Fondue Is More Than Cheese

Olivier made my first Swiss fondue in the Val de Travers. My colleagues and I sat around the steaming pot dipping our bread and laughing. The cheese gave off a wonderful smell, the bread was crusty, but mostly there is a feeling of sharing from a single pot, a togetherness that is different when everyone is concentrating on their own plate.

I’ve probably eaten hundreds of fondues since then. Half way up the mountain Chapeau de Napoleon named for its resemblance to the famous hat, there was a chalet restaurant that overlooked the Val de Travers with its postcard perfect villages. Sunday nights in late fall (it closed during the winter because of snow-laden roads) when the air crackled with cold my buddy Robbert and I would often go there. The waitress always insisted we have white wine or tea with our fondue to help our digestion. She absolutely refused to let us have anything cold.

After moving to Geneva, I found the Café du Soleil. My daughter if she makes airline reservations to come at Christmas in March asks almost weekly if I’ve made reservations for the night of her arrival. Family tradition dictates her first evening meal in Switzerland is a fondue there with its mismatched chairs and warm greetings.

When my former colleague Dennis asked me to come and taste his wife’s fondue on a cold Sunday in February, I was on the train at the drop of a winter coat.

Although we had worked at the same company for years and were two of the only three Americans who worked there, we seldom met until 9/11 when I glanced at CNN minutes after the report of the first tower being hit was shown and ran to Dennis’ office. Getting back on CNN was impossible. Dennis brought up El Pais and we followed the news until I went home (a quick walk from the office) and telephoned back with events as they happened. In subsequent days we discovered our politics were almost identical and opposite what was happening in our country. Together we shared petitions, wrote and called Congress and newspapers, and shared books about the right, left and middle.

Dennis and Margarita have a large apartment with huge windows from which we could watch the alternate sun and snow showers. Cold days are fondue days. Amazingly her dishes were identical to the ones I had in Boston, her glasses were the ones I had in Geneva, and her cups’ pattern were the Villeroy and Boch where I stayed in Boston over Christmas. But even without the familiar tableware, I felt at home.

The fondue was hot and as tasty as it should be. The bread was perfect for dipping. The champagne was champagne adding to the ambience. Soft music played as we dipped and talked. Both Dennis and I feel great sadness for the loss of our country as we believe in it, having nothing to do with how long we have lived abroad. We discussed not just politics but the emotions behind the politics, not just the US’s, but the Swiss and also of Margarita’s Spain. We discussed our families, but with the understanding that comes with age. We discussed our usages of time, writing and other subjects.

With each dip of the long fork into the bubbling cheese a nugget of information floated to the surface.

I could just say I had a fondue at friends, but more accurately it would be the opening of spirits on a snowy Sunday afternoon in Nyon over a fondue. Perhaps melted cheese has a magic making fondue much more than just cheese.