Galen Shiver
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Finding this place was a wonderful Boston miracle.
My girlfriend and I were walking along Cambridge Street towards the Old North Church when we were transfixed by the eerie edifice of the New England Telephone and Telegraph building. As we marveled at the woo-woo spookiness of the place, my gaze was tugged over to ... the Crane River Cheese Club.
My girl has a deep appreciation for cheese. (Okay, it's not just her. But I idly follow the fromages, while she leads.) When I nudged her attention over to this shop and saw her response, I knew we had no other choice but to cross over and explore this detour.
Boy, did we make the right decision.
Almost immediately, I knew that we'd both need to keep our wits and wallets about us. The selections at this place were startlingly desirable. Carnivore Candy jerky? Golden pumpkin hot sauce?! Chocolate stout... mustard??! ALLIGATOR TENDERLOIN?!?!
WHAT. IS. THIS. PLACE.
Every one item that we selected was a choice against six other suddenly hotly-needed items.
AGONY
Eventually, we settled fretfully on a charcuterie tray (killer jam-and-cheese combo, and the best salami(?) I've ever had), a fried chicken sandwich (aioli and bacon made it sing), a can of Betty Buzz ginger beer (which I can only describe as "medicinal" [in a marvelous way]), and a (dreadfully incomplete) collection of sauces and spices.
It was then that the shop clerk dropped the news that the guy that we helped at the door had snuck back in while we were trapped in our fits of anguished shopping, and conspired with her to pay our bill.
I... I mean. Words fail.
Mr. G., we thank you with profound joy. We are both deeply touched and humbled by your kind generosity. Everything we've sampled so far was spectacular, and the unopened jars waiting on the shelves are all radiating tempting speculations. So, yeah. Thank you. Thank you so very much.
Also (and on a silly, pseudo-cosmic note): thanks to the li'l tan rabbit in the nearby grasses. Yes, we spotted you, and we half-jokingly expect that you were somehow magically responsible for slowing us down just long enough to have had this experience. We'll be sending you a bushel of carrots in our dreams.