The fundamental nature of my situation as the Cheese Whisperer can be explained by the singular fact that I am particular to cheese. If all that lingo confused you, I apologize. I’m a lawyer - it’s in my nature to obfuscate the situation. For the present, you only need to understand one thing. I like cheese.

Maybe it’s the saltiness, or maybe I’m just addicted to MSG. I can’t tell you when exactly I began to crave this particular food group, but I do remember a perpetual gnawing hunger that drove me as a child from my crib at night to examine the contents of the fridge. Once I was old enough to understand that a block of good cheese is hard to come by, I had already plastered the walls of my room with posters and posters of the stuff. One picture, opposite my bed, was my favorite - it was a light pastoral scene that featured a row of Holsteins and advertised along the bottom, in big black block letters: WISCONSIN. COME FOR THE COWS, STAY FOR THE CHEESE.

Wisconsin. Cheese. Even as a child, I knew that’s where I wanted to live when I grew up; small town Connecticut already struggled to import enough cheese to feed me. Why not trace my favorite food right back to its source?

That was my dream, and it became reality when I moved into the sleepy town of La Crosse at the age of 37. Sure, there'd been some obstacles along the way, the most significant being law school. I took the Bar 3 times before I actually passed. But I’d learned a hard truth when my parents sat me down at age seven to explain why they were putting a second mortgage on the house: cheese gets expensive.

> Author’s note: To all of those writing me to ask about my dairy budget in law school (specifically the IRS), please stop. I’ll pay the money back someday. I’m a lawyer - I know what I’m doing. Until then, you’re going to have to take my word for it.

Anyway, back to my favorite subject: cheese. Wisconsin was great, I decided, surveying the dent I’d made to the pile of boxes in the back of the U-haul, but all that unpacking was making me hungry, and I’d eaten my last bite of Cheddar Jack somewhere in Illinois. All I had left was the emergency cheese, and the last few years it had spent in my pocket made it, well, unappealing. Even for me.

Besides, it wasn’t an emergency. There was a diner right across the road - I could see the sign swinging in the lazy summer breeze. I looked at the boxes still piled in the U-haul and sighed. Just a quick jog across the road for lunch and I’d be back. Food first, unpacking later.

The doorbell jangled as I stepped into the diner, and one of the waiters - middle aged with a receding hairline - looked up. “Here for the special?”

I paused, intrigued. Perhaps it had something to do with cheese - I was in Wisconsin, I reminded myself. “Let me see the menu first.”

A faint gleam crept into his eye. “New around here?”

“Just moved in.”

He nodded and leaned back against the counter. “I caught the accent. How’s it settling in?”

Small talk. We didn’t really have that where I was from. Still, I’d have to learn the customs. I smiled. “It’s perfect. La Crosse is much different from Boston.”

“Oh, you betcha. Big city, Boston.”

“Yeah. Lot of traffic.” I laughed. “Not really something you see here.”

He chuckled. “For sure. I grew up metro myself, and man I don’t miss the crowds.”

“Metro? I was downtown on Commonwealth. Sounds like you were more in the suburbs, though?”

“Oh, not in Boston,” he replied lightly. “You probably wouldn’t recognize the city - it’s out east. Middle East.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t have known it. Your accent-”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Welp.” He shrugged. “Been here a long time. But now you, you’re new here. So let me give you some free advice.”

This wasn’t how things went down in Boston - usually, someone yelled at you to stop holding up the line. But it was a refreshing change of pace. “Let’s hear it,” I told him.

The waiter leaned close to me ear. I almost tripped as I tried not to lost my balance. “Little close for comfort,” I muttered.

He glanced around the room. “Yeah, well, my advice is pretty confidential.”

“Sure, but your mouth is like three inches from my ear. I could sue.”

That got him, and he straightened hastily.

“I was really hoping I’d left the creeps behind in Mattapan,” I told him. “But I can make the best of the situation. Civil assault’s my specialty.”

He nodded as if nothing had happened. “You’re a lawyer?”

“Just passed the Bar last month.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve heard that’s a tough test. Sounds like you should be the one giving me advice.”

“Well, yeah.” I omitted the fact that I’d had to take the Bar three times. “But they say experience comes with age. So what’s that advice you were going to give me?”

He glanced around again. “It’s not something we tell every newcomer,” he said, lowering. “Some people live here their whole lives and never learn it. But it could save your life someday, young man, and you seem like the type who has a life worth saving.”

I dropped my voice too. “What is it?”

“Just this,” he said. “Always keep a piece of cheese on you.”

“What?” I blinked.

“Keep your voice low,” he reminded me.

“OK, yes,” I said, lowering my voice again. “But cheese? I know I’m in Wisconsin, but this seems like overkill.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “We like our cheese out here - the felons here like it too. Keeping just a little bit on you can help you get out of a tough spot.”

I frowned. “What kind of tough spot? A mugging? Wait, no, that wouldn’t . . .”

“Oh yeah, a mugging,” he said. “That’s a good example.”

“A mugging is a good example?” I repeated.

“Pretty good example, if you ask me.”

“But that’s so backward! If the felons want the cheese, aren’t you just looking for trouble by keeping some on you? You’re basically saying that Batman’s mother should have worn those pearls, I mean, the end result of that was Batman’s origin story- Wait, this isn’t an elaborate ruse to set up some Batman origin story, is it? For the record, I don’t have a son and his name is not Bruce Wayne.”

“Read it the way you want, man,” he said, shrugging.

“It’s your advice - aren’t you supposed to tell me what it means?”

“Not this advice,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ll know what it means when it comes to you.”

I wasn’t about to walk away from this conversation with a string of unanswered questions. “Look,” I said, pulling my emergency cheese from my pocket. “I’m already in the habit of keeping cheese on me. Clearly, I’ve learned whatever I’m supposed to take away from this conversation. So just give me the facts. How exactly is this cheese supposed to help me avoid getting mugged?”

He stared at the cheese like it was some rare Indian treasure and he worked for the British museum. “Where exactly did you get that?”

“From my pocket? You just told me that it’s not that odd.”

“Ok, yeah,” he said, putting a hand up to adjust his glasses. “So you’ve been here before.”

“I mean, I’ve been to the Dells,” I said. “But that was 20 years ago.”

“Not Wisconsin,” he said. “This restaurant. The Jolly Butler.” He slammed his hand down on the counter. “Here.”

“This is my first time in La Crosse,” I said. “I’ve never been here before.”

“Give it a break,” he said. “You know that if you’ve been here before that you’re supposed to use the side entrance. Stop trying to sneak through the front door.”

“What kind of restaurant doesn’t let its own customers use the front entrance?” I said heatedly. “But I’m serious. I’ve never been here before.”

“Never? I find that hard to believe.”

“You could look back through your records - I guarantee you I won’t be listed.”

“I think I will,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“David Greene.”

“David Greene,” he muttered, jotting it down in his notebook. “Well, listen here, David. Have you ever heard the proverb, ‘He shall come prepared with piece of cheese?’”

“What kind of proverb is that?” I shook my head. “No, I’ve never heard of it, and I think I know why. It doesn’t sound super meaningful.”

“So you’ve never heard of it,” he said, appraising me. “Well, I believe you. You look like you’re telling the truth.”

“Never trust a lawyer,” I joked.

“And . . . there’s that,” he said. He gestured to another waiter across the room. “Kari here’s going to take you to your booth, David, while I go back to management to look over those records. In the meantime, would you be interested in ordering anything?”

“What do you recommend?” I asked. “I haven’t been able to see the menu yet.”

“You’ll want to try the special,” he said emphatically.

My stomach rumbled, and I remembered how famished I was.“I’ll have that,” I agreed.

“I’ll bring it out shortly,” he said, and disappeared through the swinging door marked STAFF.