Swiss Watching Read online

  Reservations are essential in such a busy town, so we pick a place at random. The stressed waitress makes it abundantly clear that our table will only be held for ten minutes, after which it’s a free-for-all. Having to feed so many people all year round obviously leaves some people unable to remember the basic concepts of friendly service. Then again, Swiss service is often as direct as the people themselves: few sugary niceties, few frilly edges, including on the aprons, and certainly no ‘Hi, my name is Heidi and I’ll be your waitress today’. Far too familiar for the Swiss.

  By the time we return from a castle visit, being very careful not to be late, the sunny square is buzzing. All the restaurants are packed with people eating their fill of cheese, most of it melted in a pot.

  A CHEESE AND WINE PARTY

  Fondue is Switzerland’s gift to the culinary world. Swiss Germans might disagree on it being the national dish, but as much as they like potato Rösti, and they really do like it, it’s just not that popular elsewhere in the country. Fondue, on the other hand, can be found in places well beyond its origins in the French-speaking cantons: in the streets of Zurich’s Niederdorf, the chalets of St Moritz and the resorts of the Bernese Oberland. It might have a French name (from the French verb fondre, or ‘to melt’) but fondue is truly a Swiss dish.

  In case you were too busy strutting your stuff on a flashing dance floor or just didn’t live through the 1970s, here’s a fond reminder of a typical dinner. Fondue is, essentially, a cheese and wine party all in one pot. Everything’s melted together in a ceramic pot, known as a caquelon, and then kept warm over a squashed Bunsen burner placed in the centre of the table. You spear cubes of bread on to a ridiculously longhandled fork, then dip it into the gloopy-cheesy-winey concoction, twirl rapidly and attempt to get the dripping cube into your mouth without dribbling. Drop the bread in the pot and you pay a forfeit, maybe having to kiss your neighbour, though that depends on how much wine you’ve both had. And who your neighbour is.

  Of course, for the Swiss fondue isn’t a fad food that disappeared about the same time as kipper ties. It’s a traditional dish that’s been around for ever, but it’s usually a winter comfort food, their version of stew and dumplings or shepherd’s pie. Only tourists eat fondue when the thermometer hits double digits, and in that the Swiss have got it right. Who wants to be eating hot cheese when it’s 30°C in the shade? But much to the constant amusement of the locals, that’s exactly what hordes of tourists do.

  Equally shocking, no doubt, is having to watch visitors break the three cardinal rules of eating fondue:

  Firstly, and most importantly, your fork should never touch your tongue, teeth or lips as you eat, purely because it has to go back into the pot every time.

  Secondly, don’t drink anything fizzy, especially sparkling water, as you eat, otherwise what is anyway a fairly indigestible meal will turn to lead. It’s more normal to drink white wine or black tea, by which the Swiss mean tea that isn’t green or herbal; in English, we just call it tea.

  Lastly, once all the fondue has gone, the bottom of the pot is encrusted with a layer of cheese hardened to a crisp by being closer to the heat. Never leave la religieuse uneaten, but don’t take it all for yourself. For most Swiss it’s the best part of the meal and is there to be shared.

  Contrary to popular belief fondue is not the only Swiss cheese dish; there’s also raclette, which originated in the Valais region of southern Switzerland. Like fondue it’s perfect for a sociable dinner, and most supermarkets sell the special table-top grills and ready-sliced raclette cheese. Traditionalists – that is, most Swiss people – eat raclette only with pickled onions and little gherkins as accompaniments, though some wacky types throw in pineapple, baby corn cobs, cherry tomatoes and apple. I’m one of the eccentrics, but a misshapen gherkin will probably be the most exciting thing to go with a raclette in Gruyères. It’s that kind of town.

  As anticipated, my raclette appears with accompaniments of the traditional (severely limited) variety, although the grill itself is rather special. A large oblong of cheese sits under what looks like a mini version of those outdoor heaters you see in pubs and bars. The top surface melts and I scrape it off with a wooden spatula – hence the name, from the French racler, to scrape – straight onto the small boiled potatoes, still in their jackets. It’s a typically heavy Swiss dish; those long winters and vigorous walks mean that the Swiss don’t eat dainty food in minute portions. If it’s big and hearty, then it’s Swiss. Definitely no room after that for the time-honoured Gruyères dessert: meringues with raspberries and thick double cream.

  Gruyères is the cheesiest (in every sense) town in Switzerland. It’s undeniably sweet, even more so in winter when snowflakes outnumber visitors, but its blatant exploitation of the cheese theme grates a little. True, it has the authentic history to back up its marketing, even if the quaintness feels a little contrived, but somehow it feels so different from Emmental. Compared to the traditional rural life along the Emme valley Gruyères is so commercialised, there for the tourists who descend in their thousands from all over the world. There’s further proof of that in Gruyères’ show dairy, down at the bottom of the hill. Unlike its Emmental counterpart, it isn’t free. Not only that, but you can pay in euros as well as Swiss francs.

  DOWN AT THE CHEESERY

  The audio tour is narrated by Cherry, who’s a likeable enough guide, talking us through her life, which basically involves chewing lots of grass, having her udders squeezed twice a day, and walking up to higher pastures in spring and down again in autumn. Not exactly a thrill a minute but as lives go, it seems comfortable enough. Cherry imparts all sorts of trivia, like the fact that two-thirds of all Gruyère is eaten in Switzerland or that scientists have detected up to 75 different scents in the cheese. After that, it’s a familiar tale of everyday cheese-making: mixing the morning and evening milk, cooking in giant vats (the one on display holds 4800 litres), salt baths, pressing and storing. Like Emmentaler, Gruyère is AOC protected as it’s made only in this part of Switzerland. And like Emmental, it takes 12 litres of milk to make one kilo. In fact, there seems to be very little difference between Gruyère and Emmental, apart from the former being blind, as in it has no eyes. Other than that it’s a question of size: the average round of Gruyère is a mere 60 centimetres across and weighs only 35 kilograms; a lightweight in comparison.

  Downstairs, you get to stare through a window at 7000 rounds, all maturing slowly while stacked from floor to ceiling. It looks like one of those scenes from a sci-fi film where the heroes find a warehouse, flick on the lights and are confronted with row upon row of clones stretching off into the distance. Kind of spooky, even though it’s only cheese. Then a robot trolley glides into the aisle, sticks its arms out and turns over each of the cheese rounds in one stack; now it really does feel like another world.

  Standard Gruyère comes in three varieties: mild, semi-salted and salty. None is my cup of tea but in the shop I try the Reserve, which makes it sound even more like a wine; the AOC label alone clearly wasn’t enough. Having been aged for a minimum of one year, Reserve Gruyère is much less rubbery, with a grainy, crumbly texture and a much stronger flavour. Truly scrumptious. Until then the appeal of Swiss cheese had eluded me, but this was a revelation – and there were more to come.

  THE REAL SWISS CHEESE

  There are two big supermarket chains in Switzerland and between them they account for almost 90 per cent of Swiss grocery shopping.9 German discounters like Aldi or Lidl have arrived and are nibbling at the edges, but most Swiss stick to what they know and trust (particularly if the competition is German). And what they know is Coop and Migros. Coop is the posher Swiss supermarket chain that’s like a Swiss Sainsbury’s and differs from Migros, its cheaper, down-to-earth competition, in two big ways. First, Coop sells alcohol and tobacco, Migros doesn’t. No really, it doesn’t. I can’t imagine a British supermarket surviving without ten aisles of wine, whisky and beer, not to mention the packets of cigarettes b
ehind the till. However, it’s not only about booze and fags, but brands. That’s the second big difference: Migros shuns many multinationals, preferring to have own-brand products and local produce (the milk bottle labels even tell you which local area the milk comes from). In contrast, Coop is brand central: its shelves are brimming with Coke, Del Monte, Pringles, Persil, Mars and the like.

  Branded produce aside, I was in Coop one day looking for something cheesey for a dinner party; in Switzerland, cheese is often served as a separate course between the main and dessert. I zigzagged through the aisles, stopping briefly to wonder at how many different types of muesli there were (28 – and I thought it was just Alpen), and found the cheese counter. And there they were, all those Swiss cheeses. Hard, soft, holey, solid, cows’, goats’, round and wedgy. It was mice paradise. The girl behind the counter proffered me a cube on a toothpick. I hesitated but gave in, more out of politeness than anything else, and popped it into my mouth.

  Oh. My. God. (or Oh. Mein. Gott, now that I speak German). Gone were the Silly Putty texture and too-mild-to-be-noticed taste that I detest. Instead, my mouth was dazzled by this firm yet creamy cheese with a tangy, almost herby flavour. In my naïveté I thought I had found something special. Of course it was nothing new to our Swiss dinner guests, all of whom have been enjoying Appenzeller for centuries, though they politely let me relish my ‘discovery’. It left me wondering why the only Swiss cheese we get abroad is Emmental or Gruyère.

  Since that Damascene moment in Coop there have been many other Swiss cheeses to tempt me, each with a tale to tell: the wonderfully titled Tilsiter, named after a town in East Prussia where its Swiss expat creator lived before returning home in 189310; the well-hard Sbrinz, a sort of Swiss Parmesan that’s made in only 34 dairies around Lake Lucerne11; the silky Tête de Moine, which has its own special knife to shave it into delicate, curly rosettes. To the Swiss they’re as normal as Emmental; but to me each was a revelation, though none of them danced on my taste buds like Appenzeller. That was as distinctive as the place it comes from.

  SOMETHING FOR THE QUAINT-HEARTED

  Don’t be surprised if you’ve never heard of hilly, lush Appenzellerland; few people outside Switzerland have. But within the country, it’s famous not merely for its unique cheese. This rural canton is the most traditional or, if you’re a less charitable city dweller, the most backward and unsophisticated. Appenzell folk certainly have their own distinct architecture, dialect and costumes, which often make them the butt of many a Swiss joke. You still see men dressed in their embroidered scarlet waistcoats, black hats and breeches, with a silver earring dangling from one ear, ‘as if time had stood still’,12 as the Appenzellerland tourist website so neatly puts it. This is where tradition is a way of life; never is that easier to see than on festival days such as Mother’s Day. It’s not a holiday but it still warrants celebrating.

  Mother’s Day in Switzerland is not the moveable feast it is in Britain, where it precedes and is linked to Easter so that it wanders around March like a lost lamb. Swiss Mother’s Day is always on the second Sunday in May and it’s a big deal. The trains are full of dutiful offspring heading home, carrying giant bouquets, pot plants, gaudily wrapped packages or pristine white cake boxes. It’s all about presents, but oddly enough not about cards. In other countries card firms cash in on events like Mother’s Day; in Switzerland they get nowhere, simply because the Swiss don’t send many cards. Birthday, sympathy, get well, congratulations and even Christmas cards are all noticeable by their absence. Eight sent per year is the average for a Swiss person, compared to 45 for an American.13 Perhaps the Swiss just prefer to say it with flowers, always the top choice for a Mother’s Day gift.

  The maternal festivities are in full swing when we arrive at Brülisau, a huddle of a hamlet at the base of Hoher Kasten mountain (see the map of eastern Switzerland on page 275). The whole place has gathered for a Mother’s Day service at the church, with the village brass band playing on the steps and all the locals dressed up in their finery. For the women this means wearing a stiff, white lacy headdress that looks like one of those fan-shaped napkin holders. The most important detail is the ribbon at the back: married women wear red, widows black, while a white ribbon shows you’re still available. No headdress at all means you’re past your sell-by date. It all feels a bit like a mediaeval Stepford Wives, but it certainly looks dramatic when the whole female population is walking into church together.

  Almost as spooky is the village of Oberriet, where every garden and field seems to have a scarecrow standing sentry, as if the villagers are expecting an invasion of birds, à la Alfred Hitchcock. And the scarecrows are a motley lot: one in a wedding dress, another in a business suit; a fat, roly-poly man near a minimalist, stick-and-straw curtain; even a giant crow, like something from the Hammer House of Horror. It turns out that the villagers have created 531 scarecrows to try to get into the Guinness Book of Records.14 Perhaps they got bored of choosing which cow was beautiful enough to be Miss Oberriet and represent them at the Miss Rheintal competition. And I’m not joking. The straw men of Oberriet disappear into the rear-view mirror as we go up into the heart of Appenzellerland, a verdant, undulating plateau set in a gentle dip surrounded by rocky mountains.

  Despite the craggy horizon, there’s a sense of openness that was missing in Emmental; nothing close to miles of flat prairie, but a feeling of space for nature to do its thing, though it doesn’t feel empty or wild. As everywhere in rural Switzerland, farms dot the landscape with amazing regularity, each seemingly in easy yodelling distance of its neighbours. Each region of Switzerland has its own architecture, something the Swiss are quite proud of; compared to the mega-barns of Emmental, the Appenzell farmhouses are diminutive, ladylike affairs. The three-storey square houses are straight out of Little House on the Prairie, most with wooden shingle façades, some painted pale blue or yellow. Attached to each farmhouse at right angles, making a T-shape, is the barn, so that animals and owners are snuggled up together at night.

  After all that rolling farmland and rustic traditions, Appenzell itself feels like a buzzing metropolis, though it’s just a town of 6000 people.

  My previous visit to Appenzell (described in Chapter Four) was for the Landsgemeinde, or community parliament, when the town was packed to the painted rafters. This time it’s possible to see the buildings themselves. Walking down the pedestrianised main street is like being in a parallel Switzerland, one designed by Disney. The old wooden houses are painted a kaleidoscope of colours and decorated with intricate stencils. Dangling out above our heads is a succession of signs, most curly and golden, proclaiming the presence of a pharmacy, hotel or butcher. Window displays are filled with local handicrafts, such as pear bread and daintily embroidered cloth, among the standard Swiss souvenirs, like cows that yodel when you press their stomachs. And of course there’s the cheese, looking temptingly tasty in its rounds and wedges. Every time a shop door opens, the pungent smell escapes and lingers in the air, like a cartoon trail of mist following us down the street. It’s a Sunday and this is a Catholic canton, but some shops are open to make the most of the many tourists milling in the streets.

  The irregular-shaped main square is noticeably emptier than in April. Now I can appreciate that almost every building has its wooden walls painted, the handsome façades displaying a rusty rainbow colour scheme, from sunflower yellow through lobster red to chocolate brown. We take a table under the linden trees and indulge in a spot of lunch from a menu as traditional as the location, with lots of treats for meat eaters and alcohol lovers. Beefsteak tartare served with Appenzell single malt whisky, anyone? Or maybe half a litre of Hanfblüte (hemp beer) to wash down that Siedwurst, a white veal sausage? Luckily, this is a cheese town so there’s also plenty of choice for veggies, such as Chäsmaggerone, or macaroni cheese. Banish those traumatic memories of school dinners – this is nothing like the stodgy English dish. This is pasta and diced potatoes enveloped in a light, creamy-cheesy sauce, then sp
rinkled with crispy roasted onions and served with apple purée on the side.

  After lunch, I pop into a cheese shop and buy a chunk of the local stuff to take home. Yes, I know I can buy Appenzeller in my local Coop, but there’s nothing like getting it from the horse’s mouth (or cow’s udder). I’m convinced it tastes better.

  Switzerland is not a great place for anyone who’s lactose intolerant. Cheese is one of its most famous exports and a staple component of every Swiss diet. No winter passes by without at least one fondue, no Apéro is complete without a cheese platter. It’s no surprise, then, to discover that there are 1.6 million cows in Switzerland15; they don’t just look pretty in the fields, they produce milk and this is the land where milk makes money. And of course, they add to the sound of the countryside. A walk isn’t Swiss until you’ve heard the sound of cowbells echoing up from the valley below.

  There’s more to Swiss cheese than meets the eye: only one truly has holes, none needs to have the texture of plastic, and there are far more varieties than the couple we see abroad. It’s only when you come to Switzerland and taste the real deal that you realise that the Swiss export the plastic and keep the rest secret, not singing its praises, not telling the world how great it is. How very Swiss. But despite its success, Swiss cheese doesn’t rest on its laurels. In Switzerland the three main brands16 are continually being advertised in magazines, on television, in the cinema, in trams, pretty much everywhere in fact. And it clearly works. Swiss people eat an awful lot of Swiss cheese: an average of 15.9 kilograms per person each year.17 Looking at consumption of all types of cheese, the Swiss manage an impressive 21.5 kilograms per head annually,18 well above the EU average.19 In comparison, the British are clearly not a nation of turophiles (cheese lovers to you and me), only eating less than half the amount the Swiss tuck away.20