Don't Cry over Curdled Cheese...

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… at least when you’re in Kenya, one shouldn’t.

Last week, as usual, I did my weekly grocery shopping at the nearby up-scale shopping complex. There’s one store, called “Zucchini,” that sells fresh produce, freshly squeezed juices and recently, they added imported cheese to their stocks.

Wow—French brie! I haven’t had that since I moved to Africa earlier this year! What a decadent treat. Its definitely not normally on my weekly shopping list. The European delicacy is pricey.

But, if it’s imported from the land of savory, freshly-baked baguettes and aged, divine wine, it must be good, I thought to myself peering inside the assortment of fromage sitting in the refrigerated display case.

Why not splurge once in a while? I thought.

“I’ll take 100g,” I said, when the perky clerk suggested I try it.

My mouth watered as I watched her work behind the counter to slice into the huge hunk and wrap my piece.

This will go splendidly with a fresh loaf of bread that I can purchase at another nearby shop, I contemplated…

Now, Let’s fast forward to 20 minutes later when I’m inside my kitchen unpacking groceries. From the bag containing the wrapped cheese, I get a whiff of a rancid smell.

“C’est domage! Quel horreur!” (It’s a shame, What horror = en francais.) My cheese smells spoiled. The cheese’s rind is soggy, but the inside might be salvageable.

Maybe, it can be saved if I remove the rind and store it in a tupperware. It looked so delicious at the store!

A few hours later when dinner-time arrives, I open the fridge and take out the cheese. Cutting a small wedge, a morsel tips my tongue.

“Yuck! I spit it out and attempt to chase it down with several gulps of water. This cheese is officially inedible.

Under normal circumstances, one would march right back to the store with spoiled sample and receipt in hand, demanding a refund or exchange. But it’s evening, it's 100g (the smallest amount one can purchase) and its very inconvenient to return to the produce store at this hour.

I toss the cheese into the garbage and try to forget the whole thing ever happened.  For the next few days, the smell pervades the pantry with increasing pungency before it’s successfully thrown away in weekly trash disposal.

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Exactly seven days later, I return to Zucchini Grocery store as per my customary shopping routine. As I pass by the cheese counter, the friendly, perky saleswoman greets me. I respectfully tell her about the rotten purchase. She sympathizes and says maybe we can “work something out,” but that I first need to consult with the manager.

I respect protocol. My first job was working in a grocery store very similar to this one.

Solomon is the store manager working the front-end. He is a burly, middle-aged Kenyan. He listens, half-interestedly confusing my “brie cheese” with “bleu cheese” in the pre-packaged refrigerated cases. I am not impressed with his professionalism. But hope that maybe he might care about providing the best future customer experience.

Solomon mutters that a previous customer also complained about the cheese last week.  He said he will also talk to the cheese woman so that she’s also aware. I presumed that he meant he would contact the vendor about this mishap.

Instead, we walk back to the cheese counter. He flips his wrist marshaling the saleswoman to the counter.

What happens next surprises me.

Exercising his authority, in a condescending tone, he tells her that she needs to be more careful in selling the cheese to customers. She needs to smell the cheese each time and inspect it thoroughly before wrapping it up for the customers.

Then he turns to me and lectures me in the same tone. 

“You also need to ensure that the cheese is fresh before approaching the check-out counter,” he says sharply.

I smiled and laughed nervously, glancing at the embarrassed employee. I told Solomon that I would be happy to share this information with the rest of my friends whom he presumes are wealthy clientele.

I will be sure to inform them that should do their own inspections because they can’t be certain that they are buying quality product from this establishment.

How does Solomon’s behavior solve anything? How does embarrassing an employee in front of her colleagues or lecturing a polite customer equate to good customer service?

The price of the cheese was less than 500KSH.

Who knows how the cheese got spoiled, but to belittle both an employee and customer are not appropriate.

I guess this is a story that has two lessons: Solomon, may need to learn a thing or two about appropriate customer service, and its more than just wasted cheese that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.