Find a lovely, odiferous cheese shop on the Ile St. Louis, and stop in to show the girls how many more varieties of what we lovingly call "stinky cheese" they will find here in Paris. The proprieter gives us many free cheese samples, moving from a young comte up to a much more aged and pungeunt version. There is also a rabbit sausage that G, our near vegetarian, spits out when he's not looking.
Every time I am standing there tasting the cheese with the family, he suddenly pops up from behind me with his face mere inches (centimetres, that is) from mine. He has brown teeth -- so very far from the North American dental variety. I squawk every time, and fear he may actually kiss my earlobe. When I have thought of the romance of Paris, Creepy-Man-in-a-Stinky-Cheese-Shop is not usually the first image that springs to mind. Not only does my husband never come to my rescue, he finds the entire thing hysterically funny. Then again, Anthony is the same guy who once slipped a couple twenties to two oil-slathered Vegas male strippers to make me a banana hammock sandwich, then laughed till he cried.
We buy some cheese anyway, and the girls get free postcards. I am happy to report leaving the store without a free case of genital herpes.
No comments:
Post a Comment