Can Stinky be Delicious?

Now that my residence is currently in the Village, I have taken to somewhat convincing people that the two months I have spent in the city have made me a glorified expert about the Village food and eating scene. However, the word “convince” is really the key. With little holes and crevices of eatery establishments, I am by no-means the know-all of the area. And yet there are a few things I have picked up: The Puerto Rican coffee shop, Magnolia’s Bakery, and Murray’s Cheese. The later of which I am determined to be buried in so I can eternally lavish in the smell of milk, salt, goat, cow, for the duration of my time.

I have a system when I pass by Murray’s Cheese. The first is that I have to pass by the store. This is for the obvious reason that if I so much as purposely walk by store, it would take up far too much of time (rearranging routes to see the daily special), and in addition to severely depleting my bank account (New York City is so much more expensive than the rural throws of upstate New York). But this week I was ordered by my vacation couch potato brother to stop in the store for some well deserved nourishment. I was commanded to follow strict orders “stinky cheese, but not blue” and I continued to ponder this request and wondered if in fact stinky and blue were anomalous with each other and could not in fact be separated.

The next step in my usual pattern of buying at Murray’s is to never go in the store looking for something. Rather, I treat the store as a treasure trove where hidden jewels are hidden beneath the fancy labels of prize winning cheeses from France. I usually just press my head up against the glass and try to imagine the smell of success that exudes from the small gleams of gold and silver wrappers that hide creamy centers.

And then, there is Bob. Well, his name isn’t Bob, but he looks like one to me and though we greet each other with knowing smiles of recognition, we have never formally introduced ourselves. But none the less, Bob is by far the most knowledgeable Fromager, in addition to giving out large samples that far exceed the recommended sampling size. Anyway, I was waiting for Bob who was assisting a hip twenty-something who was asking if Humboldt Fog could be used for grilled cheese. A petite woman barely visible behind the counter, except for a fleck of an olive green beret asked if I needed anything. I was short on time and decided to take a chance on the slim woman, but instinct told me trouble (There’s just something about a slim foodie that screams trouble).

As usual, I relied on the hands of the skilled Monsieur (or in this case Mademoiselle) Fromager to guide my selection. My usual routine was to ask Bob for his recommendation while he doled out olives and bits of roasted pepper as we chatted. Unsure of her generosity, I asked Mademoiselle for two pungent cheese that we not from the blue domain (a slightly more mature version from what my brother had said). She nodded and pulled one cheese and then another that I both found to be delicious. I thanked her, finally got Bob’s attention to give a wave, and hurried over to the counter.

As I was strolling back along Bleeker, happy with myself with the good choices and fast pace, I thought to that Friday when I would need to catch the train home to New Jersey. I had to go from class to work with my luggage with me and so had to keep the cheese bundled up in my suitcase for six hours. I had done the same feat before with milder varieties and though the cheese was initially soft, borderline melty when I finally arrived home, a stint in the refrigerator stabilized the cheese and I planned for the same action.

And that brings us to today, Friday. While I was busy pretending to look up facts about Irish National History, while instead browsing the pages of Epicurious, my boss yelled out, “What smells?” At first I was unperturbed by the remark, until I too smelled the pungent aroma of a barnyard. Uh oh. I sat calmly and hoped that maybe the smell would dilute with the constant opening of the front door, but the aroma stayed and my boss become even more curious to uncover the smell. Ten minutes lapsed of opening up the numerous garbage bins, looking in the bathroom (ew), and asking colleagues if they left food out on their desks. Let me just say that it wasn’t that I was embarrassed by the olfactory notes of my cheese. It’s just not the most appealing thing to tell someone that you went out to buy very stinky cheese, didn’t think that the lack of refrigeration would ferment the smell, and was too embarrassed to say anything for 10 minutes while the whole office stopped what they were doing to search for the odor’s origin.

So while my boss promises to never let me live this down, I cannot wait to catch the Path from 9th Street to Hoboken to then River Edge (wow maybe I am a savvy New Yorker?) so I can finally refrigerate the cheeses. Maybe by tomorrow when I unwrap the cheese from its paper package and slowly cut off the rind, I will be able to smell the musk of the cheese without turning slightly red.