"the careful practice of ripening cheese... a series of tedious, ritualized procedures (washing, flipping, brushing, patting, spritzing) that are meant to inch each wheel and wedge toward an apex of delectability."Uh-oh. As someone who only draws the line at eating cheese from a spray can, "ritualized procedures" fired its sh*t detectors. Biodynamics, phases of the moon, unnatural acts with common objects. Still I buy into it. Paying attention to what's happening is more likely than not to produce a better cheese. (Of course to my uncle Hal, "good cheese" was an oxymoron.)
The Times taste sampling of 3 cheeses supported the idea that attention to the cheese resulted in a better cheese.
Living close to the bone it's unlikely that I'll ever taste an artisanal cheese. Chalk it up to parochial tastes, inherent cheapness, pedestrian aspirations, something.
Oh, wait. It's could be like the time my brother brought a special meatloaf over for us to sample. I could tell it was special because there were two different textures of meat separated by pistachio nuts and the slice had a crust around it. Nice meatloaf I said. When my brother was able to stop laughing he identified it as a hideously expensive pâté. (I can't recall the exact figure, but as I remember it, a pound of that pâté costs as much as a ticket to a first-run Broadway show.) Tasted OK though.
Going through life once? Oh that. I had a recent conversation with an aunt, the wife of the uncle who wouldn't eat cheese, who said we only have one shot at life. Why not enjoy it? Why suffer? In the specific, she was referring to fixing up her house and eating good food. My mind translated this to dying as my money runs out: having a fatal attack with the last morsel of that hideously expensive pâté.
That would be OK in my own home, but not in a restaurant. Keeling over in a restaurant would stick my estate with the bill and inconvenience the establishment. Not a socially responsible way to go.
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