Friday, January 28, 2005
THE HARDER THEY COME, or, You Have A Friend In Cheeses
The stuff around that part of Clement Street wasn’t generally what anybody would call “classy” - a casket wholesaler, an irish bar, cheap housewares and cheaper clothes, a reconditioned bank that sold fire-damaged and bankrupt-company goods, a coffeehouse with a sign on the patio that said “No Spits”.... This area was low-key, comfortable, cheap - not unlike myself, though not quite as clean.
One exception was little cheesehop just off the main drag, on 6th. With its hand-painted sign and its windowfull of colorful tins and mysterious rounds and wedges, its quaint fenestered door and hand-hewn fixtures, it seemed to have been lifted out of another neighborhood, another country. It smelled good in there - the kind of smell that would probably have been offensive anywhere else, but, there, signified the mystical combination of growth, decay, fermentation and arrest that ennobles simple milks and turns them into true works of craftmen’s art.
The Sixth Avenue Cheeseshop (I could never think of that name without it singing itself in my head to the tune of a Springsteen song) was managed by a young woman with the sort of beauty and freshness that brightened days, deepened flavors, and uplifted spirits. She always had a ready smile and she really knew her cheese. Upon entering, lungs filling with the sour bouquet of her wares and heart filling with the sweetness of her attentions, any patron would be assured of full satisfaction, whatever his or her cheesy needs may be. The shop sold cheese, but wrapped it up in soul.
I was there one afternoon to get a selection of fermented curds and fromageous comestibles for some little party or event we had upcoming. When I arrived I saw that I was not the only patron in evidence - another gent, conservatively dressed and older than I, was already being serviced, so I busied myself among the exotic wares and eavesdropped discretely. He wanted some hard cheese, a parmesian or asiago or some such, and he wanted it finely shredded. She offered a recommendation; he approved; she cut and weighed out his selection, placed it in the heavy antique steel shredder, bestowed one of her priceless smiles on him, and flicked the switch.
The one thing she hadn’t done was to press the heavy hinged steel plunger back down atop the cheese. The powerful industrial motor leapt into action; the shredding blades spun and caught into the hard, friable block. Instantly, the cheese, unrestrained, spun in the chute, lifted, was propelled up and out. It flew across the intimate shop like an electrocuted cat, its whirling bulk describing a graceful arc from the shredder behind the rear counter to the floor near the front windows, where it slid, oily-slick and energized, under a low shelf.
The cheesemaid squealed; the distinguished patron gasped. The cheese lay where it landed, catching its breath. The shopkeep shut the shred motor, scurried over to redeem her goods. She cut a new wedge for her customer, carefully ensured that it held its place in the shredder, ground it into savory bits and cashed him out. He left, quarry in tow, and then it was my turn. I don’t remember what cheese she sold me, but I do remember her telling me with a rueful grin, “You’ve got to be careful - those hard ones can really get away from you.”
