Were Boris Johnson a dish, he would be a fondue. This is not based entirely on aesthetics. Granted, his hair flops down as if strings of Kirsch-dappled cheese, but the point is Johnson is tiresome and unbecoming, and fondue is the same. Both offer a hint of joy that quickly folds into what is actually a charmless reality: oh dear, my piece of ham has fallen off this long, pronged fork. Oh dear, he’s lied to Parliament. I think it’s similar.
What irks me about fondue is that it is supposed to be fun, communal, but really after the first two or three mouthfuls there is not much by way of satisfaction. Really, are fondue eaters okay? They are consuming liquid cheese tediously draped on little morsels of bread, slopping the mixture about the place. It is a painstaking, endless task. The blame lies at the feet of the Swiss, who insist fondue is a main course. But then Switzerland is a country where so much of the money is hidden.
As a starter, it is easier to abide by, because then I can have some meat and potatoes and move from Champagne to Whispering Angel, and then return to the slopes (or the lazy dinner party I have mistakenly come to in the suburbs). Still, I’d rather have no fondue at all. Even at its best, it’s still nothing more than a salty, one-dimensional soup, one with both the temperature and texture of sloppy tar poured onto the bonnet of an overheating Skoda.
These cauldrons of excess and expense offer promise, but I defy anyone who has ever tucked in to tell me they haven’t lost bread in its deep, dark recesses, bread which proceeds to disintegrate and thicken proceedings. Ham or chicken too, or pieces of veg, each one floating in a curdled, mountainous nightmare. Sometimes I wonder: what else might be in there?
Really, are fondue eaters okay? They are consuming liquid cheese tediously draped on little morsels of bread, slopping the mixture about the place
Word is that losing a piece of bread in the caquelon — as the cooking vessel is known — is penalized on the slopes by the buying of a round of drinks, singing an embarrassing song, or running around in the snow, naked. I would not enjoy running about in the nude after so much heavy dining. “Please, my Swiss friends, I am bloated beyond measure.”
Fondue is skiing food and so it is not a question of calories. It is not even a question of cheese. Bring me cured meats, potatoes bathing in silken Raclette and oozing Reblochonnade; let me order tartiflette by the truckload and various gratins. Cover everything in truffle. Do this all the while topping up my glass. I intend to slide down a black run before falling down.
But read the concise list of dishes above and then pitch them against fondue. I mean, Christ, how monotonous it is compared to a heaving bowl of crozets, tempered by salad, tidily supporting a selection of charcuterie.
I want to say that the cheeses classically used in fondue — Gruyere with the likes of Vacherin Fribourgeois, Appenzeller, Emmentaler — are each one of them powerful and superb. With strong wines and garlic, their extraordinary nature is nurtured well. But it is not the parts of fondue that are trifling, it is the sum: Alpine dining can, and does, so much better. But fondue? It’s nothing but a hot mess.
