You’d think I’d start with something Spanish. Manchego. Cabrales. That weird pink triangle cheese Miquel tried to hand me at the market that looked like it had been soaked in sangria and shame.
But no. We’re starting with Brie.
Because Brie understands me.
Brie is the friend who shows up slightly late but brings good wine. The one who listens without judgment while you cry about a man who makes honey but doesn’t return texts. The one who says, “No, Clara, you don’t need new tiles. You need to lie on the floor and eat this entire round of cheese with a spoon.”
There are two types of Brie you’ll find in Spain:
- The supermarket variety, encased in plastic wrap and sadness, that tastes faintly of rubber gloves.
- The imported Brie de Meaux that costs as much as a small chainsaw but makes you whisper inappropriate things to your fridge.
I obviously buy the second. I tell myself it’s therapy. Cheaper than wine. Lie.
Here’s the thing about Brie: it starts firm, then melts if you don’t pay attention. Just like me at dinner parties when someone mentions their ex.
The Spanish, in general, are suspicious of Brie. Too creamy. Too soft. Too French. My neighbour Pilar once referred to it as “cheese that gave up.” And yet—every time I sneak it into a picnic, it’s gone first.
I once brought a Brie tart to a village potluck. No one touched it. Until Rosa (yes, bakery Rosa) accidentally mistook it for flan and took a bite. She paused. Chewed. Licked her lips. Said, “Esto no es flan… pero tampoco está mal.”
(It’s not flan… but it’s not bad either.)
I almost wept.
Pair it with:
- A crisp cava
- A French baguette you drove 42 minutes to Perpignan for
- A bad idea and a Thursday night
Storage tip: Don’t store Brie near fruit unless you want the entire thing to smell like peaches. I learned that the weepy way.
Emotional tip: Don’t eat Brie while listening to Edith Piaf. You’ll either call your mother or text your ex. Or both. I called Margaux’s old voicemail. Just silence and the faint sound of pigeons.
Brie doesn’t demand affection. It waits. It softens. It forgives.
It’s French, like half of me. And misunderstood, like most of me.
That’s why Brie gets to go first.
Next week: I try to love Tetilla, the Spanish cheese shaped like a boob.
Spoiler: I fail.
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