I've worked in and around cheese for more than 23 years.  The short answer of how is here, but the long answer is much more entertaining.  We start at Bloomingdales in 1984.

Counterintelligence During the Fall of the Velveeta Empire vol. 1

The woman asked for New York State Cheddar.<p></p>

Immediately, I was thrilled; in fact, I could barely contain my glee.  This was the first moment of the first day on a new job.  And it wasn’t just any new job.  It was the summer of 1984, two years after I’d graduated college, intent on becoming a writer.  My first post-collegiate job turned into a marathon nightmare of 100 hour workweeks that left no time whatsoever for writing (and little for sleeping or leisure).  This was my first day on the sales floor at Bloomingdale’s fresh food area, a part time job that I figured would pay my share of the rent (which was barely $350 in a Nolita duplex; doesn’t 1984 seem like a long time ago?) and enable me to develop a journalism career.<p></p>

I had done this kind of food service work in Texas when I was in high school and loved it; in fact, I loved being around food either for work or pleasure.  But I was keenly aware that <street><address>59^th Street</address></street> and <street><address>Lexington Avenue</address></street> was pretty far away both geographically and culturally from <place>North Dallas</place>.  The selection of cheese looked mostly unfamiliar, and I expected exotic requests.  But when my very first customer, a tall, stout Trinidadian woman, responded to my carefully honed greeting of “welcome to Bloomingdales, how may I help you” with a request for New York State cheddar, I immediately felt as if everything in my life was now going to work out just fine.  I might have been new to the job and its environs, but I felt completely at home.<p></p>

I reached into the case found a big brick of New York cheddar, pulled back the plastic wrap on the cheese and confidently placed my knife on the orange rectangle looked her in the eye, smiled, and said, “right about there?” <p></p>

My request was met with stony silence; after a few seconds I began to think something was terribly wrong.  <p></p>

I don’t recall exactly what she said as it quickly mutated into one long warbly mush, kind of like the adults in Peanuts, but in a Trinidadian patois.<p></p>

I stood there confused and frozen.  My tidy plans for the rest of my life and all my confidence in handling this brand new job were dissolving at an alarming speed.  I felt I was on an island and not a <place>Caribbean</place> vacation destination but a deserted one where everything—even the sand--was on fire.  Out of nowhere, one of my coworkers, Tony, whom I’d met the day before during a brief introduction to my sales area, stepped in.  He smiled at the woman, an announced “New York State SHEV?”<p></p>

Her rant stopped on a dime. She looked a bit piqued at being corrected on her pronunciation but meekly nodded. Tony then reached into small refrigerator behind the display case and pulled out a tray of small cylinders of fresh white cheeses.  He plopped one into a small plastic cup, secured the lid, went to the register, rang her up and sent her silently on her way.   <p></p>

            I was impressed.<p></p>

            “It sucks that they don’t give you new guys any training” he sighed.  <p></p>

            This was true. I spent three days of “training” in an upstairs classroom listening to some woman explain how to say “welcome to Bloomingdales, how may I help you,” and which in house restaurant to go to if one our superiors asked us to lunch or dinner (she was young and attractive by almost any standard, so it wasn’t hard to imagine that this dilemma was a daily quandary for her; for geeky, gawky me, I was somewhat annoyed by the irrelevant counsel).<p></p>

For the last hour of the third day, we were sent down to the sales floor to get our sea legs.  My other new foodies were shown how to operate the electric slicing machine for charcuterie meats and other skills I already possessed thanks to my two years in the deli in <state><place>Texas</place></state>. I was sent to the adjacent Michel Gerrard boutique where Tony, a medium built guy with thick Mediterranean facial features, worked.  He was initially annoyed at having a new kid to assist him in closing his sales area, but he quickly warmed to my ability to quickly seal dishes in plastic wrap and put them away in a knee high refrigerated case.  To show his gratitude, he introduced me to foie gras, which I took to hungrily only to spend the evening at home in bathroom atoning for my gluttony. <p></p>

            Tony was putting away the tray that had the little forms of chevre, when he stopped and said “hey <state><place>Tex</place></state> (a nickname I quickly put a stop to), you probably haven’t ever had goat cheese before.”<p></p>

            I shrugged; I hadn’t.  <p></p>

            He reached into the knife rack and pulled out a small spade like instrument that I would later learn was a cheese plane, reopened the tray of small white cheeses, and ran the side of the plane over the surface of one form.  He offered it to me with the instruction to drag my finger across the edge.  I did, taking half the cheese offered figuring that we were splitting the sample.  Then with my mind flashing back to the previous night and quickly seeing my hero with horns, I hesitated.  He let out a loud guffaw, “oh it won’t hurt you like the foie gras.”  <p></p>

            And it didn’t.  Instead it reminded me of another dazzling culinary experience, my first encounter with Haagen Dazs ice cream some six years earlier.  The Johnsons were a food conscious family, but in the ‘70s, we pretty much only got as high as Bryer’s when it came to at home ice cream food chain.  When my high school pal Steve introduced me to Haagen Dazs, I was almost overwhelmed with the richness and distinction of the flavors.  I thought the same thing here.  <p></p>

            “What do you think?” asked Tony somewhat eagerly.  <p></p>

            “It’s really good,” I responded, “but [not thinking that Haagen Dazs was an apropos comparison] I really have nothing to compare it to.”<p></p>

            “That’s okay we have lots of stuff that will.  This is so much better than the stuff from Coach Farm,” he said.  I gave him a blank stare that he must have found annoying. <p></p>

            “Oh they’re the guys who sold their famous handbag company to move upstate and make goat cheese.  The Goat Folks,” he said pointing to the tray, “are way hipper.  Anyway, we have lots of good cheese here.”<p></p>

            I nodded, my mind racing furiously to catch up and process all this information.  For one, they made cheese from goat’s milk and it’s called chevre though some people pronounced it like it was cheddar.  Two, a company run by folks who escaped corporate life to run a farm wasn’t the epitome of hip; there were other higher levels.  And three, this stuff was delicious, and we had lots more varieties of it.  <p></p>

            I smiled as Tony excused himself to go back to the Gerrard boutique.  I had thought that this was going to be an interesting new experience and possibly a turning point in my life and fifteen minutes in, as best I could tell, I was right.  <p></p>

            I looked out to the counter to see if there were any customers waiting and I hoped they wanted something simple like Brie or Jarlsberg. I was going to need some time to come up to speed on all this new stuff.   <p></p>