Food is always part of the adventure when we travel, but I would never describe myself as the kind of person who arrives in a new country determined to eat absolutely everything placed in front of me.

I like trying local specialties.

I also like knowing there is probably a pizza or an order of French fries somewhere within a reasonable distance.

I call that being culturally adventurous with an emergency exit.

Switzerland was no exception.

There were certain things we knew we had to try, and at the very top of the list was Swiss cheese fondue.

We were spending the night in Lucerne, surrounded by mountains, beautiful old streets, and scenery that looked exactly like Switzerland is supposed to look. So naturally, fondue seemed like the perfect dinner.

We were in Switzerland.

You cannot go to Switzerland and not eat cheese fondue.

At least that was my opinion before the cheese arrived.

Almost immediately after sitting down, we noticed a smell.

And not a good one.

We kept sniffing the air, trying to figure out where it was coming from.

The restaurant? Another table? Had something died nearby?

And what was even more confusing was that no one else seemed remotely bothered by it.

People were eating. Talking. Drinking wine. Living their lives.

Meanwhile, we were sitting there sniffing the air like bloodhounds trying to locate a dead animal.

Was no one else smelling this?

Was everyone just choosing not to acknowledge it?

Was this normal here?

I started to wonder if I was the problem.

Then our fondue arrived.

And the smell got stronger.

I looked at the bubbling pot.

Then at Sarah.

Then back at the pot.

Oh no.

Surely not.

This was Swiss cheese fondue. One of the foods Switzerland is famous for. People voluntarily ordered this. Entire restaurants were built around it.

There was absolutely no way the smell we had been trying to locate was now sitting directly in front of us as dinner.

Unfortunately, there was only one way to find out.

I dipped a piece of bread into the cheese and took a bite.

Sarah did the same.

We looked at each other.

And immediately started laughing.

Because yes.

It was the smell.

Except now we could taste it.

We had spent several minutes trying to locate the source of this terrible smell.

Turns out, we didn’t need to find it.

The waiter was bringing it directly to our table.

One bite was enough for me.

“I can’t eat this.”

Sarah didn’t like it either.

But Sarah kept eating it.

Which pretty much sums up the difference between us.

I eat something I don’t like and immediately begin developing an exit strategy.

Sarah eats something she doesn’t like and thinks:

Well, we paid for it.

She encouraged me to try another bite.

I felt I had already conducted a perfectly adequate scientific study with Bite Number One, but apparently we needed peer review.

So I tried again.

This time I had a strategy.

I pinched my nose.

Because at this point, I was no longer eating dinner.

I was negotiating with it.

I dipped the bread.  Put it in my mouth.  Chewed.

And for a few glorious seconds…

It worked.

No smell. Barely any taste.

I thought I had discovered the secret to enjoying Swiss fondue:

Simply remove your sense of smell from the experience entirely.

Then I let go of my nose.

Big mistake.

The flavor hit me all at once, like it had been waiting patiently at the door saying:

Oh good, she can smell again.

Absolutely not.

I clamped my nose shut again, swallowed as quickly as possible, and officially ended the experiment.

If a food requires you to manually shut down part of your sensory system just to get it down, I feel like your body has already cast its vote.

A couple of bites into this disaster, the waiter came over.

“How is everything?”

This was our opportunity.  We could have been honest.

We could have said, “Actually, this tastes exactly like the smell we were hoping wasn’t coming from our dinner.”

Instead, because we are polite people, Sarah and I smiled.

“It’s good!”

It was not good.

But there was something I desperately needed to know.

“What kind of cheese is this?” I asked.

Not because I loved it.

Not because I wanted to buy some.

Not because I planned to recreate this magical evening when we got home.

I wanted its full legal name so I could memorize it and avoid it for the remainder of my life.

The waiter answered very matter-of-factly:

“Cheese from the mountain.”

I waited.

That was apparently the entire answer.

Cheese.

From the mountain.

Excellent.

Very specific.

I had hoped to eliminate one particular cheese from my future.

Instead, I had apparently been advised to distrust an entire geographical region.

What cheese should I avoid?

Mountains.

Got it.

At that point, I officially retired from fondue.

Fortunately, it came with bread and potatoes, so those became my dinner.

Sarah continued dipping things into the bubbling mountain cheese despite admitting she didn’t particularly enjoy it, while I sat beside her happily eating plain carbohydrates.

The experience did teach me something, though.

Before Switzerland, when someone said “Swiss cheese,” I pictured those pale slices with giant holes we have back home.

Turns out, Switzerland has a whole world of cheeses with different flavors, textures, traditions, and levels of aggression.

I left considerably more educated.

Unfortunately, our fondue experience did not end when dinner did.

The restaurant happened to be in the same building where we were staying, with our room directly above it.

So after dinner, we headed upstairs, ready to put the entire cheese incident behind us.

First, however, we had to survive the elevator.

I had never seen an elevator like this.

It was basically a tiny metal box with a door you physically pushed open, followed by another door behind it.

Very reassuring.

We squeezed ourselves inside.

The doors closed.  Up we went.  It was tiny and it was hot.

And when we reached our floor, we could not figure out how to get out.

Perfect.

Within seconds, I went from:

How does this door work?

to:

Well, I guess we live here now.

Sarah and I pushed things.

Pulled things.

Examined the doors.

Basically, we became the same two people who couldn’t put a car in reverse, except now we had been defeated by an elevator.

Eventually, we figured it out and escaped from our tiny vertical prison.

We got into our room, sat down, and finally started to relax.

And then…

I smelled it.

Again.

That smell.

The cheese.

Except at first, I didn’t realize it was the cheese.

I just knew the odor from dinner had somehow returned.

I looked around the room.

Sniffed again.

Then I looked at Sarah.

More specifically…

I looked at her feet.

“Is that your feet?”

Poor Sarah.

She had just forced herself through a dinner she didn’t particularly enjoy, survived being temporarily trapped in a miniature Swiss elevator, and now her wife was accusing her feet of smelling like fermented mountain cheese.

And somehow…

I convinced her to wash them.

The fact that she actually went into the bathroom and did it remains one of the greatest demonstrations of marital patience I have ever witnessed.

She came back.  Clean feet.  Problem solved.

We sat down.

And then…

I smelled it again.  Still there.

That was when the truth finally hit me.

It wasn’t Sarah.

It was the restaurant downstairs.

The fondue smell had traveled upstairs.

The cheese had followed us home, it had infiltrated our hotel room.

There was nowhere left to run.

Even worse, I now had to turn to my freshly foot-washed wife and essentially say:

Good news. Your feet are fine.

Bad news. I made you wash them for absolutely no reason.

Poor Sarah really deserved better.

So, to recap my authentic Swiss fondue experience:

First, I smelled the cheese.

Then I ate the smell.

Then I pinched my nose so I wouldn’t have to taste the smell I was eating.

Then I asked the waiter what it was so I could avoid it forever and was told only that it came “from the mountain.”

Then we got temporarily trapped in an elevator.

Then I accused my innocent wife of having cheese feet.

Then I made her wash those completely innocent feet.

And finally, I discovered the actual cheese smell had simply traveled upstairs and decided to spend the night with us.

I may not have left Switzerland as a fondue convert, but I did leave with several important lessons.

Pizza and French fries remain reliable international diplomacy.

If you have to pinch your nose to swallow dinner, you probably do not need to “give it one more try.”

“Cheese from the mountain” is nowhere near specific enough for future avoidance purposes.

And most importantly:

Before accusing your wife of having smelly feet, make sure there isn’t a restaurant full of bubbling mountain cheese directly underneath your hotel room.