In Zermatt, Switzerland, the only things that match the epic beauty of the Alps are the majestic mountainside restaurants, where the golden rösti, dazzling fruit tarts, and après-ski refreshments are only accessible by trail
I FIRST SKIED IN ZERMATT IN 1979, when I was ten. My parents rented a small apartment at the edge of the village, a healthy hike up a winding path. The dollar was strong, but the budget was tight. Most nights, we ate in—spaghetti, with store-bought sauce. For lunch, we stocked up at the supermarket and picnicked on the deck of an abandoned hut near the foot of a glacier: crackers, landjäger sausage, Hobelkäse (a local cheese), le Parfait (liver pâté in a squeezable tube), blood oranges, and Toblerone. We acquired a taste for skiing where…