Winter is slowly drawing to a close here in Paris, with the sun making more and more appearances, usually when one is dressed for the rain. This is the last month or so that you will see any of the heavy winter classics: soon all the menus will change, the raclettes and tartiflettes elbowed out by bright, veggie-filled spring things.

I’m a little wary of Switzerland; such rude healthfulness, their misapprehension that a hike is a desirable after-lunch activity and their laws banning minarets, all warrant suspicion, in my opinion. I much prefer the Parisians, who get their exercise by complaining about broken metro escalators. But even I can’t resist that very Swiss invention, the raclette.

The first time I ate one was in Lyon this winter. How close this lovely city, spot in the centre of France, is to Switzerland was brought home to me by its crisp, cold air and by its up-and-down hilly topography. One that caused me to huff and puff like a disappointed nursery-rhyme wolf every time I left the flat, and by our lovely hosts’ suggestion of raclette one evening.

When in France, my default response to things I don’t understand is “oui” (in contrast to French administrative officials, whose default response to everything is “non”). So of course, I said yes at once.

Cautious enquiries afterwards revealed that raclette is a melted mass of cheese and potatoes, a relative of fondue. I winced a little. Fondue always seems daunting to me, something only Alpine skiers can digest unfazed, after a day of gliding up and down slopes. Still, we had walked a long way uphill to brunch, I decided optimistically. And back down too.

The word raclette comes from the French racler, “to scrape”, and means both the cheese and the dish. A cow’s milk cheese just right for melting, with a washed brown rind and an interior the colour of pale barley, raclette is made on both sides of the Alps, and aged for up to a year. Slices of raclette are heated until near-molten on a grill, and then scraped over boiled potatoes. Then you add cured ham or saucisson, and gherkins or onions to cut the fatty richness.

Our hosts bought almost three kilos of raclette cheese at the Croix Rousse farmers’ market, and some charcuterie at the butcher’s. At home, we sliced the gigantic half-wheel of cheese into thin wedges and boiled up an alarming quantity of potatoes.

At eight, a group of friends, our hosts and we gathered around the low table in the living room, where a raclette grill had been turned on. If you don’t have a chalet’s open fire on hand, there are two kinds of raclette contraptions you can get — one kind holds a half-wheel of the cheese and heats it under a lamp, the other heats individual portions of cheese on shallow little pans; this one was of the latter variety.

The cheese began to melt and blister. Smelling this, the raclette veterans among us set down their wine glasses and leaned forward like bloodhounds. As the cheese began to bubble, people nudged it gently from the pans, upon which it slid, slow and dramatic like lava, onto their plates.

I took a heap of potatoes, and some Parma ham, and coaxed my cheese onto it. “You should put some crème fraiche on it,” I was advised.

“Cream? On the cheese?”

I wasn’t convinced, but I complied. Then I changed my stance. It was a simple but indulgent combination, with all the hot, rich, nutty cheese, the stolid potatoes, the salt from the ham and the vinegar from the gherkins. And the cream really did help those substantial mouthfuls slide down. (Always trust the French about butter and cream.)

The room smelt like the interior of a cheese wheel, which is no bad thing. It was a languid meal, everyone becoming more and more supine as the evening progressed; by the end, several people were half-horizontal on the floor or the sofa, like sloths or Roman emperors at an orgy. I suddenly remembered Treasure Island, where marooned Ben Gunn says wistfully, “Well, many’s the long night I’ve dreamed of cheese — toasted, mostly — and woke up again, and here I were.” Here I were, and here was real winter food for the mountains: warming and extravagant, immoderate and comforting and festive. I slid lower on my cushion, and put another wedge of cheese in my pan. At last, I had found an Alpine sport I could really get my teeth into.

(Naintara is a food writer based in Paris. Follow her on twitter >@naintaramaya)

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