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.
