Cheesemergency

Mondays are not peak cheese selling times, I thought to myself as I opened my store. I resigned myself to a slow morning when a woman entered that I’d seen once before.

I had just flipped the sign mere minutes ago from Closed to Yes, We’re Open! She rushed in with her head down and her cheeks pink, her shoulders slumped, her spirit broken.

“Can I help you?” I asked as she approached. I noticed she was carrying a bundle. She didn’t meet my gaze but started straight down, and I could hardly make out her mumble:

“I’m so sorry,” she began with a great wince, as if her stomach had started to churn. “This may be appalling and totally out of line, but I must ask…do you take returns?”

I looked over at what she brought in, and at once I recognized the sight - it was a menagerie of various cheeses that I had sold to her last Friday night.

Now, Fridays are wonderful for business, as opposed to Monday mornings. If you came in on a Friday evening, my shop would be swarming. Party hosts would be there to select cheddars that pair well on a cheese board, and others would be buying creamy Bries and Camemberts to indulge in as a hard earned reward. No matter the customer or the occasion, I am always happy to assist. To scour and search for a cheese they will love - it’s my passion, it's what I insist.

So when it came time that Friday night to close the shop and lock the door - this woman burst in, chest heaving, out of breath, almost collapsing onto the floor.

“Help me!” she cried. “Please, I beg.” Her voice quivered, betraying her urgency. “I have a queso question, a fromage fix - just a complete and utter cheesemergency!”

She caught her breath before continuing: “I’ve met someone, a potential new beau. We’ve had coffee and drinks, he’s funny and sweet, more handsome in person than in his photo. But he wants our next date to be more cozy, so I suggested meeting at my place - but this man is a curd nerd, a turophile, an Edam addict, a total cheese ace!

“I want to impress him, but how? I know nothing about cheese! In order to buy something wonderful, I need your help, your expertise!”

She looked wild-eyed and flustered, her hair a windswept mess. It was closing time after a busy day…but I love to advise, so I said yes.

“Well,” I began, “what does he like? Unripened cheeses like a fresh mozzarella? Or perhaps something more aged, a little more stinky - mold ripened, like a nutty Gorgonzola? 

“Does he only enjoy cheese from cow’s milk, or is sheep’s milk his idea of dessert? If so, may I suggest a buttery Manchego, or a tangy and blue-veined Roquefort?

“Or is goat cheese his jam, so to say - does he relish a melt-in-your-mouth chevre? Does he seek the squeaky texture of Halloumi, or the crumbles of a salty Greek feta?

“Or perhaps it’s a humble cheddar that he’ll find simply superb? We have mild and sharp, aged ten years, with flavors like garlic and herb.”

“I don’t know,” she moaned. “This is bad, it’s worse than my worst fear. With so many types, how do I avoid the ones he hates, the ones in his bottom tier?”

“It’s okay,” I said, “all hope isn’t lost. For you, I can put together a mix - various types and how to pair them, so that he can have his pick.”

For Blue cheeses, I selected a Stilton to be eaten with a stout, pecans, and potatoes. For fresh cheeses, I suggested ricotta chased with a rose, pesto, and tomatoes. Humbolt Fog was my soft cheese of choice, delicious with porters, apples, and prosciutto. Colby Jack received my semi-soft vote, well paired with Zinfandel and jalapeno. When it came to semi-hard, cheddar was the champion, hard to beat with cherries, walnuts, and mead. And finally, for hard: Pecorino Romano tasted heavenly with sausages and dry-cured meats.

The woman was overjoyed, had tears in her eyes, thanked me profusely before she departed - and now, three days later, she was back in my shop, face red as if she’d been stung and smarted.

“Returns?” I asked. “Did the cheeses mold? Did they go bad, did they turn sour?” I looked at what she had brought back, but they looked fine - just never devoured.

“No,” she replied, still blushing crimson, “no spoilage at all, that’s not the matter. I simply have no need for them anymore, I have no more plans for a cheese platter.”

I blinked at her. “No plans? But why? You were frantic, it was your immediate desire to get a cheese that would impress your beau - all of this just a few days prior?”

“Yes,” she admitted, “That’s all true. I wanted a nice date, I offered to host it…but he never showed up or answered my texts. It’s clear to me that I’ve been ghosted.”

She hung her head, her face getting redder. I could almost hear her heart break. “There’s nothing wrong with the cheeses. I was the wrong one, it was my mistake.”

My blood boiled at the sight of how despondent she had become. All her effort, all her excitement - only for her date to be scum?

“But you can enjoy them! Forget the jerk. You could use a pick-me-up. Isn’t that what people do? Indulge themselves after they’ve been dumped?”

The woman shifted, suddenly uncomfortable, suppressing a groan but only making it prominent. She chewed her lip before sighing and admitting, “I can’t. I’m lactose intolerant.”

My eyes boggled, remembering her panic at finding just the right bites. All that fuss for something the jerk enjoyed - and she couldn’t even share in the delight?

“I see,” I exhaled, looking at the bundle. “Ricotta and fresh cheeses, you should avoid. But aged cheeses - their lactose has broken down, those are the ones you can safely enjoy. I recommend you keep the cheddar, the Pecorino Romano, the Colby Jack. The others may be risky - for those, I can give you your money back.”

She gasped, hands flying to her mouth, and her eyes grew misty and wetted. “Thank you, oh thank you kind sir. Such generosity! I won't soon forget it.”

Then she laughed: “I don't even know your name, and after the adventure that we've been through!”

I extended my hand to her and said, “I'm Colby - it's very nice to meet you.” 

I braced myself for her reaction. “Like the cheese!” people always say to me.

But the woman only smiled and shook my hand. “Hello Colby. My name is Bree.”