Pah. Not only do I know of French Basque cheeses, I have eaten them with cider in a bar in St-Jean-Pied-de-Port while two tables of Basques on either side of me got on with serious drinking song competition, and I am presently in the Palermo district of Buenos Aires (which reminds me oddly of the French concession of Shanghai – slightly urbane areas in two cities with wide, leafy streets that were in their heydays around the same time, I suspect) while I decide in which of the many wonderful parillas I am going to wash down my evening steak with Mendoza Malbec. Americans are such provincial wimps.
And I don’t go in for any of that “Good liberal while lingering over the Sunday New York Times” crap, either. It was just great burning so much carbon to get here.