As for acceptable cheese retailers, I found myself particularly drawn to a small fromagerie in Montmartre, near the lines of sex shops (most of which are named "Sexy Shop") that lead to the Moulin Rouge, which, to my disappointment though to no surprise, matched a friend's comparison to the Hard Rock Cafe (sorry, art history). The woman running the cheese shop didn't speak a word of English, and because I don't speak a word of French and there was no English signage, the language barrier made for a thrilling, blind cheese hunt. Among other handsome hunks, I grabbed an ash-dusted pyramid of gorgeous, snow-white chevre, a wheel of decadent, mushroomy Camembert de Normandie (one of the few good Camemberts made with pasteurized milk, meaning I wouldn't risk losing it coming back to the United States), and Calva d'Auge, a creamy cow's milk cheese soaked in sweet apple brandy and coated in walnuts and breadcrumbs—unlike anything I've tried back at home. One night, we ate at a restaurant near the Opera House called Bistro Volnay. Concluding one of the best meals I've ever had—a salmon tartare for starters and guinea fowl with chard gratin (by the way, the French actually know how to make chard delicious)—I ordered the dessert fromage plate, a generous sampling of three Burgundian cheeses aged by Marie Quatrehomme.