FONDUE, OR HOW TO AGREE TO DISAGREE

One pot. Two cheeses. And enough opinions to start a small civil war.

If there is one dish that unequivocally says Switzerland, it's probably fondue.

Chocolate comes close. Watches, banks and mountains have their supporters. But put a steaming pot of melted cheese in front of a foreigner and there is a good chance they will immediately think of Switzerland.

Which is slightly ironic. Because the Swiss cannot even agree on how to make it.

The first problem is that Switzerland does not have an entirely uncontested claim to having invented fondue. The French, particularly the people of Savoy, have their own version of the story.

And melted cheese is hardly a recent Swiss invention.

Apparently, Homer was already writing about a mixture of goat's cheese, wine and barley flour in one of his epic poems. The British later got involved, naturally, combining melted cheddar with beer.

But in fairness, the British also came up with mint sauce, so we probably shouldn't give them too much credit.

In the Alps, melting cheese made perfect practical sense. If you had cows, milk and a long winter ahead of you, turning cheese into a hot, filling meal was hardly a revolutionary concept.

Switzerland eventually perfected the idea. Or, at least, perfected the argument about it.

Because once you put a caquelon – the traditional fondue pot – on the table, everyone suddenly becomes an expert.

Should you use Gruyère? Vacherin Fribourgeois? Emmental?

Should there be cornflour? Kirsch? Garlic?

And, most importantly, how exactly should you stir it?

The traditional Swiss moitié-moitié is half Gruyère and half Vacherin Fribourgeois.

Simple enough.

Except that somewhere between the cheese counter and the dinner table, someone will inevitably announce that their family's recipe is the correct one.

This is generally followed by a discussion that becomes increasingly passionate as the wine disappears.

Garlic is particularly dangerous territory. Some people merely rub a clove around the inside of the pot. Others put actual garlic into the fondue. And there are presumably people who do neither, although I have never entirely trusted them.

Then there is the bread.

It should ideally be slightly stale. You put it on your fork, dip it into the cheese and try not to lose it. Because losing your bread in the fondue is not simply an unfortunate accident. Traditionally, there are consequences. And this is where Swiss conviviality starts to reveal its slightly authoritarian side.

Fondue is supposed to bring people together.

Yet apparently nothing brings people together quite like collectively deciding who gets punished for dropping a piece of bread into a pot.

The truth is that fondue itself is rather more complicated than its rustic image suggests.

Getting it right involves chemistry. Too much heat and the cheese separates. Too little and it starts to set. The wine, acidity and constant stirring all have their roles.

In other words, beneath the charming Alpine simplicity lies a surprisingly demanding little science experiment.

And then there is the question of authenticity.

This is where things become particularly Swiss.

The image of fondue as an ancient national tradition is somewhat misleading.

For centuries, it was largely a regional dish. It wasn't until the 20th century that fondue really became a symbol of Switzerland as a whole.

The Swiss army helped. So did the cheese industry.

Fondue was inexpensive, easy to prepare and capable of feeding soldiers from all 26 cantons without requiring the army to learn 26 different recipes.

It was, in other words, a remarkably efficient nation-building exercise.

And the cheese industry was happy to help turn a humble regional meal into a national icon.

So perhaps fondue isn't quite an ancient Swiss tradition after all.

Perhaps it is something more interesting: a very successful Swiss marketing campaign involving cheese.

Which, when you think about it, may be the most Swiss thing about it.

Today, of course, you can buy fondue in a packet. Add heat, stir and you have dinner.

Purists may recoil at the idea.

But blind tastings have occasionally shown that these ready-made versions can actually perform rather well.

Which creates yet another uncomfortable question: If the packet fondue tastes good, does that make it authentic?

I suspect the safest answer is to avoid asking.

Just open another bottle of wine.

Because that, ultimately, is what makes fondue so wonderfully Swiss.

It is a dish designed for sharing.

Just like Japanese sukiyaki, or shabu-shabu.

And if you're particularly adventurous, then you can try a cheese fondue in Japan: with vegetables, wieners and prawns - and surprisingly little bread. Well, Swiss fondue purists would definitely have something to say about that...

I also write fiction under the name R.K. Arnold. My debut novel, Love, Secrets, and a Plate of Sushi, is a romantic comedy set across Switzerland, England and Japan.

Read Chapter One free.