My Apprenticeship in French Cheese … and French Living

2.7K

The first time I lived in France, I was a young student sent to Nice, on the Côte d’Azur, for a year. I arrived full of curiosity and anticipation, and was immediately bowled over by the light of the South, the warmth of the climate, and the effortless charm of the city itself.

I rented a small flat on rue Shakespeare — a fitting address for a fresh-faced Brit abroad — bought a bicycle, and quickly began to explore Nice and the nearby coastline. But beyond the sea and the architecture, one of the most important aspects of my adaptation to life in France turned out to be something far more everyday: food.

I soon discovered the pleasure of buying fresh, seasonal food at local markets, particularly the large farmers’ market just ten minutes from my apartment, open every morning from seven until noon. It was a sensory revelation. The colours, the aromas, the abundance — everything felt vibrant and alive. I was instantly tempted to try unfamiliar ingredients, hunt down recipes, and learn by doing. Those early weeks were filled with excitement and discovery.

Among the many stalls, one stood out above all others: a generous, beautifully arranged cheese stand, shelves stacked with what felt like hundreds of different cheeses. The first time I paused in front of it, my confusion must have been obvious. I recognised very few of the cheeses before me, and embarrassed by my lack of knowledge, I was on the verge of walking away empty-handed.

The vendor had other ideas. “Bonjour Mademoiselle, voulez-vous goûter un fromage?” Would you like to taste a cheese?

It would have been rude to refuse. “Merci… oui.” “Très bien. Vous préférez quoi?” What do you prefer?

I looked at him, helpless. Words were unnecessary; my ignorance was crystal clear. He smiled, cut a small sliver of Comté, and offered it to me, balanced delicately on the tip of a long knife.

That single bite was a revelation. The complexity of flavours — nutty, floral, grassy — was astonishing. Still smiling, he asked me what I could taste. I hesitated, then began listing the flavours that came to mind. He listened carefully, nodded, and explained where the cheese came from.

Then he cut another sliver, this time from a neighbouring wheel. “Taste this one.”

The flavours were different again. He explained that although both cheeses came from the same appellation, the producers lived on opposite sides of a wide valley. Different pastures, different exposure, different grasses — and therefore, a different expression of the same cheese.

That day, I left the market with a bag filled with carefully chosen small pieces of cheese, all from the same region. I didn’t realise it then, but this marked the beginning of a year-long apprenticeship in French cheese.

On my second visit, I learned his name was Jean. From then on, each week I returned to the market to hear him greet me with: “Alors mademoiselle, on va où aujourd’hui?” Where are we going today? Week by week, we travelled gastronomically through the pastures of France. Each visit ended with a bag of cheese, which Jean called my homework. On my next visit, he would quiz me on which I had preferred and why.

He taught me about seasonality — which cheeses to buy in summer, which to wait for in winter. He introduced me to goat’s cheeses and ewe’s milk cheeses, explaining textures, ageing, and production methods. He showed me photographs of producers he had visited personally, people he knew by name.

French cheese, I learned, is not simply a product. It is geography, climate, tradition, and human knowledge passed down over generations.

After returning to Nice following a Christmas visit home to England, it was my turn to bring a cheese to the market: a particularly fine piece of British Stilton. Jean tasted it thoughtfully, shared his impressions, and finally nodded in approval. It felt like a moment of mutual respect — a small but meaningful exchange between cultures.

That year living in France enriched me in countless ways, but Jean and his cheeses were an essential part of the experience. When I left Nice a year later, we said goodbye and never met again. Yet I still think of him often — of his kindness, his generosity, and the pride he took in sharing his knowledge.

Through cheese, he taught me how France reveals itself: patiently, generously, and always through the pleasure of the senses.