Eating as I Go: Scenes from America and Abroad

THE BEST CHEESE IN THE WORLD

130 ฀Coimbra,฀Portugal,฀1987 Our neighbor Francisco, a portly man of sixty, hangs out weekends in the doorway of his street-front garage. Weather permitting, he soaks up the sun while gossiping with friends. When he spots Eli and me heading his way, arms laden with books, beer, and bread, he beckons us inside. The dim room resembles a hardware store. Metal shelves, brackets, tins of nails, and stacks of cardboard boxes cover the concrete floor. “From my factory in the north,” he says in Portuguese, gesturing at the clutter. “We manufacture.” I’m puzzled. Surely Francisco hasn’t invited us into the garage to admire his industrial shelving. Adjusting to the light, I notice bushels of oranges, potatoes, and onions lined up along the rear wall. “From my farms,” he adds. “I grow.” Like many Portuguese, Francisco continues to cultivate land in his ancestral village. He lets us know that there is nothing better for a city dweller than eating his own farm-grown produce. By way of demonstration, he sniffs an orange and passes it to Eli. Eli holds the orange to his nose, out of respect, for twenty long seconds. “Muito bon,” he says, understating the compliment in the Portuguese fashion. Eager to get upstairs, I shuffle my packages and look meaningfully at my husband. But Eli is intrigued. He waits patiently for Francisco to make his pitch. Patience, Eli knows from his measured, painstaking approach to painting, is first cousin to cunning; both are investments in secrets to be discovered. Eli will prowl a beach, alert for tiny treasures in the sand, while I march ahead, face toward the sun. I am impatient by nature. I shoot off my mouth, often for the pleasure attached to a speedy formulation. A fast starter, I’m likely to weary of a problem just as Eli is warming up. This afternoon, in Francisco’s garage, there’s no urgency to be elsewhere. Go easy, Eli urges me with an attentive look; something curious is brewing. At home in New Jersey, we both feel the pressure to be off and doing. Abroad, we slow down; we relish our freedom from routine obligations to family, friends, colleagues,andhousekeeping.Creativedisruption, Icallit: in thiscase, sixmonths in Portugal, courtesy of another teaching Fulbright (at Coimbra University) and a preretirement sabbatical for Eli. THE฀BEST฀CHEESE฀IN฀THE฀WORLD THE BEST CHEESE IN THE WORLD 131 In January 1987 we set up housekeeping on the outskirts of Coimbra, a historic university town two hours north of Lisbon. Now, halfway through our stay, we can chitchat in minimal Portuguese. Drawing on our French, my Spanish, and Eli’s Italian, we take in much more than we can produce. Since my colleagues in the Department of Anglo-American Studies, who are also our friends, speak fluent English, we practice our Portuguese each day with waiters and shopkeepers. In Portugal, we had decided, I would not cook. We would leave the burdens A GLOBAL APPETITE 132 of shopping, preparing, serving, and washing up to restaurant wage earners. Liberation for the working woman! Eating out—either lunch or dinner, depending on my teaching schedule—has skewed our language skills toward food. The word laranja hovers in the air. I wonder whether our neighbor is pushing oranges. And if so, how many will he expect us to buy? Francisco inspects his potatoes and then his onions. Do we like cheese, he wants to know—good Portuguese cheese, queijo da serra? From the Serra da Estrela , Mountain of the Star, he has brought a few rounds of “the best cheese in the world.” The very best, he insists. From sheep. Like butter. Like Brie, but better. Madeentirelybyhand.Areweinterested?Heplacesinmyhandsatough-skinned, light-mud-colored round of cheese. It is about nine inches in diameter and heavy, more than two pounds. The cylindrical rim is swathed with a crude, linenlike bandage that functions as flood control for the soft, runny center. Perhaps Francisco has read horoscopes this morning, and he’s been promised fair-weather dealings with friends and neighbors. Of course we like cheese. We give a good cheese the right temperature, decent bread, and a proper glass of wine. In fact, we’ve been a bit cheese-starved in Portugal—insufficiently adventurous in the markets and poorly rewarded for our occasional, haphazard purchases. The moment, like Francisco’s queijo, is ripe. We nod. He weighs the...