This is how the Swiss roll: you clamp a wheel of raclette (or part of it, as we did) in place under a bar that heats up, melting the cheese. This to me is the most exciting part, something you never get with an oven and a ceramic dish: hearing the bubble and sizzle of the cheese, watching it soften and melt, and knowing that it’s your turn to get it. The bigger the wheel of cheese, the more often you get to savor those moments, over and over again.
We bought bread and cold cuts on the highway as we drove back from the Alps.
As the only local in the group, it fell to Julien to mix the fondue, which he did moitie-moitie (half and half), equal parts Vacherin and Gruyere cheeses, with some white wine, flour and garlic rubbed on the bottom of a cast-iron pot. Judging from the speed at which we inhaled that wonderful mixture, I’d say his fondue was a whopping success.
As we neared the bottom of the pan, Julien remarked, “If you’re ‘ardcore, sometimes you crack a raw egg on the crust at ze bottom and make a cheese omelette.” Hearing the words hardcore and raw egg stirred something primeval in the deepest regions of Marlon’s manliest self. Naturally, he had to do it.
We women were aghast. Actually, more like eeew.
But as the lactose intolerant girl who had wheedled and pushed and begged for two cheesefests in a row, I could not even begin to claim moral ascendancy. So I had my cheese, Marlon had his egg, and we all agreed that our men were hardcore.
Wide and happy smiles all around. And we didn’t even have to say cheese.
