A Room That Smells Like Italy
Walk into Claudio's King of Cheese on 9th Street and your nose arrives before your eyes adjust. The shop has occupied its corner of the Italian Market for decades, and it carries the deep, milky, slightly funky perfume that only comes from a room where aged cheese and fresh cheese share the same air — provolone globes dangling from the ceiling on twine, wheels of Parmigiano stacked behind the counter, and somewhere near the window, a worker pulling mozzarella by hand.
That window is the show. On good mornings you can watch the process from the sidewalk: a mass of warm curd stretched and folded, then shaped into rounds that go straight into salted water. The result is whole-milk mozzarella with a suppleness no vacuum-sealed supermarket version can touch — mild, milky, with a faint chew that collapses when you slice it. Buy it within the hour and you will not need much else for dinner.
The Caves, the Hang, the Wheel
On 9th Street, where the whole point is finding the real thing, that's exactly where it should be.
The "cheese caves" in the shop's lore refer to the back of the house — cool, dim storage where cheeses are kept at the temperatures they prefer. Provolone, in particular, rewards the hang. The large pear-shaped forms swaying above the counter at Claudio's aren't just theater; they're aging in the open air, developing a sharpness that a refrigerated case would blunt. Ask for a sliver of the older stuff and you'll understand why Italian-American cooks reach for sharp provolone — not the rubbery sandwich slice — when they want a cheese that announces itself.
The counter stocks the full Italian pantry of aged cheese: Parmigiano-Reggiano sold by the wedge, genuine Pecorino Romano, aged Asiago, imported Grana Padano for everyday grating. The staff cuts to order, which matters. Pre-cut cheese loses surface moisture and aroma faster than most people realize; a fresh-cut wedge from Claudio's is a different object than the same cheese wrapped in plastic three days ago.
Why It Matters on the Market
Di Bruno Bros. draws the crowds and the press. Claudio's draws the cooks who know what they're looking for. It has the feel of a working cheese shop — not a boutique, not a tasting room — with the inventory and institutional knowledge to back it up. On 9th Street, where the whole point is finding the real thing, that's exactly where it should be.