Around this time last year — when I was working as a cheesemonger at a specialty store up in Northern California — my hands would begin to tremble every time a bearded man walked in the door.
Not that I don't like facial hair, or the people behind it. It's just that, well, the younger bearded hipsters that walked into our shop were usually after one thing: soft, stinky cheese that upon unwrapping, assaulted the entire room with the unwholesome odor of wet feet.
At 9 a.m. sometimes, these people would come in, hopped up on $4 cups of shade-grown coffee and ready to taste every stinker in the case. The intense odors got more ridiculous as they went on, gregariously, savoring each flavor as their eyes rolled back in their heads. (For pleasure or pain, I'm still not sure.)
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