Cream of the Crop Read Free

full of concrete. I saw excitement, lively, vibrant, architecturally magnificent. A college friend had once asked me, “It’s only thirteen miles long, two miles wide. Don’t you get bored of seeing the same things every single day?”
    I’d drawn myself up and told him, “It’s 13.4 miles long, and 2.3 miles at its widest part near Fourteenth Street. And anyone who could get bored in Manhattan doesn’t deserve Manhattan.” I’m not friends with fools.
    I walked along the street, noticing for the thousandth time how charming my neighborhood was. Anyone who thought New York was endless blocks of cement and concrete high-rises had never spent any time downtown. Or in Midtown for that matter. Or the Upper West Side. Or the Upper East Side. Regardless of where you plunk yourself down on my island, I can guarantee you that you’re within a few blocks of a park. A green space. An old beautiful brownstone. A hundred-year-old pub. There are pocket neighborhoods and incredible history literally around every single corner. And in a city made up of corners and right angles and hard turns, I lived in the pocket that was all wonky angles and soft turns, winding streets and impossible-to-follow street signs. Off the city grid, in a neighborhood built before the city laid out its easy-on-the-eyes pattern. The West Village.
    And it was in this Village that my favorite cheese shop on the entire planet lived, this cheese shop that I walked three blocks south of my normal route to stare at. And quite possibly drool at.
    Cheese. Cheeeeeese. What a thin, flat, nasal-sounding word for such a luscious, rich, gorgeous thing. Hard. Soft. Ripe. Grainy. Creamy. Often stinky. I’d yet to find a cheese I didn’t adore.
    My love affair with cheese went back to childhood, when I’d sit in our kitchen with a dish of ricotta sprinkled with sugar. My mother, a world-renowned artist, would work on her sketches; there were countless sketches in every room of our brownstone. I’d eat scoop after scoop of the decadent cheese, and we’d talk about anything and everything. As I got older, my palate developed further, and I continued my love of all things dairy. If I ever developed lactose intolerance, I’d throw myself into the East River.
    I’d often wondered if the size of my considerable posteriorwas directly related to my love of Gorgonzola. If the size of my thighs was exacerbated by my craving for Edam. Probably. But I could live with big thighs and a grabbable ass. Live without Roquefort? Perish the thought!
    As I approached La Belle Fromage, I felt the fontina sending out a tendril or two. Come here, Natalie, lay your gentle head down on these pillows of C amembert, or cradle a ch è vre against your lovely bosom. And here, Natalie — come sit by this English cheddar, a cheeky bastard but strong and capable, willing to prop you up if you are tired from your long journey underground  . . .
    â€œNever skip lunch again,” I muttered to myself as I pushed open the heavy oak and lead-glass door.
    â€œThere she is!” a voice sang out, and my favorite cheese monger, Philippe, came around the counter.
    â€œMy beautiful Natalie. I worried when I didn’t see you! It’s almost six o’clock, I was almost ready to close up!”
    â€œHad to work a little late.” I smiled, leaning in for the double kiss but with a curious look. “How’d you know I’d be stopping by?”
    He rolled his eyes in a way that only a Frenchman could get away with without seeming rude. “ Ê tre vénère . You think I don’t know the habits of my best customer? Always on Friday, always on your way home. ‘How’d you know I’d be stopping by’ indeed . . .” He walked around the counter muttering, knowing I’d follow. The shop was almost empty, just one other customer. Younger guy, knit cap, with a few blond curls