I had my first taste of the hospitality world when I was a green and clueless student, working the summer vac in the tiny, isolated Hotel de la Poste in Arolla, supposedly the highest village in Switzerland. At the far end of a long and precipitous valley with no way out except back, it was a most extraordinary place. Most of the older people had never been out of the valley and spoke only a very localised patois. Nobody spoke English, only an odd version of French that had me fooled for quite a while. Other than the one that took you there (eyes shut, holding tightly to the side of the postbus while invoking deities you didn’t think you believed in) there were no roads and so almost no cars - just high, high mountains and light that was so perfectly blue and clear it took your breath away.
It was a baptism of fire for me. At home, as a pampered only child I’d never cooked, cleaned or even done my own washing. And yet suddenly there I was, the first outsider ever to have worked in this ancient family-run pension where everybody, whether eight or eighty, did everything. To begin with I was forever getting my fondues confused with my Fendants and having running battles with the coffee machine, which was the size of a Mini and even more difficult to start, but, unaccountably, I loved it almost from the word go. I learned to cook, carry four plates at a time, work 16 hour days, drink copious amounts of wine and coffee, eat spoonfuls of Ovaltine out of the jar, speak French with a pronounced Swiss accent, smoke Disque Bleue and walk up a glacier (not necessarily all at the same time).
I’m sure that I look back on that summer with slightly rose-tinted contact lenses. The hotel is long gone, sadly, but two things have stayed with me ever since. The first is the way the running of the hotel was inseparable from the owner-family's daily life. They (and I) lived and congregated in the kitchen and restaurant, decided the lunch menu over breakfast and the dinner menu over lunch, ate what the guests and customers ate and did whatever needed doing whenever it needed doing. There were no ‘private’ signs, no rotas, no job descriptions, no scheduled time or days off, no separation of ‘work’ and ‘non-work’. It was all very flexible, very organic - haphazard even. And it worked.
But maybe even more impactful (is that a word?) than that was the genuine open heartedness with which guests were welcomed. For one who'd grown up going to holiday camps and, later, petit bourgeois hotels with ideas above their station this was a true revelation: guests would be made to feel instantly at home, would wander in and out of the kitchen, would sit and talk for hours after lunch or dinner and were treated as an extension to the family. There was no big thing about it; no rule that said " thou shalt enter into relationship with thine guests". But they just did, and after a while so did I. And ever since then I've aspired to that honest, easy going and above all genuine way of offering hospitality.
I've been thinking about this this week for various reasons, which will, I'm afraid, remain unmentioned. But as I was doing so, I remembered one of Monsieur le Patrons's signature dishes, and a speciality of the Val d’Hérens, the valley of which Arolla forms the head. It was very often on the lunch menu, and just as often demanded when it wasn’t. After I’d been there a couple of weeks he sat me down in the kitchen with a bottle of Fendant, the local white wine, and made me this; a while later he taught me to cook it. I cooked it all the way through that summer, and I’ve been cooking it ever since, though I’m ashamed to admit that I can’t remember what it was called. I suppose it’s a kind of fondue-without-tears; it certainly gives off the same appetite-inducing aroma of cheese and wine as it’s cooking. Here's the recipe, for an impromptu supper for two people: try it first in its pure form, but experiment too – it’s exceptionally good with some thin slices of air-dried ham between the bread and the cheese …
2 thick slices of good, dense, white bread - preferably sourdough or pain de campagne
a glass (150ml or thereabouts) of white wine
around 175g of hard Swiss cheese or similar: Gruyère, Emmental and/or Appenzeller
Put a slice of bread in each of two small ovenproof gratin dishes, then trickle over the wine – slowly, so that it’s thoroughly soaked. Slice the cheeses very thinly and arrange the slices over the winey bread, mixing the different cheeses as you go to get a good blend. Lightly sprinkle the cheese with paprika and bake near the top of a hot oven (around 200°C) for 20 minutes or until the cheese is melted and bubbling and you can’t wait any longer. Eat straight out of the dish, with a green salad if you like and a glass of white wine. It's not dignified, as the cheese tries to wrap your face up in its strings, so you may prefer not to make it for someone you're trying to impress ... but enjoy!