It’s fall cleaning day and I just came across the menu for a dinner I attended last month. It was a food and wine pairing affair at Parcel 104 Restaurant in Santa Clara, an annual event that celebrates cheese and wine and the marriage of the two.

In years past, the focus was primarily on cheese, with cheesemakers seated at each table, anxious to spill stories of cheesemaking to all who would listen. But this year, the focus was on wine, specifically wines from Paso Robles, one of the fastest-growing wine regions in the state.

Unlike most wine dinners, this one was all about choice. Instead of pairing a dish with a single wine, master sommelier Randy Bertao chose to serve two wines with each course, allowing guests to taste, ponder and find their own way. We, in effect, were our own sommeliers.

Fun, you say? Well, yes and no. By chance, I happened to be seated with four heavy-hitting wine and food pros who literally taste and shout their opinions for a living. Now, I could have sat and tasted in silence. But that would have been no fun at all. Instead, I opted for conversation, which was, in retrospect, a bit like a live comedy show.

I would taste my smoked salmon quiche and have a sip of pinot noir, frown, then taste again, chasing it with a sip of chardonnay. Bite after bite, sip after sip, I would become more convinced that my preference was utterly correct. The master sommelier who sat across from me was, you might have guessed, not merely dismayed at my opinions — aka ignorance — but outwardly annoyed.

“This goes with that,” I would passionately proclaim. “That!??” he would protest. The one that sent him over the edge was when I stated that the Justin Vineyards tempranillo went much better with the heirloom tomato tartelette than it did with the Matos Dairy St. George Souffle.

“No!” he said emphatically. “Taste that!” he commanded. “Now taste the wine. Can’t you taste it?” I tasted on demand, and decided that the man clearly had no taste buds. Perhaps he was born without them.

More to the point, I just could not figure out what he was talking about. What I do know is that the souffle, made by chef Peter Maguire at Brigitte’s Restaurant in Santa Clara, was delicious. But the cheesy, buttery souffle did absolutely nothing for the tannin-rich tempranillo.

The lively — if a bit strained — repartee continued for three courses. That may not sound like a lot of courses, but keep in mind that at this particular dinner, each course included roughly three foods each, making for one gigantic meal, and lots of opportunity for disagreement.

Truthfully, by course three, a plate featuring stewed figs, pork medallions and endive sauteed with golden raisins, we all gave up on each other. We were too full to fight.

– Jolene Thym

It was a Friday night and I had a choice. I could stay home and cook, or I could accept an invitation to meet a group of French cheesemakers on tour in the U.S. — and to eat French cheese in San Francisco.

I love to cook, but since I am convinced that there is nothing more delicious than a hunk of smelly French cheese, I put away my pans and headed across the bridge.

Upon arrival, I followed my nose to the second floor, and into a room where tables were mounded with cheese. One cheese looked like a basketball cut in half, bits of hard parmesan-like cheese piled inside. Another was a wheel with a curious red rind.

More cheeses were cut into wedges and chunks, but my eyes focused on the giant hunks of seven different cheeses at each place setting. I do love cheese, but this appeared to be overkill.

Within minutes, the emcee tapped his wristwatch and requested all guests to sit. We sat. Farmers talked. People clapped. They talked more. I cared, but mostly I wanted to taste the cheeses on that plate. But still they talked. So I gave up and tasted on my own.

I dipped my fork into a creamy goat cheese with a wrinkly white rind called Le Chevrot. It was tame for a goat cheese, a great option for breakfast, I decided.

Slowly and methodically, I tasted the cheeses in order. Some were soft and spreadable, others just the right texture for grating on pasta, or slicing for sandwiches. As I worked my way around the plate, the cheeses became progressively more flavorful and more pungent.

The cheese-de-resistance came last, a Roquefort made with sheep’s milk that was smooth in texture, gorgeous in color, and pungently delicious.

Besides enjoying some truly wonderful artisan cheeses, I learned some French cheese facts, like the reason why true Roquefort is so expensive. The cost is high because the U.S. charges 100 percent duty on the cheese because it is trademarked.

I also learned why French cheese does not taste a bit like California cheese. It’s all about terroir. French cheese tastes like the grasses and flowers that carpet the hills and valleys, and even the molds that grow in France. French cheeses, the cheesemakers explain, vary quite a bit from season to season. Unlike so many American cheesemakers, the French welcome those variations.

It cannot be said that French cheese is better than California cheese. But it can be said that the French love their cheese more. The French celebrate cheese as a food that bears the delicious imprint of the land, the animals and the people who make it — and they embrace it as a major food group.

The funniest thing about the evening was when we left. Upon departure, each guest was handed several pounds of cheese to enjoy. When we asked why, we were told that the French cheesemakers had overestimated their cheese needs — by a few hundred pounds (hence the ridiculously generous hunks of cheese on our tasting plates.)

I, for one, was happy to lighten their load.

– Jolene Thym