Petite Basque

She loved to shop for cheese. There were three select little stores within ten block radius from each other -- each with an overwhelming cheese presence -- where she did a bulk of her shopping. Perhaps, the opening of that third shop, just three blocks south down Market Street from her apartment building, triggered the onset of her passion. Their cheese section was located in the front of the store and included three separate refrigerating displays and plenty of samples. It is also possible that her love affair with cheese was accidentally brokered by a newspaper one day when she was taking the MUNI to her dentist appointment downtown and picked up a Wine and Cheese section a kind soul had left behind. Cheese was a weekly feature: a new volunteer described in minute detail from rind to aftertaste every Friday. She would always remember the name of the hero who compromised her cheese virginity: Petite Basque. At $17 a pound, it was not a cheese she could easily afford. It took her almost three weeks to find it in the neighborhood stores and then another two to build up the courage to buy. The world had never held so much potential for her until that moment.