There are few things in life that really intimidate me, one is walking into a Phoenician class completely unprepared to read a 10th century inscription, and the second is the cheese lady on HaPalmach Street.
As I enter the “convenience” store and make my way through the vegetable section, making my samplings, it is the cheese counter at the end of the row that is in my minds eye. I peer anxiously ahead to see who is on duty today, and nearly always it is the Cheese Lady. Now what can be so frightening about someone who cuts cheese and waits on cliental you are thinking? Well its obvious that you have never met the ferocious, unpredictable tiger that manages the stinky, smooth and selected fromages on HaPalmach!
I approach and stand opposite. The counter between us. She stands chatting to the sweet and burly meat man down the way and pretends for five minutes that she doesn’t see me. I am waiting patiently. Then she turns on me with this annoyed look, (that’s right someone wants to buy some nice cheddar cheese if you would oblige) and gives me this evil eye challenging me to mess with her. If I am lucky she skips the pretending part and downright ignores me, hell she has time, I’ve got to make time. The pastry man sometimes out of shame comes and tends on the growing queue- that’s right; I am not her only nemesis.
On the occasion that the pastry man is out of town, we two lovebirds circle one another until she yells out, “ken geveret vemah at rotsa?” Yes Woman and what do you want? ..at this point, I am not sure I am holding the upper ground anymore and I select a cheese with my finger and respond with the desired quantity. Here if I am fortunate all goes smoothly, but more often than not she will yell at me, for no apparent reason, and mumble under her breath that the youths don’t know good cheese anymore. She slaps the cheese around like a live fish out of water, and God forbid you ask to taste a piece of new cheese- what is this a restaurant!? She gnashes her teeth and cuts you a sliver, you try and put it in you mouth but the piece is so small, you can’t taste anything. So that’s when you get out the fake grin and proceed dauntless nonetheless. After the cheese has been sliced and bagged unceremoniously she chucks it onto the counter with one hand, as if she was throwing away a disinherited child. With hands on hips she stares at the wall and asks if I want anything else. At this stage I am so demoralized and browbeaten I withdraw to the row of baked beans; I haven’t responded to her question- it’s more of a phrase they drilled in her brain that means nothing and requires no feedback. So as I stand there clutching my stupid cheese I vow that next time, next time I am going to show her whose boss.
It’s been about 8 months now since the battle lines were drawn…
1 comment:
I suggest that next time you are overcome with cheese fever, that suitably armed with a mouse you have saved from an experimental farm, you approach yon Cheese Lady, muttering ancient texts having to do with the nobility of rodents in general, and as she pointedly avoids you, release yon paroled rodent near her feet. Await results.
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