Swiss Watching Read online

  Getting off the train in Lugano, you truly could be in Italy. Pencil-thin cypresses puncture the skyline, giant salamis hang outside the macelleria and the lakeside road is choked with horn-honking traffic. But to remind you which country you are in, there’s a statue of Guillermo Tell down by the water. And in nearby Caslano is a real Swiss chocolate factory. I follow my nose straight there.

  For a moment, as I stand on the elevated walkway above the Alprose factory floor, I close my eyes and inhale the intoxicatingly rich aroma. I could stay there for hours, except that it’s unbelievably noisy with so many machines clunking, hissing and banging away. Looking down through plexiglass screens I can see the whole process from gloopy brown liquid to neatly stacked boxes. The main moulding device relentlessly churns out 504 bars a minute, which are cooled then dispatched in batches to the wrappers. White-coated workers in gloves and hairnets test bars at random, picking out the duds, or package the finished product into boxes. It’s all rhythmically hypnotic, but so much more like a clinical lab than I expected; definitely the unglamorous side of the chocolate industry. No chocolate waterfall and no OompaLoompas, though being encased in plexiglass does mean there’s no chance of me being turned into a giant blueberry. But at least I get to see, and smell, chocolate being made. One last long sniff and I leave before I drool too much.

  SWITZERLAND REALLY IS SMALL

  Mission accomplished, I decide to take the longer route back to Bern, so completing a round trip of the whole country. That means a first change of train in Locarno, Lugano’s great rival in the stakes to be Ticino’s premier town. All the Swiss seem to like a spot of inter-city rivalry and the Ticinese are no different. Lugano is the financial centre, Locarno the cultural, with its annual open-air film festival; Lugano has an eponymous lake, whereas Locarno just has the top end of Lake Maggiore, most of which is Italian. The funny thing is neither is the cantonal capital; that’s tiny Bellinzona to the north. My favourite is Locarno, mainly because it has the best local transport in Switzerland. Best not for its timekeeping or cleanliness but for its name: Ferrovie Autolinee Regionali Ticinesi. Never mind what it means,17 all you need to know is that it’s shortened to a four-letter acronym written in giant letters on the back of buses, on timetables and stations. In Ticino, a FART goes a very long way.

  The best-known part of the local train network is the Centovalli, a slow, meandering single-track line that crosses into Italy. The carriage is a time warp of wood panelling, knotted-rope luggage racks and tapestry seats. It’s so 1950s that I look round for Miss Marple and her knitting. The train soon leaves all signs of human habitation behind, apart from odd glimpses of a serpentine road and random stations in the middle of nowhere with no apparent reason to exist. Despite that the train is packed, with both locals and tourists out to enjoy the unspoilt scenery of the hundred valleys (hence the line’s name in Italian). Tree-clad slopes amble past, the air has a pine-scented Glade hint to it, and crystal blue Italian streams gurgle along beneath the bridges. It’s all rather idyllic until we change in Domodossola. This Italian town is part of the Swiss train network purely because it sits at the centre of a chunk of Italian territory that sticks up into Switzerland like an overgrown stalagmite. But it’s soon very clear that it’s not run by the Swiss.

  Ninety minutes later, which for Swiss passengers is half a lifetime, the platform is still full of people waiting for the Italians to find a locomotive for the train to Bern. The conductor can merely shrug and say ‘Italians!’ with raised eyebrows, which is verging on emotional for a Swiss train conductor. The train finally departs, and what a difference a delay makes. Spurred on by a sense of communal suffering, people in the crowded carriage cast off their normal reserve and start chatting to one another.

  The two gentlemen opposite me are 99 and 91, on their annual day-trip out together; the waiter with the tea trolley sings Charles Aznavour tunes; and the family across the aisle are trying to see the whole country in a day, having set out at 6 a.m. from Oberriet. The name sounds strangely familiar, and once they start telling me about the town’s scarecrow-making exploits (which failed to make The Guinness Book of Records), I remember being there.18 Months after briefly driving through Oberriet, meeting some of its inhabitants on the other side of the country shows me just how small Switzerland really is. Maybe if more Swiss trains were delayed, Swiss people would talk to each other more often and the whole country would open up just a little. What a revolutionary thought.

  LAND OF THE MUESLI EATERS

  With fondue and milk chocolate, the Swiss invented two of the world’s more luxurious edible delights. As if to counteract all that decadence, they also created the most ridiculously healthy breakfast. So healthy that it looks distinctly unappetising, with the appearance and consistency of cold porridge. And that’s, essentially, what muesli is, at least when it’s made the Swiss way. The birdseed–sawdust mix that is Alpen has always had a bad rep in most of the English-speaking world, disparaged as being eaten by sandal-wearing hippies or fitness freaks, or more often dismissed as inedible. And, to be frank, it is. The Swiss realised this ages ago, so they soak it (preferably overnight) in milk, then mix it with yoghurt and add fresh fruit, usually apple and/or berries. The result looks strange but it is scrumptious. Truly.

  It’s so delicious that the Swiss can’t help but eat it all day long. For them it’s not only a breakfast staple, it’s also a snack lunch, a light supper or a quick way to fill the odd gap. In Switzerland muesli, or Birchermüesli as it is generally known, is the Martini of foods, to be eaten anytime, anyplace, anywhere. It’s the original Swiss fast food, not because it’s quick to make (all that pre-soaking doesn’t help) but because almost every bakery, café and supermarket sells it, ready prepared to take away and eat. Muesli was first made in 1900 by Maximilian Bircher-Benner,19 a doctor from Aarau in northern Switzerland, as a healthy evening meal for his patients. The original recipe mixed oats with water, lemon juice, condensed milk and grated apple, which sounds less than appealing. The oats and grated apple are still prime ingredients, but thank goodness someone thought of replacing the rest with milk and yoghurt.

  Not many Swiss German words have made it into the English language. Muesli is one, and is a good example of the Swiss German habit of ending words with -li. It’s merely a way of making the noun a diminutive, but apparently there are an awful lot of small things in Switzerland. For example, a Gipfeli is a croissant, a Wägeli is a shopping trolley and, my favourite, a Bitzeli is a little bit. Even Tell’s son Walter often gets a -li on the end of his name, just to show he’s a small boy.

  However, there’s more to Swiss food than fondue and muesli. Just as in any country, every region has its specialities, some of which are special for a reason: only the locals like them. But many are popular all across the country, so that as a visitor you don’t have to trek to far-flung corners to enjoy a taste of Switzerland. For example, Zopf, the plaited milk-bread that’s popular at weekends, originated in Canton Bern, while the veal, cream and mushroom Züri Gschnätzlets, as rich as it is unpronounceable, is clearly from Zurich. And Basel’s most famous product is a hard spiced and iced biscuit, known as Läckerli (there’s that -li again). Each is a source of much local pride but all are enjoyed everywhere, and there’s possibly one reason for that: a woman named Betty Bossi.

  COOKING WITH BETTY

  She’s the Delia Smith or Julia Child of Switzerland, and under her guidance the Swiss have not only mastered their own cuisine but, rather radically for many people, moved on to exotic creations like Thai curry or hummus. The thing is, Betty does not exist. She began life in 1956, the (brain)child of a marketing department from an oil and margarine producer.20 Her name was created to sound comforting and be acceptable to all three main languages. What was initially a freebie newspaper given out in supermarkets has grown into a brand worth millions. Alongside the bestselling cookbooks are a magazine, a cookery school and kitchen equipment. And just in case you really can’t cook, even with Betty’s he
lp, Coop now sells her ready meals. That in itself is quite a revolution. Ready meals are still a relatively new concept, with only half a chiller cabinet in Bern’s largest supermarket. Nothing compared to the miles of them on offer in Britain, but a noticeable change in a country where most meals are, or at least were, prepared from scratch.

  There are, however, three Swiss favourites that Ms Bossi can’t teach you to make, assuming you would even want to. First, Rivella, a soft drink made from milk serum. It’s not quite as disgusting as it sounds, but is definitely the Marmite of the fizzy drink world: you have to grow up with it to like it, and most Swiss have done exactly that. It’s been quenching their thirsts since 195221 and shows no sign of running out. Much more acceptable to a foreign palate is Aromat, an all-purpose seasoning made by Knorr. Despite its rather alarming colour (dayglo yellow), the Swiss sprinkle it on anything and everything, from boiled eggs and salad to cooked vegetables and meat. And as unnatural as it looks, its salty-herby-yeasty taste is quite addictive. Just as well, as it pops up on almost every table.

  But both those are small fry against the cervelat. To you and me it may look like any other sausage, but to the Swiss it’s the national sausage, revered and devoured in equal measure.

  THE NATIONAL SAUSAGE

  For the Swiss, the cervelat is a prerequisite at any barbecue and they consume 160 million every year.22 Not bad going for a country of only 7.8 million people. A Pfadfinder (boy scout or girl guide) summer week away, with cooking cervelat speared on sticks and grilled over an open fire, is a rite of passage for most Swiss children. The sausage itself is short, fat and pinky-brown, made from a mix of beef, pork, bacon, salt and herbs, all minced and stuffed into cow’s intestines. Then it’s smoked and parboiled before being sold to an eager public. The traditional way to prepare it is to cut both ends with a cross, so that when grilled they curl outwards, making it end up looking a little like a roasted pig.

  Since 2008 Switzerland has been in a cervelat crisis, with headlines bemoaning the imminent death of a national institution. It’s all down to the intestine traditionally used for the skin being banned by the European Union, a decision which Switzerland has to honour under its bilateral agreements with the EU. Fears of mad cow disease led to the ban on the intestines from Brazilian zebu, the humpbacked cattle found mainly in India but also South America. Zebu intestines had long since replaced local (Swiss) varieties because they’re much cheaper, despite coming a rather long way. With the national sausage threatened with extinction, a Swiss Cervelat Task Force has been set up to find a second skin. Other animals’ intestines apparently aren’t good enough, being too wide, too expensive or too thin-skinned – no one wants a burst sausage. Synthetic skins prompt cries of horror and a Paraguayan substitute only has short-term potential. It sounds farcical but to many Swiss, for whom Switzerland without cervelat is unthinkable, it’s a real issue. The Task Force has a mountain to climb to save the people’s sausage.

  APPLE COUNTRY

  The cervelat may be under threat, but the national fruit has no such problem. Switzerland loves its apples. Perhaps it’s a William Tell thing – an apple a day keeps the Austrians away – or maybe the Swiss just like them. Think of a way of using an apple and you can bet that the Swiss have thought of it already. Top of the list is Apfelmus, or apple purée, which is a standard dessert or served with Chäsmaggerone. This hearty macaroni cheese is a staple of almost every mountain-top restaurant, where it’s known as Älplermakkaroni to give it that extra lift. Come September and the ubiquitous Apfelmus is eclipsed by gallons of fresh-pressed cloudy apple juice lining the supermarket shelves and market stalls. And all year round the two most common varieties of fruit tart, popular for elevenses or a snack supper, are apple or plum.

  It’s just as well that the Swiss grow an awful lot of apples, given how many they eat. In fact, they produce more than the UK,23 and every third apple is grown in the eastern canton of Thurgau. That’s reason enough for the local tourist board to say that Thurgau is ‘the orchard of Switzerland’,24 though Swiss people call it Mostindien, from Most in Swiss German meaning apple juice and the canton being shaped like India, albeit a slightly deformed, pre-independence India. The big question is what sort of apple was on Walter’s head when Tell Senior shot it off. These days it could easily be a Granny Smith from New Zealand, which, despite a wealth of homegrown apples, you can see in Swiss shops. Crazy.

  Antipodean apples aside, Swiss supermarkets seem much more in tune with the seasons. The changes in the fruit and veg displays are as marked as the weather outside, with local produce always to the fore. Plums, cherries, asparagus, apples, strawberries and lettuce all fill the shelves when in season. Especially lettuce, which seems to come in 20 different varieties at the height of summer and is one of the few things that’s cheaper when Swiss grown. All because the Swiss are rather partial to a good salad.

  SALAD DAYS AND NIGHTS

  Many Swiss restaurants have a menu. That’s not quite as daft as it sounds, since ‘menu’ doesn’t mean a list of dishes with prices, as it does in English, but refers to a set menu for a fixed price. Ask for the menu and you’ll end up with the dish of the day rather than a large piece of cardboard. The menu is particularly popular at lunchtime, so it usually changes daily, but is nearly always a starter and a main course. Nine times out of ten the starter will be a salad, or menu-salad as it’s sometimes known. Go to a cheap eatery – and there are a few in Switzerland25 – and the menu-salad will most likely be a small bowl filled with shredded lettuce, a slice of tomato, some grated carrot and dressing from a bottle. Move up the food scale and you might get mixed leaves, toasted seeds and homemade dressing, but the concept is the same: keep it simple and quick to serve.

  Even at home, the Swiss like nothing better than a small salad as a starter. This is more than a national food fetish, it’s an important cultural marker. Salad in Switzerland is not just a predictable starter but a source of endless fascination at the dinner table. And it’s all down to a lettuce leaf. Who would’ve thought that such a humble piece of greenery could be such a bone of contention? More than once during a lettuce debate I have reached for a knife and ended the matter in the most brutal way possible: shredding the leaves.

  Cheap menu-salads aside, Swiss salads tend to have whole leaves. No ripping, no cutting, often no halving. Just big, round leaves covered in dressing. Aesthetically speaking, it’s better than a mangled mess of green. Then you try to eat it, and aesthetics go out of the window as you tackle the unruly, slippery leaves while attempting to maintain some sense of decorum. After careful observation, I have deduced that there is a distinct lettuce etiquette, or lettiquette, involved in eating a Swiss salad. You have three choices – the elegant, the standard and the practical. To the Swiss, each is less acceptable than the previous one.

  When done correctly, the elegant is a wonder to behold. First, you get a firm hold on a single leaf with your fork. Then, using your knife, carefully fold each side of the leaf into the middle, each time re-spearing the centre with your fork so that the whole thing doesn’t spring open like a jack-in-the-box. Once all four sides are folded, you have a small, manageable parcel that can be eaten elegantly. No doubt this takes years of practice, rather like eating peas the proper way. The problem is keeping the already folded sides down while simultaneously trying to get the next in under the fork. It only seems possible without the slippery dressing, so my ongoing failure in lettuce origami leaves me only two options.

  In a country where table manners are quite important, it’s astonishing to watch someone eat a lettuce leaf the standard way. Just spear the centre of the leaf with your fork, shake off any excess dressing, and stuff it whole into your mouth. Simple as that. Of course, not everyone does this, but an alarmingly large percentage of the population, including refined ladies-who-lunch and suited businessmen, seem to have no problem cramming in public. All very well, unless you are sitting opposite them. At best it’s enough to put you off your salad; at worst
, when the leaf is bigger than the mouth, it looks like a scene from Alien, with the human losing the battle to breathe.

  Then there’s the third way, the practical, which is the choice of most foreigners when presented with a plate of ballooning leaves. For strict followers of Swiss lettiquette it’s verging on blasphemy as it’s so unrefined; for the uneducated it’s the easiest option. The practical works on the same principle as tackling spaghetti: simply chop it up. With an Italian grandmother, I had no choice but to learn how to twirl my spaghetti round a fork; lacking a Swiss relative, my childhood was blighted by not being taught how to eat a whole lettuce leaf. So, as sacrilegious as it may seem, I am in the cut-then-eat camp. Less hassle, less mess and you stand a chance of finishing the salad before the pudding arrives.

  The cultural differences in salad do not end there. My earliest lesson in Swiss salad was typical for many first-time visitors. Picture this: you order a salad and, as in many Swiss restaurants, are offered a choice of French or Italian dressing. You fancy a nice light vinaigrette, so you choose French and are then presented with leaves covered in a creamy white, runny dressing that looks like liquid mayonnaise. Essentially that’s what it is, though with vinegar and mustard added. What we call French dressing (oil, vinegar and other optional extras) is Italian dressing in Switzerland; what the Swiss call French doesn’t really exist in Britain. As for blue cheese, ranch or salad cream, forget it – which you will once you have tasted this French dressing. So delicious that my family take bottles of it home with them after every trip.