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On cheese at Borough Market

Reliably, the cheese stand at Borough Market is staffed by Gallic dreamboats: dark and broody-looking, sporting old jumpers and scarves, looking like they would really rather be reading Sartre (I really did once see one of them in a cafe reading a philosophy book). Such has been the case for the six years I’ve been buying cheese here. The men working today are new to me, but they are still lovely, dark and deep.

Lauren and I ponder the selection in the sale bin. It is not labeled.

That, says one Gallic dreamboat, is a very runny cow. That, he says, is goat.

Lauren and I smile. We nod.

Is any of it unpasteurised? I say, not because I want some, not especially, but because it is the only intelligent question about cheese that I know to ask.

Is there any unpasteurised? the Gallic dreamboat asks the second one.

No, says the other Gallic dreamboat.

We hand the first one our cash and as he fiddles for our change, the second Gallic dreamboat pulls him aside. They turn away and whisper, en Francais. They turn back, and regard us.

Sorry, says the first one. We were making some naughty associations between cheese and love.