This trip to Los Angeles has been both radically normal and extraordinarily California in its mundane weirdness. And I love it. This Saturday afternoon I’m sipping a bubbly hibiscus tea in Los Feliz, watching cute young men far cooler than me groove along to This is Lorelei over cortados and conversation.
No, I didn’t stop at the matcha stand set up on a corner about half a mile away. If I liked matcha, I definitely would have because who doesn’t love entrepreneurship/recession indicators?
I’m feeling the pinch. Due to some financial forgetfulness/stupidity on my part, I almost found myself in need of peddling goods on the street when I arrived on Tuesday. Not like traveling broke is a new thing for me. I’m getting used to it.
What 53-year-old grown-ass woman doesn’t love getting financially bailed out by her parents? Thanks, Mom n’ Dad!
Things are fine now, even with taking my broke ass to Beverly Hills for the first time ever on Thursday. I never felt any need to venture into that part of LA. I’ve been here enough to know I’m very much aligned with the east side of the city, save for jaunts into West Hollywood to visit a friend who lives there. But I’ve gotten hooked on the Instagram account of The Cheese Store of Beverly Hills and I wanted to pay them a visit.
Wanting to visit a cheese shop is just about as ridiculous as going to Beverly Hills, since I worked in a cheese/gourmet shop for nearly five years and was bored out of my mind most of the time. I did enjoy teaching people about cheese, and how to pair cheeses with other foods and beverages, though. I think I just wasn’t crazy about doing this for $9/hour in my 40s with a whole culinary career behind me.
So, Beverly Hills is very pretty, except for the hoards of Cybertrucks. Who knew so many men in that part of town were unable to get laid? So many Cybertrucks. Since I’m driving a cheap little Hyundai, I refrained from doing what I usually do when I see a Cybertruck—pointing and laughing.
But this cheese store … WOW. If you’re a fan of fermented milk products, it’s a must-visit spot. Tiny and cramped, with cases and cases of some of the most beautiful cheeses in the world, including an entire case dedicated to my favorite food, blue cheese.
First things first, I ordered a sandwich. The Il Domenico, a baguette loaded with a two-inch thick layer of prosciutto that had been aged 24 months, then smeared with Stracciatella (that’s the luscious, creamy stuff inside burrata), and stacked with sun-dried tomatoes).
Then I talked to one of the cheesemongers. I had already decided that, to keep myself within my budget and the time constraints of my trip, I was allowed one-quarter pound of a blue cheese and nothing else. It had to be a blue cheese that I can’t get back home, preferably something rare and unique.
The monger presented me with a little sample spoon filled with Rogue Caveman Blue. It’s made in tiny batches in Oregon, aged in a cave so it has a little bit of a mushroomy funk, a fudgey texture speckled with crystals, and a perfect blue punch that made me get a little teary. Or maybe that was my inner child, who discovered blue cheese on the buffet at Flat Creek Inn in Sedalia, Missouri at age three and never looked back.
While I’d planned to sample a bunch, it wasn’t necessary. I was in love with the caveman and I took him home. He’s going to be dinner tonight.
We've been over how much I love the LA phenomenon of places that aren’t actual restaurants that sell sandwiches from windows and have a few outdoor tables for quick dining. I’d already been to my beloved Maison Matho as soon as I got to town on Tuesday, even buying an extra sandwich to have the next day. And I might have had lunch there today. But c’mon … it’s the most perfect jambon beurre this side of Paris. Or so I’m told. And I believe.
While I didn’t get my sandwich from a window at The Cheese Store, it was the next best thing: a small stand in the shop. Unfortunately, all the tables outside were still full despite it being close to 3:00, so I walked back to the parking garage to eat my sandwich in my car.
You know where this is going if you’ve been reading 6 Days for any length of time, don’t you? The vestibular migraine nausea that comes with even the slightest exertion. I got to the top of the stairs on my parking level and, you guessed it, stated heaving.
I have now vomited rare cheese in public in Beverly Hills. Fancy! I’m moving up in the world where I puked chili in Cincinnati!
Like most normal people, throwing up used to turn me off of eating, especially the food that came up. I think I now throw up so often that it’s ceased to be an issue. It might be because the nausea is caused by my brain and not some gastric flaw. I don’t know, but after I left my mark in the parking garage, I went to my car and dug in to that funky Italian ham, rejoicing that I can puke, take a few swigs of water, and chow down like nothing happened.
Bodies are weird.
When I finished my sandwich, I headed east. There wasn’t anything else in Beverly Hills that interested me much. And rush hour had started. Not that this was a bad thing. I enjoyed the slow drive along Santa Monica Boulevard through West Hollywood, then along the tourist traps on Hollywood Boulevard as the city morphed into the place where I’m comfortable and feel so connected to myself. There’s a good chance I’ll venture back to Beverly Hills some day for cheese and sandwiches again. Hopefully will less vomiting.
If you’d like to buy me a street matcha, I’d drink it and probably won’t complain too much about it tasting like grass.
Gotta think vomiting rare cheese in public in Beverly Hills puts you in good company!