I've never quite learned my way around cheese. I thought I would, during that first trip to Paris, when I rushed into a fromagerie like a kid squealing into an ice cream shop, only to be smacked in the proverbial forehead by some 200 different cheeses, their differences even more inscrutable to me than their hand-written French descriptions.
4679 Date Ave,, La Mesa
In the US, we know something like four kinds of cheese: cheddar, Swiss, pepper jack, and melted. Those of us who've been around long enough to remember Looney Tunes know that Limburger is the sort of super stinky cheese that will get you pulled aside from a TSA line. I have learned over the years I have an affinity for sheep cheese, but so far as breadth of cheese knowledge goes, I basically know the first three pages of the encyclopedia.
So when I looked in the glass counter at Bougie's Cheese Shop, I barely had a sense what I want. And it wasn't not even a huge selection from all over the world; it seemed like most of the wares were domestic. It may well have been a well-curated selection; all I know for sure is everything in there was a step up from Kraft American Singles.

Fortunately, Bougie's has recently expanded its in-house service, meaning that we novice cheese-eaters may show up and expand our palates via sample cheese boards with a side of wine.
Technically, it's not in-house so much as behind-house. Bougie's opened last year inside a lovingly restored suburban home at the edge of La Mesa Village, and its cheese and wine service set-up takes advantage of the house's clean and spacious backyard. Initially, limited offerings were available only on Saturday afternoons, but now guests may nibble and sip from Thursday to Saturday.
Shaded patio tables, couches, and even a fire pit create a welcoming environment only somewhat undermined by technology—guests scan a QR code menu to order through an online payment service. Staff members are around to answer questions and make sure you stay hydrated (and winerated), but I had to be pretty intentional about asking cheese questions to learn about what was on my plate.

Offerings include three-cheese tasting flights, each served with a large cracker. One $10 entry level flight serves up three versions of cheddar — presumably helpful in understanding the difference between different ages and processes (one being "clothbound," for what that's worth). The $12 "Trifecta" serves a trio of sheep, goat, and cow cheese for comparison. And a $16 blue cheese flight shows off the diversity that mold might bring.
Were I to do it over, I wouldn't order the $15 Monger's Choice flight, because I wound up paying for a big hunk of blue cheese I didn't know how to appreciate. I was happy to let the vastly more knowledgable cheesemonger select cheese for me, but I should have been more clear that I haven't yet acquired a taste for funky cheeses— bleu or otherwise. Still, I very much enjoyed the Oregon butterbloom (exceptionally creamy and buttery as promised) and Brabanter goat gouda (one of the few Dutch cheeses on offer). But the big hunk of Jack's Blue (from Vermont) led me me question the appropriate cheese-to-cracker ratio. Maybe two big crackers would have helped?

It would perhaps have been easier to stick to the simpler meals available: A trio of charcuterie sliders ($16.50) would do, but I went for the so-called Picnic Plate ($22), which featured balsamic-drizzled fresh peaches and watermelon arranged on a plate with two kinds of cheddar; prosciutto paired with cantaloupes, and a soft; spicy njuda (spreadable cured pork); a soft, brie-like cheese; and a combination of melba toasts and sliced cucumbers. It's not a regular offering — the menu tends to shift with ingredients ay given week — but it tasted great across the board (no pun intended).
What I really learned, though, is that the specifics of the cheese are secondary to how pleasant it can be to relax in a well-composed backyard, sipping wine and enjoying a gustatory parade of flavors and textures.
I've never quite learned my way around cheese. I thought I would, during that first trip to Paris, when I rushed into a fromagerie like a kid squealing into an ice cream shop, only to be smacked in the proverbial forehead by some 200 different cheeses, their differences even more inscrutable to me than their hand-written French descriptions.
4679 Date Ave,, La Mesa
In the US, we know something like four kinds of cheese: cheddar, Swiss, pepper jack, and melted. Those of us who've been around long enough to remember Looney Tunes know that Limburger is the sort of super stinky cheese that will get you pulled aside from a TSA line. I have learned over the years I have an affinity for sheep cheese, but so far as breadth of cheese knowledge goes, I basically know the first three pages of the encyclopedia.
So when I looked in the glass counter at Bougie's Cheese Shop, I barely had a sense what I want. And it wasn't not even a huge selection from all over the world; it seemed like most of the wares were domestic. It may well have been a well-curated selection; all I know for sure is everything in there was a step up from Kraft American Singles.

Fortunately, Bougie's has recently expanded its in-house service, meaning that we novice cheese-eaters may show up and expand our palates via sample cheese boards with a side of wine.
Technically, it's not in-house so much as behind-house. Bougie's opened last year inside a lovingly restored suburban home at the edge of La Mesa Village, and its cheese and wine service set-up takes advantage of the house's clean and spacious backyard. Initially, limited offerings were available only on Saturday afternoons, but now guests may nibble and sip from Thursday to Saturday.
Shaded patio tables, couches, and even a fire pit create a welcoming environment only somewhat undermined by technology—guests scan a QR code menu to order through an online payment service. Staff members are around to answer questions and make sure you stay hydrated (and winerated), but I had to be pretty intentional about asking cheese questions to learn about what was on my plate.

Offerings include three-cheese tasting flights, each served with a large cracker. One $10 entry level flight serves up three versions of cheddar — presumably helpful in understanding the difference between different ages and processes (one being "clothbound," for what that's worth). The $12 "Trifecta" serves a trio of sheep, goat, and cow cheese for comparison. And a $16 blue cheese flight shows off the diversity that mold might bring.
Were I to do it over, I wouldn't order the $15 Monger's Choice flight, because I wound up paying for a big hunk of blue cheese I didn't know how to appreciate. I was happy to let the vastly more knowledgable cheesemonger select cheese for me, but I should have been more clear that I haven't yet acquired a taste for funky cheeses— bleu or otherwise. Still, I very much enjoyed the Oregon butterbloom (exceptionally creamy and buttery as promised) and Brabanter goat gouda (one of the few Dutch cheeses on offer). But the big hunk of Jack's Blue (from Vermont) led me me question the appropriate cheese-to-cracker ratio. Maybe two big crackers would have helped?

It would perhaps have been easier to stick to the simpler meals available: A trio of charcuterie sliders ($16.50) would do, but I went for the so-called Picnic Plate ($22), which featured balsamic-drizzled fresh peaches and watermelon arranged on a plate with two kinds of cheddar; prosciutto paired with cantaloupes, and a soft; spicy njuda (spreadable cured pork); a soft, brie-like cheese; and a combination of melba toasts and sliced cucumbers. It's not a regular offering — the menu tends to shift with ingredients ay given week — but it tasted great across the board (no pun intended).
What I really learned, though, is that the specifics of the cheese are secondary to how pleasant it can be to relax in a well-composed backyard, sipping wine and enjoying a gustatory parade of flavors and textures.