parisian, when i grow up.

i bought two kinds of cheese from the grocery store, but by the time i had made dinner & prepared all of the food, i could not remember the names of the cheeses. frederic, after taking one quickest look & sniff, said "ah, ca c'est cantal, et l'autre est saint marchal." his mother used to take him to the fromagerie on saturday afternoons.
he took a big slice & had is hand expectantly, absent-mindedly on his stomach. brow furrowing, he said, mouth full, "mais non, ca c'est pas du vrais cantal. ou est-ce que vous avez l'acheté? monoprix?" i learned my lesson that the plastic wrap ruins the flavor & he said, in a way that was not arrogant, but laced with a slight pity, that i really should try it from the fromagerie on saturday.
i aspire to being able to identify cheeses by the texture, a good wine by the smell, & the perfect baguette by the way that the crisp crust gives just slightly when you squeeze its little rump.

(this picture was taken when we were making fun of fred for being the most parisian he could be. red wine, lump of cheese, cigarette, rumpled white shirt, & floppy hair.)