Late one night a few months ago, at my place of (waitressing) employment, a British couple plunked themselves down at our little bar. The bartender that night (Josh, let’s call him) chatted them up for a little while, before, serendipitously, the conversation turned to cheese.

Sidenote: I find it incredible how often this happens without even a nudge from someone like me!

Anyways , this lovely (they were!) couple from across “the pond” said:

“Well you don’t have any cheese to speak of here, now do you?”

OUCH! Hello!!! I said (in my mind) haven’t you heard of California or Vermont or ummmmm Wisconsin?! Feeling called to duty by this ferocious attack on the allegedly nonexistent cheeses of my country, I stepped out of the shadows where I had been lurking/half-listening out of boredom. I was opening my mouth to speak to them when Josh jumped in, saying “Oh no, we have lots of good cheeses here! Let me give you a taste of - what’s it called again?…Gruyere!”

Oh no! I freeze in dismay. Josh whizzes by me into the kitchen and I hear him rummaging through the absent cooks’ reach-in. He comes back holding a plate with a dollop of fresh chévre on it.

“Here it is,” he says, “Gruyère: it’s delicious, try it!”

I did not jump into action at this point, which I regret, but it seemed clear that this couple and the nonplussed looks on their faces were not going to be won over, even by me and my (minimal) knowledge. I shook my head in utter disgust at Josh, before I remembered that a few months prior I was the ignoramus who thought buffalo mozzarella was some kind of spicy fried appetizer. OOPS!