The Big Cheese
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Credit: Todd Coleman
As a teenager growing up in Geneva, Switzerland, I loved spending Friday nights at my friend Michelle's house. Following the Catholic tradition of meatless Fridays, Michelle's father joined the multitudes of Swiss families who prepared cheese fondue. At home, we never ate the dish; my dad was on orders to avoid rich, fatty foods. While the rest of Switzerland happily stirred the gooey mix, our family lit the Shabbat candles and sat down to my Parisian mother's boeuf à la mode.
Perhaps that's why, as I entered my rebellious teens, I set out to rectify this gap in my Swiss education and try as many types of fondue as I could. I never forgot the bland tomato version at ski camp, or my high school boyfriend's delicious addition of dried porcini to the bubbling pot of cheese. When I moved to the States in 1984, I was surprised to find that Americans had developed a fondness for the Swiss national dish and had created versions of their own. (See Form and Function: An Evolution of the Fondue Pot) Yet it was last December, back in my native Switzerland, that I savored the best fondue of my life.
I was with my American husband and my stepchildren at La Buvette des Bains, a casual eatery located on a jetty that extends into Lake Geneva, close to where I was born. In addition to being a restaurant, this unique 656-foot-long pier harbors Les Bains des Pâquis, a renovated version of the old 1872 public baths across from the Jet d'Eau, Geneva's landmark water fountain. But what drew me in was the restaurant's storied version of fondue au crémanta, a mix of cheeses melted with local sparkling wine.
Seated for dinner at a long rectangular communal table, a few steps from the wood-burning heaters, I took in the sweeping vistas of Geneva's silvery Cathedral St-Pierre in the distance. Outside the large windows, ducks and swans honked and flapped, probably hoping for leftover bread. Suddenly, a blue vinyl apron-clad waiter appeared cradling a steamy caquelon, the traditional clay fondue pot, which he placed on a stand over a Sterno cup. The smell was intoxicating. I skewered my first piece of day-old baguette—fresh bread would not be firm enough to hold the cheese—and dipped in. Silky and almost frothy, the mixture coated it perfectly. The cheeses blended so well with the sparkling wine, which added a slight effervescence to the fondue, that each bite became more addictive than the last. Half nutty aged Gruyère and half Vacherin Fribourgeois, a robust semi-firm Swiss cows' milk cheese, the fondue had just the right balance of salt and tang.
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