At a fromagerie, Rue Mouffetard, Paris, February 2008
So many long counters of cheese in every shape, flavor, and texture. Each cheese is administered in pharmacy-like precision by an apron-wearing woman or man who takes rightful pride in the bounty of their country’s curd. They are in every neighborhood in Paris, usually near the butcher or boulangerie.
To coin a popular phrase…NOM NOM NOM. I loves me some cheese.
Someone asked me, “why so much Rue Mouffetard?” Well, I had planned to hit the Marchè Bastille. I had also planned a bunch of other food-oriented wanderings. But I arrived in Paris with a bad chest cold, which the cooler winter air aggravated into embarrassing spasms of goose-like honking every time I went out of doors. My time in Rue Mouffetard was magical in that I rarely coughed the entire time I was there. That Saturday was sunny and even a bit springy. The next day though? Ugh. Aside from just feeling awful, the thought of imposing my lung hacking on the innocent market-going public was just plain wrong. So I bought my brioche and tea, holed up in my room, and watched a lot of French costume dramas.
I suppose I’m just going to have to go back and make up for the lost time.
tableauvivante
Inspector Vino
