. Was a president who neither ate cheese nor drank wine (he believed it slowed you down) really worthy of the highest office in France?
