Page 127 of Why Cheese?
“Damn, I didn’t even notice.” Brie takes off, offering a thousand apologies for being a few minutes late. A couple of other people join him for the evening, two having to disentangle from Cam’s reading. That man’s sitting sideways on the chair, one foot swaying in the air while he recites a tale of every throbbing manhood on the rowing team.
A great clap cuts through the air. “Who’s ready for this!” Cheddy shouts to a chorus of cheers.
He’s standing at the center counter. Instead of the single long one from before, we switched it to a U with a little pedestal for the center person to be visible from all directions. Cheddy nods to the people, mostly men of the thick-necked, backward-cap variety. They paid good money to be here for this and are ready for anything.
From the cabinet, Cheddy pulls out a black box. The people ooh and ahh as he tugs a key out from under his wet shirt, then inserts it into the lock. All for show, of course, but the roll of smoke from the hole is certainly a great spectacle. A few claps follow, then they all whoop as he lifts the first cheese.
“We’re gonna start this challenge off easy. This cheddar is made with ground scorpion chilies.” He slices off a piece of the yellow cheese and pops it in his mouth. “Not bad,” Cheddy declares. His lips heat to a neon red as he cuts a piece for everyone who paid to be tortured.
One by one, they down their one-inch cubes. High fives are exchanged, screams are shouted, and people shake their hands. “That’s not so bad,” one of the men declares even as tears drip from his eyes.
Cheddy nods. “Now this one…” He holds up a brick of cheddar dyed blood red. “Contains the ghost pepper.” Without pause, he cuts off an entire two inches and swallows it. “Woo! Kicks like an armored horse.”
As he carves the next round for people, one man exclaims, “Dude, I eat ghost peppers on my cereal.” He points to the final and mysterious black cheese. “What about that one?”
“Oh, we’ll get to it,” Cheddy assures him as he hands out the ghost pepper cheese. “If you survive.” A few people smile and nod as they bite down, but just as many lunge for the complimentary cups of milk.
“Nah, man.” The proudest dude bro shoves away the ghost pepper cheddar. “I want the black one.”
Cheddy shrugs. “As you say.” He slits open the packaging and the air sizzles. I clasp a hand over my nose to stop it from burning. The others do the same, eyes watering just from being near it. Cheddy cleaves off two pieces, puts one in a paper cut, and hands it over.
“Might want to take a little nibble first,” he instructs.
The man snickers to his bros, then he tips the cup back. Regret instantly knots up his face. His mouth drops in a dry scream. Only smoke rolls out. Waving his hands frantically in front of his face, he nosedives for his cup of milk. Half pours down his chin. But even as the glass empties, he shakes his head as if he wants to run away from his own esophagus.
“Bro, how is it?” his friend asks with a snicker.
“Bad?” another answers for him, laughs starting as the panic ramps up.
Cheddy watches it all with a curious look. He pops the jet-black cheese in his mouth and swallows. “Hmm, not bad,” he says with a strained laugh.
I slide in beside him while keeping upwind from the black cheese. As I run my palm over his gurgling stomach, I ask, “Where’s Roq?”
“Where he always is,” Cheddy answers before raising his hands to the crowd. “Who’s ready for round three?”
The applause is more muted for the next go, especially as the man who cut the line is redder than a tomato and sweating buckets. “It’s fine,” he sputters. “I’ve got it.”
I know better than to go anywhere near one of Chedward’s extra-spicy concoctions. The day after we visited that pepper festival, it became his life’s mission to create the hottest cheese that didn’t also burn through its metal mold. There had been a few close calls over the year.
“Excuse me.” I ease my way around a couple enjoying one of the in-store charcuterie boards and wines. They’re wisely watching instead of participating in Cheddy’s challenge. At the open trap door, I call out, “Roq?”
“Down here.” His voice echoes off of the installed stairs.
Running my fingers down the banister, I make my way into the cellar. Edison bulbs dangle by the dozens from the roof, chasing away the dank. Standing front and center, Roq’s got an apron strapped across his wide frame. He tugs on a pair of gloves and adjusts the little paper hat nestled on his head.
“What is the first step?” he asks the five people standing before him with notebooks in hand. They flip back through the pages and try to read. I start to count down, watching a few lift their heads and move their lips.
“Warm the milk,” Roq interrupts. “It has to be a proper temperature for the cultures. Alan, could you be so kind as to flip the switch?”
Instead of striking a flint on old coals, Alan presses one of the buttons on the vat that starts up a proper heating coil below the floor. “Please keep your distance from the vat as it warms. I don’t want anyone to get burned,” Roq says. “This is a good time to go over cultures. What do we use to create feta cheese? Elaine?”
“Um…”
“A blend of mesophilic and thermophilic cultures.” I step forward into the light. Roq’s no-nonsense professor act wavers as he spots me. For a moment, he gives me a heartwarming smile.
In a snap, he turns back on his students. “That’s correct. Why do we use that particular blend? Derek?”
“Because of…phils?”
