The Cheese Course - Appreciation or Snobbery?

There is a fine line between what we understand as appreciation and what we immediately deride as snobbery. Somewhere along the way, we decided that knowing too much about wine, coffee, or olive oil, made us a bit "too" something.

You will know by now, that I love to look at the roots of words. The Etymology. The Verbal archaeology that whispers through history, where words and phrases orginiated and how we have skewed them to suit modern purpose. Frustratingly, the origins of the word "snob" are surprisingly unclear.

There is a tale that it came from the Latin phrase Sine Nobilitate – meaning "without nobility" abbreviated to "S.Nob". Unlikely, although compelling, as it is a fact that certain English Schools would attach this suffix to the names of pupils who did not have parents with "Lord and Lady" titles.

More likely, it evolved from an old English word describing a regular tradesperson, cobblers or shoemakers, perhaps - before eventually coming to mean someone who tried a bit too hard, to imitate those of a higher social standing. Whatevs...

My point here is this: Perhaps we've got it all wrong. Perhaps what we sometimes dismiss sneeringly as snobbery, is just appreciation elevated to an art form. Maybe our disdain is just thinly veiled fear. We feel threatened by people who know a lot about stuff, because we see our own lack of curiousity, all too plainly. In reality, snobbery is just an elevated form of appreciation. Someone that knows the wine regions of France like the back of their hand, is called a Wine Snob. So does it follow that Sir David Attenborough is a Nature Snob? I think not.

The French, of course, seem entirely untroubled by accusations of this nature.

They do not apologise for knowing the difference between a young Beaujolais and a Bordeaux Premier Cru. They don't feel embarrassed about discussing the merits of one particular goats cheese over another, or why they genuinely feel they are born with an unflappable sense of style.

To many of us, this level of detail can feel excessive, and we don't like a tall poppy, now do we? But to the French, it is simply paying attention. And nowhere is this more beautifully illustrated than in the peculiarity of the "cheese course". We British, arrive at the dinner table, or more likely the TV, expecting meat, two veg and a pudding with custard. If it's Christmas, we will grumpily wade through a starter, as though someone has asked us to remove our shoes.

In France, the Nation pauses. The plates are cleared. A weathered, vintage, wooden board appears. And on it sits a small, cheesy geography lesson. A creamy Normandy Camembert. A nutty Comté from the Jura. A goat's cheese from the Loire. A pungent Roquefort from the South.

The meal is not over - in fact, one might argue that it has arrived at its most important moment.

The cheese course is not the "Did I do enough?" afterthought of a worried host, nor a pre-dinner nibble (in case I didn't..) as it often is elsewhere. It has been granted its own place at the table, somewhere between sustenance and indulgence. It asks something more of us. Slow down. Pay attention. Appreciate. Learn.

No one is eating cheese because they're still hungry. They're eating it because they enjoy it. They are showing some geographical gratitude. This is what makes our country a pleasure to live in. A treat to visit. I suspect this is one of the things I admire most about the French. Their willingness to care deeply about ordinary things.

So maybe next time we see the cheese course appear, we can be curious, rather than dismissive. Appreciate the thought, rather than immediately suspect some kind of pasteurised pomposity. Ask some questions. Lean into it.

I wonder if, as I get older, I become less interested in collecting more and more things, and more interested in noticing the things already before me.The taste of a good cheese. The story behind something ordinary. Linen napkins.

None of it is necessary, but all of it matters.

Because these small acts of appreciation are really acts of presence. They ask us to participate in our own lives rather than rush through them. Maybe the French have understood something all along: that paying attention is not snobbery at all.

It is gratitude.

And gratitude, in all its quiet forms, might just be one of the most elegant ways we can belong to the world around us.

On Platform 13, wholeness isn’t found - it’s remembered. Because loss is loss, worthiness is universal, and no one is alone. We are all in this together.