How to Make a Cheese Fondue

THERE are thousands and thousands of recipes in the hands of gastronomical initiates. But apart from their number, the most remarkable thing about them is the way they were secured. I mean that most of them haven’t reached their present owners through what might be called normal channels.

The easiest way for anyone to get a recipe is to cut it out of a food column. The second easiest way is to ask the cook in a restaurant where you go regularly. But that isn’t the way our gastronomical elite likes to function. Take, for example, the way I got my hands on the three recipes for cheese fondue which I shall present in this article.

Cheese fondue, mes amis, is a plat which achieves its small, fine, almost austere pinnacle of perfection only in its native Switzerland and only at altitudes of well over 11,000 feet. There are a thousand ways of making bad cheese fondue; there are five good ones.

One is the most closely guarded of all the secrets of the Swiss Diplomatic Corps; according to tradition and Swiss law it can be cooked only in the code rooms of Swiss Legations abroad and be served only by the code clerks.

The second recipe, of which some of the details may have been lost, was stolen early in the eighteenth century by a band of dacoits believed to have been in the pay of the seventh Maharajah of Nepal.

The other three, as fortune would have it, are my own, and I reveal them here, together with the stories of how I acquired them, for the first and last time.

Highways and road maps in Switzerland, when I was a young man, were not what they are today, and on one stormy, rather menacing evening in July, I realized too late that I had taken the wrong turning. The road narrowed between high precipices as it climbed, and it was well after nightfall when I came at last to an exceedingly humble inn, perched on a rocky outcropping with a rushing torrent roaring by, hundreds of feet below.

The patron greeted me at the door, promptly provided me with a bottle or so of kirsch, and served me, exquisitely, in a small brown plate, a cheese fondue which was altogether quelconque.

I went to bed.

I was awakened by a tremendous noise which I cannot describe but which made me feel that the end of the world was at hand. A moment after, there was a violent pounding on my door. I opened it to admit the white-faced patron in nightshirt and with candle.

“Sir,”said he, “if by good fortune and God’s good grace you know anything of medicine, come at once to our aid.”Without losing a moment, I threw on a robe and followed.

An unforgettable sight met my eyes. A hundred feet from the inn, an avalanche had destroyed the entire valley. A broken coach lay amongst the tumbled rocks, and from it the servants had already brought an old man, gray of face and very tall and thin, who appeared on the point of death. Taking charge, I asked the chef to prepare as rapidly as possible a bisque of homard. He made a quart and the old man drank it, crying like a child, spoonful by spoonful, his head in my lap. We became friends.

“Young man,” he said, “I am the thirty-ninth and I now believe the last Baron of Fonduheim. My only son and only grandson perished in the carriage of which you see the ruins before you. My line dies with me. I am an old man. You have saved my life. May I give you my greatest treasure?”

An hour later, as I unfolded the yellowed parchment, I realized that I had indeed a treasure — the original, the only original, of the great Fonduheim recipe. It follows:—

Take 4 pounds of good Swiss cheese, preferably imported, cut into strips, and dredge in flour. Rub the inside of a large earthenware casserole with garlic, put in 2 quarts of good white wine, and heat until almost boiling. Add the cheese slowly, stirring constantly. Salt, pepper, nutmeg to taste. Add ½ bottle of kirsch. Serves 8-10.

Highways and road maps in Switzerland, in the never-to-be-forgotten days of my youth, were not what they are today, and one sultry July evening, hurrying forward under a dark, angry sky, I realized too late that I had taken a wrong turning. It was with a definite sense of relief that I came, well after nightfall, to a modest, bleak little inn, perched on a barren eminence with a rushing torrent roaring by, thousands of feet below.

The patron received me at the door, promptly provided me with a couple of bottles of kirsch, and served me, laboriously, in a small earthenware bowl, a cheese fondue which was rather undistinguished.

I went to bed.

I was awakened by a tremendous noise. Seconds later, there was a violent pounding on my door. I threw it open to admit the patron. He was in his nightshirt, with a candle in his shaking hand, and his face was green.

“Sir,” he cried, “if by good fortune and God’s good grace you know aught of signals, come at once to our aid.” Without losing a moment, I threw on a robe and followed.

Far down in the gorge below the inn, like twin trails of gossamer silvered by the setting moon, ran the tracks over which the Saint Bernard Express was due to pass in a matter of minutes. On and athwart them lay a huge boulder, obviously dislodged by the blast which had awakened me.

Who was the perpetrator of this dastardly act? After a quick glance round I spotted him, skulking like a jackal in the shadows. I was on him like a flash.

“Nihilist! Assassin! Bakuninist!” I cried. “You are cornered at last.” For a moment he tottered on the brink of the abyss, and his left hand, with a scrap of paper in it, made a half-convulsive gesture toward his mouth. Then, losing his footing, he fell. The paper in his hand fluttered to the ground.

An hour later, by candlelight, as I examined the paper, my years of intelligence training stood me in good stead. To a skillful cryptographer, all the indications were there. It was clearly written in one of the disused codes of the First International, and within a few minutes I realized what I had — a historic trophy indeed, the original recipe for the cheese fondue of the Revolutionary Underground. The recipe: —

Take 1 pound of good Swiss cheese, preferably imported, cut into strips, and dredge in flour. Rub the inside of an earthenware casserole with garlic, put in 1 pint of good white wine, and heat until almost boiling. Add cheese slowly, stirring constantly. Salt, pepper, nutmeg to taste. Add 3 tablespoons of kirsch. Serves 3-4.

On one memorable July day in Switzerland, I realized by late afternoon that I was on the wrong road, and when the magnificent Alpine sunset lighted up the western sky, I could see storm clouds ahead that made me wonder whether I should be able to find shelter before a thundershower arrived.

I was surprised and delighted, just at nightfall, to find myself at the door of the most idyllic little inn imaginable. A charming mountain brook ran under its windows, and the entire landscape radiated an atmosphere of extraordinary tranquillity and peace.

The patron received me on the doorstep, promptly provided me with a small demijohn of kirsch, and served me, with incomparable tact, in a flat oval bowl of ancient Italian majolica, a cheese fondue which was unpretentious but adequate.

I went to bed.

I was awakened by the sound of angry voices in the dining room downstairs. A moment later someone tapped lightly on my door. I opened it noiselessly to admit the red-faced patron.

“Sir,” he whispered, “if by good fortune and God’s good grace you speak English, as I believe you do, come at once to our aid.” Without losing a moment, I threw on Lederhosen, a Tyrolean jacket, and crampons, and followed.

Halfway down the stairs he halted. “Sir,” he whispered, “you are about to meet the most beautiful and most dangerous woman in Europe. You will pretend to know her and you will call her . . . Eglantine.”

At this point you could have knocked me over with a straw.

“Noble sir,” he went on, “you must pretend to be the young woman’s American cousin. The old fool is her uncle. Your name is James Madison.”

“Fourth President of the United States,” I replied grimly.

As we entered the dining room, an extraordinary sight met my eyes. A giant of a man, dressed in an oldfashioned way, sat hunched in a chair in one corner of the room, with cocked pistols on either knee. Across from him, tears streaming down her little heart-shaped face, was a vision of loveliness that took my breath away.

She threw herself into my arms. “Cousin James,”she cried, “how are things ill home?”

“I have never seen things so good,” I replied gallantly.

“Enough!” exclaimed the grayhaired giant with the pistols. “My pretty Eglantine, I was wrong again, wrong to suspect you. I shall go.” He marched out with never a backward look, and the floor trembled under his feet.

I found myself looking into a pair of blue eyes, dark and deep as the sea.

How can I describe what came to pass? Even today, years later, it seems but an hour ago, and even today it comes back to me. I can see her lovely head bowed over the charcoal stove, her deft fingers at work, her radiant eyes. . . .

“Cousin,” she smiled, “take note of what you see.”

As if I needed such advice! My flying fingers were taking down in shorthand notes every move she made.

Finally, “You may taste it, Cousin,” she whispered.

I put my lips to the wooden spoon and a moment later I was on my knees, kissing the hem of her gown.

“My lady,” I said, “this is my journey’s end.”

For a brief moment her little hand lay on my head. “I am Eglantine de Gruyère,” she murmured. “And now, Cousin, since you know all my secrets, we must never see one allother again.”

It was days later before I could bring myself to reread what I had written on that precious, never-tobe-forgotten night. But here, now that I am older and romance lies behind me, are my notes:-

Take ½ pound of good Swiss cheese, preferably imported, cut into strips, and dredge in flour. Rub the inside of a small earthenware casserole with garlic, put in ½ pint of good white wine, and heat until almost boiling. Add cheese slowly, stirring constantly. Salt, pepper, nutmeg to taste. Add 1 or 1½tablespoons kirsch. Serves 2.