The Case of the Bad Camembert

Laurence came in screaming that her Camembert wasn't Camembert. Certainly wasn't French. Wasn't EVEN cheese.

Not that this is anything new or surprising. Among the Frenchies here it seems common practice to describe something that is less than optimum as simply 'not' whatever it claims to be.

Ex: This is NOT a cigarette! (It is, in fact, a cigarette, if a bad one)
Ex: This is NOT a magazine! (It is, in fact, a magazine, if a bad one)

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But she seemed especially distressed by the non-Camembert. She opened up the container for our inspection and continued nearly hysterically. Oh, it was horrible! Oh, it wasn't cheese! Oh, it wasn't supposed to be this colour... this texture... this smell!

She managed to cut out a wedge. It looked darker than I thought Camembert generally was, but who was I to pass judgment on French cheese? Tim offered to try it. Laurence begged him not to, telling him he would surely die. While she pled with him, Jorge managed to grab a snatch of it and consume it before anyone could stop him.

They're all convinced that he's going to die now, though he merely said, "Well, it's not my favourite taste, but it is endurable".

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Some time later, we found Laurence on the balcony smoking.

Jorge: "Enjoying your cancer?"

Laurence: "Actually, yes, I had to get that terrible cheese taste out of my mouth!"

Miranda: "Oh, so now it /is/ cheese?"

Jorge: "Yeah, I brushed my teeth."

Miranda: "Hmm, I love the dichotomy between Laurence and Jorge's methods of dealing with the bad taste... which one is healthier?"