Just say cheese

Apéro prep and a reminder that I still have a lot to learn.

If you’re nice, maybe you’ll be invited to our next apéro

We’ve been sweating it out through the French canicule (heatwave) and battling a broken toilet here in Dijon. In a case of perfect timing, the toilet decided it had had enough the morning a friend was coming to stay with us. Ever the Renaissance man, Jason McGyvered the leak well enough that we could use the toilet with the help of a huge bucket of water and prayers.

Before E. arrived, I set out on another urgent mission to distract me momentarily from the burning planet, bombs, and ICE raids: an apéro at Chez Silverman-Cohen. This glorious French ritual typically happens between 6-8 pm when people gather with friends and family to decompress and enjoy wine and snacks. And let's be honest, it sounds much more elegant than “happy hour,” although that’s also become a popular phrase here.

Organizing the apéro gave me the perfect excuse to spend ample time wandering around Les Halles Dijon, a dramatic iron-framed building where you go for the freshest produce, meats, and cheese. It’s a grand old place designed inspired by plans from the Eiffel company, and at 150 years old (joyeux anniversaire!), gives strong old-world vibes.

When I arrived, I went straight to the fromager because, well, cheese. It’s basically its own religion here, and if that includes Brillat-Savarin with truffles, then sign me up. Before you get all worked up and write me an angry note about how the French never eat cheese at an apéro, let me clear something up. While it is true that cheese isn’t served as an appetizer, at an apéro it’s perfectly acceptable.

“Cheese as an apéro has become more common in France with the advent of “l’apéro dinatoire” and the ubiquitous “planches” offered at many eateries. I sometimes spot “baked Brie” or better yet “Camembert rôti au four” on menus for example,” says

Véronique Savoye

of France with Vero.

“Truth be told, there’s at least one (processed) cheese specialty that was featured at French apéros back in the day, the flavored little squares cheese cubes known as ‘Apéricubes.’ Moral of the story: Never say never, and rules are meant to be broken, especially in France.”

My strategy for finding the best cheesemonger (or any vendor, really) is to squeeze in a line overflowing with genial (and not-so-genial) retirees. Because one thing is for certain: they know their way around a wheel of Camembert. And while standing in line does require patience, a virtue I don’t come by naturally, this method is practically foolproof.

My first stop was the Maison Benoit stall, where the line wrapped around the counter, and I squeezed in between two silver-haired couples who clearly had decades of cheese expertise under their belts.

There was a very thorough German couple a few people ahead quizzing the fromager on the different varieties of Comté on offer, which included Comté AOP Extra Fruité (aged 8-12 months), Le Comté AOP Extra Très Fruité (extra intense flavor), Comté AOP Extra Grande Réserve (rich and complex), and Comté AOP Grande Garde (the grand-daddy of Comté, aged nearly three years).

They sampled each bite with the kind of thoughtful consideration usually reserved for wine tastings, while the young man behind the counter waxed poetic about the virtues of each morsel.

In America, I would’ve become exasperated, checking my watch and sighing loudly. But here? French Sacha chills the f*&k out, practices mindfulness, and takes the whole experience in stride.

While the German couple and the fromager discussed the finer points of differently aged Tomme, I passed the time practicing polite cheese phrases like I was rehearsing for the State of the Union.

Here are some useful phrases that I found on the La Cuisine Paris website.

• Quels fromages sont en saison? – What cheeses are in season?

• Qu’est-ce que vous me conseillez? – What do you recommend?

• Est-ce possible de goûter le… – Could I try a taste of…

• Une tranche de le Délice de Bourgogne, s’il vous plaît – A piece of le Délice de Bourgogne, please.

When it was my turn, I moseyed up to the cheese counter with the swagger of a Parisian doyenne and only stumbled over a word or two. The energetic young fromager even complimented my accent, which he probably does with all the middle-aged Anglophone ladies. With my tranches securely wrapped in paper, I felt like I had conquered something significant, even if it was just ordering fromage.

Then I went off in search of cucumbers because there is nothing more refreshing on a hot day than some cool slices sprinkled with salt. Also, it made me feel a little less guilty about all the cheese I’d be eating later.

I queued behind a woman with a cart overflowing with tote bags and a purse that contained the contents of a small pharmacy. She fumbled around for what felt like hours looking for her wallet. I kept smiling at her like an idiot, trying to convince myself that the whole exercise was charming and tres French. Finally, she paid, and I stepped up to place my order only to be reprimanded for being at the wrong end of the line. Mince!

That’s when French Sacha vanished and I could feel my face flush turn the color of a ripe Marmande tomato. Instead of going to the end of the line, I muttered au revoir — I’ll get my cucumbers elsewhere under my breath and stomped off to Monoprix for air conditioning and some chilled rosé to soothe my fragile ego.

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