Why Cheese Bar Dates are the Best Dates
On the truth-telling nature of these quiet theaters of emotional intelligence
✍🏻 Written by: Michelle Webb
Wedgewood’s cheese bar captured by Taylor McDonald
We’re three months into our new life at Wedgewood, and after ninety days behind the cheese bar I’ve started to realize something: this little corner of Carrboro might be the best compatibility test there is. Better than swipes, small talk, or first impressions. A cheese bar has its own way of showing you who’s adventurous, who’s generous, and who’s worth keeping close—whether in romance, work, or friendship.
So if I were dating again? I wouldn’t be swiping. I wouldn’t be straining to hear someone over a bar crowd. I’d be watching how they walk into a cheese bar—how they hold the menu, what they order, how they meet the moment. Because what someone does in the presence of washed rinds, bloomy funk, and a chilled glass of Glou Glou tells you almost everything you need to know.
Do they lean in? Do they share? Do they laugh at their own hesitation and go for it anyway? That’s intimacy. That’s partnership. That’s character revealed, one bite at a time.
And, baby—the cheese bar never lies.
Ten Signals in Ten Bites
Cheese orders are never just about cheese. Every choice is a little signal—about curiosity, generosity, confidence, or caution. Watch closely, and people will tell you exactly who they are.
1. “What’s the mildest cheese you have?”
Not a dealbreaker—just a starting point. The real test is what comes next. Do they stay in the shallow end forever, or do they say, “I usually go mild, but I’m open—what would you recommend?” That’s curiosity. That’s growth. Mild is fine for insurance. For love? You want someone who’s at least willing to taste.
2. They think taleggio is a pasta.
Easily done. The misstep isn’t the problem—it’s how they handle it. Do they laugh and ask? Or bristle and bluff? A cheese bar will humble all of us eventually. Humility and humor go a lot further than being right.
3. They try to one-up the staff.
If someone treats the cheesemonger like a trivia opponent, beware. A good date isn’t about performing—it’s about connecting.
4. “You order—I don’t really care.”
Low-key on the surface, but disengaged underneath. A partner shows up. Even better? “Surprise me—I want to see what you love.”
5. They ask what pairs with everything—and actually listen.
Respect. Curiosity. Deep green flag. People who listen to pairings usually listen in relationships, too.
6. “Are all these cheeses pasteurized?”
It’s a cautious question. The test isn’t the question itself—it’s whether they trust you when you explain.
Once, a man accused us of running a gray market operation because we sold raw milk cheese. Not quite. (Raw milk cheese is perfectly legal in the U.S. as long as it’s aged 60 days.) But that’s the thing: a cheese bar quickly shows you who’s curious enough to learn, and who’s just looking for rules to cling to—or espouse absurd theories. See? It weeds out the weirdos and the half-informed.
7. They order the blue cheese.
A bold move. This person isn’t afraid of intensity. They’ll show up for strong flavors—and maybe strong feelings. Blue cheese people are wild in the best way. Last week our counter saw a sudden spike in requests for blue—why? No idea. What I do know is that blue cheese people bring energy and they bring opinions that they don’t apologize for. The only caution: they might disappear as quickly as they arrive. Blue cheese isn’t for dabblers, and neither are they.
8. They joke about the rind being edible— then don’t eat it.
They want the credit but hesitate to commit. Not fatal—just cautious. Red flag: they tear into Fourme d’Ambert with gusto, only to realize they ate the foil. That’s not curiosity. That’s recklessness. You’re not looking for a maverick. You’re looking for an adult who knows not to bite into a cheese wearing a tinfoil hat.
9. They eat with their hands.
Flag: depends. Some cheeses are meant to be scooped up, torn into, passed around. If they dive in with joy, that’s a green light. If they pinch at the edges of Cana de Oveja like it might bite back, maybe not. There’s a difference between eating with your hands because you’re comfortable, and eating with your hands because you don’t know what else to do. One says I’m here for it. The other says get me out of here.
10. They spring for the tinned fish.
Deep green. This person isn’t here for safe bets—they want the whole story. They want to know what happens when something salty, briny, and unexpected lands on the table. Tinned fish people keep life interesting. They’ll drag you to concerts on a Tuesday, book spontaneous road trips, and convince you to order the thing you’ve never heard of just to see what it’s about. You don’t forget a date who orders the anchovies.
The Afterglow Test
Here’s the secret: the real insight comes after the cheese.
Do they wander straight to the counter? Ask for a third of a pound of your favorite?
I once caught a young couple smooching on the balcony when it was last call for the cheese counter. The young gentleman broke away, dashed downstairs, and ordered his date’s favorite: mortadella. That’s a green flag if I’ve ever seen one.
Or maybe they ask for the cheesemonger’s favorite. Do they taste what’s handed to them? Ask thoughtful questions? Say thank you?
Or—do they default to Humboldt Fog and a sleeve of crackers like it’s 2008 at Whole Foods? In which case, I would tell them we don’t stock Humboldt Fog, but I can offer you a taste of Blakesville Creamery’s Linedeline— the best ash-ripened goat cheese this side of the Loire Valley.
This is where you see what lingers. Are they curious enough to bring the experience home? Do they want to keep tasting, keep learning, keep connecting? Or were they just enduring it? You don’t want someone who endures, you want someone who delights.
Come Do the Fieldwork
If you’re ever on a first date—or your 50th—bring them to Wedgewood. It doesn’t have to be romantic, either. Some of the biggest green flags I’ve ever seen have been between two best friends splitting a triple crème, asking questions and tasting everything put in front of them.
I’ll be behind the bar, noticing if they offer you the last bite of triple-crème. Because that’s what matters, isn’t it? Not just trying the boldest blue or the funkiest washed rind, but the small gestures—the willingness to share, to savor together, to make sure you feel taken care of.
In the end, that’s the real green flag.
