Last friday my friend suggested that we go out for fondue near Montmartre. As I had never experienced the joy of dipping bread chunks into a vat of melted cheese I happily jumped onto the opportunity to eat a meal of cheesy death. Refuge des Fondus provided us with much more liquified cheese than anyone should ever consume if they want their digestives systems to work correctly, along with a couple of other non-dairy based things that may have altered our psychological states.

The empty tables we initially saw filled up about a split second after we piled into the narrow restaurant. Before we sat down we were directed to the back hall where we had to hang our coats on the rack alongside the wall opposite from the kitchen. Space is in short supply; we couldn't have put our coats anywhere else. After disrobing were were allowed to sit down, or at least attempt to.

In order to sit in between the table and the grafitti-ed wall that lines both sides of the restaurant I had to step over the table (aided by one of the waiters or a fellow customer), thanfully when there was no fondu on it. Girls, leave your short skirts at home. (And guys...same for you.) Those sitting on the outer chairs won't feel imprisoned by the long table, but will probably get nudged by anyone walking by, which will happen frequently.

And then the fun began. The restaurant filled with the cacophony of about 40 fondu-loving people's chatter that was unlike any noise I had heard since attending high school. Throw in a dash of cigarette smoke and intermittent yelling and the result was an environment that felt more like a bar than a place to dip foodstuffs into curdled milk. Some people may find this enjoyable, others may be horrified, or maybe you'd be like me and find it enjoyable and horrifying at the same time.

The meal started off with a plate of various cut up meatstuffs, cheese, olives, pickles and something else that I couldn't identify from looks alone. We were also given Kir as an apéritif. I slowly sipped it before opting to lick the sugar off the rim of the glass rather than attempt to ingest any more alcohol against the will of my tastebuds. (You should know that I don't like any alcohol, no matter how "good" the majority of the food-loving population deems it. Maybe I'll learn later.)

And then came the vat-o-delicious cheesy, buttery, slightly wine-flavored death. I don't know why it's so satisfying to impale bread chunks with long, metal forks and suffocate every carb-based pore with liquified cheese, but it's pretty awesome and satisfying if you ignore the inevitable, "Did I really eat this much bread and cheese?" coma. It's mildly balanced—you've got carbohydrates, fat, and protein. Vegetables and fruit can be a meal for another day. (There's also a meat fondue, but we stuck with the bread since my friend is a vegetarian.) The bread keeps coming as long as you keep eating it. And the cheese...I don't think it's possible for the cheese to run out. If you eat it all, I'll pray for you. After we had reached the point of stuffed-ness, we entertained ourselves by swirling the molten cheese around the pot with the wooden paddle. Over and over and over again.

We couldn't help but get friendly with the neighboring party of American college girls since we had to shove into their personal space to make room for more people. If you're afraid of touching strangers, this is not the place for you. The optimal customer would be slim, extoverted, feel reasonable comfortable around strangers, like wine and not be lactose or gluten intolerant. I successfully fulfilled the last requirement, and maybe a bit of the third. Although I could've gotten as many refills in my baby bottle of wine as I wanted, I could only take a few sips before my tastebuds once again cried, "NO, STOP TORTUING US!" At least I can now cross "drink wine out of a baby bottle" off of my to-do list.

...Along with "find a toilet seat cover in the shape of a giant cheese."

It took a while for my friend and I to recover from the unexpected sensory overload that results from sitting in the chaotic belly of Refuge des Fondus. Overall I can't say I'd want to go back, but I can see why other people would want to. The girl I sat next to was a repeat customer, her explanation being that it's fun, crazy and one of the few places where you comfortably be a loud American. And the food's not bad.

Refuge des Fondus
17 Rue des Trois Frères, 18th
Metro: Pigalle (2, 12)

An NYC food blogger, currently studying non-foodie things in Paris, Robyn of The Girl Who Ate Everything shares her discoveries with Parisist every Monday while she explores all the eats that Paris has to offer.