introduction to this book.

Taleggio and Bel Paese When the great Italian cheese-maker, Galbini, first exported Bel Paese some years ago, it was an eloquent ambassador to America. But as the years went on and imitations were made in many lands, Galbini deemed it wise to set up his own factory in _our_ beautiful country. However, the domestic Bel Paese and a minute one-pounder called Bel Paesino just didn't have that old Alpine zest. They were no better than the German copy called Schönland, after the original, or the French Fleur des Alpes. Mel Fino was a blend of Bel Paese and Gorgonzola. It perked up the market for a full, fruity cheese with snap. Then Galbini hit the jackpot with his Taleggio that fills the need for the sharpest, most sophisticated pungence of them all. Trappist, Port-Salut, or Port du Salut, and Oka In spite of its name Trappist is no rat-trap commoner. Always of the elect, and better known as Port-Salut or Port du Salut from the original home of the Trappist monks in their chief French abbey, it is also set apart from the ordinary Canadians under the name of Oka, from the Trappist monastery there. It is made by Trappist monks all over the world, according to the original secret formula, and by Trappist Cistercian monks at the Abbey of Gethsemani Trappist in Kentucky. This is a soft cheese, creamy and of superb flavor. You can't go wrong if you look for the monastery name stamped on, such as Harzé in Belgium, Mont-des-Cats in Flanders, Sainte Anne d'Auray in Brittany, and so forth. Last but not least, a commercial Port-Salut entirely without benefit of clergy or monastery is made in Milwaukee under the Lion Brand. It is one of the finest American cheeses in which we have ever sunk a fang. [Illustration] _Chapter Four_ Native Americans American Cheddars The first American Cheddar was made soon after 1620 around Plymouth by Pilgrim fathers who brought along not only cheese from the homeland but a live cow to continue the supply. Proof of our ability to manufacture Cheddar of our own lies in the fact that by 1790 we were exporting it back to England. It was called Cheddar after the English original named for the village of Cheddar near Bristol. More than a century ago it made a new name for itself, Herkimer County cheese, from the section of New York State where it was first made best. Herkimer still equals its several distinguished competitors, Coon, Colorado Blackie, California Jack, Pineapple, Sage, Vermont Colby and Wisconsin Longhorn. The English called our imitation Yankee, or American, Cheddar, while here at home it was popularly known as yellow or store cheese from its prominent position in every country store; also apple-pie cheese because of its affinity for the all-American dessert. The first Cheddar factory was founded by Jesse Williams in Rome, New York, just over a century ago and, with Herkimer County Cheddar already widely known, this established "New York" as the preferred "store-boughten" cheese. An account of New York's cheese business in the pioneer Wooden Nutmeg Era is found in Ernest Elmo Calkins' interesting book, _They Broke the Prairies_. A Yankee named Silvanus Ferris, "the most successful dairyman of Herkimer County," in the first decades of the 1800's teamed up with Robert Nesbit, "the old Quaker Cheese Buyer." They bought from farmers in the region and sold in New York City. And "according to the business ethics of the times," Nesbit went ahead to cheapen the cheese offered by deprecating its quality, hinting at a bad market and departing without buying. Later when Ferris arrived in a more optimistic mood, offering a slightly better price, the seller, unaware they were partners, and ignorant of the market price, snapped up the offer. Similar sharp-trade tactics put too much green cheese on the market, so those honestly aged from a minimum of eight months up to two years fetched higher prices. They were called "old," such as Old Herkimer, Old Wisconsin Longhorn, and Old California Jack. Although the established Cheddar ages are three, fresh, medium-cured, and cured or aged, commercially they are divided into two and described as mild and sharp. The most popular are named for their states: Colorado, Illinois, Kentucky, New York, Ohio, Vermont and Wisconsin. Two New York Staters are called and named separately, Coon and Herkimer County. Tillamook goes by its own name with no mention of Oregon. Pineapple, Monterey Jack and Sage are seldom listed as Cheddars at all, although they are basically that. Brick Brick is the one and only cheese for which the whole world gives America credit. Runners-up are Liederkranz, which rivals say is too close to Limburger, and Pineapple, which is only a Cheddar under its crisscrossed, painted and flavored rind. Yet Brick is no more distinguished than either of the hundred percent Americans, and in our opinion is less worth bragging about. It is a medium-firm, mild-to-strong slicing cheese for sandwiches and melting in hot dishes. Its texture is elastic but not rubbery, its taste sweetish, and it is full of little round holes or eyes. All this has inspired enthusiasts to liken it to Emmentaler. The most appropriate name for it has long been "married man's Limburger." To make up for the mildness caraway seed is sometimes added. About Civil War time, John Jossi, a dairyman of Dodge County, Wisconsin, came up with this novelty, a rennet cheese made of whole cow's milk. The curd is cut like Cheddar, heated, stirred and cooked firm to put in a brick-shaped box without a bottom and with slits in the sides to drain. When this is set on the draining table a couple of bricks are also laid on the cooked curd for pressure. It is this double use of bricks, for shaping and for pressing, that has led to the confusion about which came first in originating the name. The formed "bricks" of cheese are rubbed with salt for three days and they ripen slowly, taking up to two months. We eat several million pounds a year and 95 percent of that comes from Wisconsin, with a trickle from New York. Colorado Blackie Cheese A subtly different American Cheddar is putting Colorado on our cheese map. It is called Blackie from the black-waxed rind and it resembles Vermont State cheese, although it is flatter. This is a proud new American product, proving that although Papa Cheddar was born in England his American kinfolk have developed independent and valuable characters all on their own. Coon Cheese Coon cheese is full of flavor from being aged on shelves at a higher temperature than cold storage. Its rind is darker from the growth of mold and this shade is sometimes painted on more ordinary Cheddars to make them look like Coon, which always brings a 10 percent premium above the general run. Made at Lowville, New York, it has received high praise from a host of admirers, among them the French cook, Clementine, in Phineas Beck's _Kitchen_, who raised it to the par of French immortals by calling it Fromage de Coon. Clementine used it "with scintillating success in countless French recipes which ended with the words _gratiner au four et servir tres chaud_. She made _baguettes_ of it by soaking sticks three-eights-inch square and one and a half inches long in lukewarm milk, rolling them in flour, beaten egg and bread crumbs and browning them instantaneously in boiling oil." Herkimer County Cheese The standard method for making American Cheddar was established in Herkimer County, New York, in 1841 and has been rigidly maintained down to this day. Made with rennet and a bacterial "starter," the curd is cut and pressed to squeeze out all of the whey and then aged in cylindrical forms for a year or more. Herkimer leads the whole breed by being flaky, brittle, sharp and nutty, with a crumb that will crumble, and a soft, mouth-watering pale orange color when it is properly aged. Isigny Isigny is a native American cheese that came a cropper. It seems to be extinct now, and perhaps that is all to the good, for it never meant to be anything more than another Camembert, of which we have plenty of imitation. Not long after the Civil War the attempt was made to perfect Isigny. The curd was carefully prepared according to an original formula, washed and rubbed and set aside to come of age. But when it did, alas, it was more like Limburger than Camembert, and since good domestic Limburger was then a dime a pound, obviously it wouldn't pay off. Yet in shape the newborn resembled Camembert, although it was much larger. So they cut it down and named it after the delicate French Creme d'lsigny. Jack, California Jack and Monterey Jack Jack was first known as Monterey cheese from the California county where it originated. Then it was called Jack for short, and only now takes its full name after sixty years of popularity on the West Coast. Because it is little known in the East and has to be shipped so far, it commands the top Cheddar price. Monterey Jack is a stirred curd Cheddar without any annatto coloring. It is sweeter than most and milder when young, but it gets sharper with age and more expensive because of storage costs. Liederkranz No native American cheese has been so widely ballyhooed, and so deservedly, as Liederkranz, which translates "Wreath of Song." Back in the gay, inventive nineties, Emil Frey, a young delicatessen keeper in New York, tried to please some bereft customers by making an imitation of Bismarck Schlosskäse. This was imperative because the imported German cheese didn't stand up during the long sea trip and Emil's customers, mostly members of the famous Liederkranz singing society, didn't feel like singing without it. But Emil's attempts at imitation only added indigestion to their dejection, until one day--_fabelhaft!_ One of those cheese dream castles in Spain came true. He turned out a tawny, altogether golden, tangy and mellow little marvel that actually was an improvement on Bismarck's old Schlosskäse. Better than Brick, it was a deodorized Limburger, both a man's cheese and one that cheese-conscious women adored. Emil named it "Wreath of Song" for the Liederkranz customers. It soon became as internationally known as tabasco from Texas or Parisian Camembert which it slightly resembles. Borden's bought out Frey in 1929 and they enjoy telling the story of a G.I. who, to celebrate V-E Day in Paris, sent to his family in Indiana, only a few miles from the factory at Van Wert, Ohio, a whole case of what he had learned was "the finest cheese France could make." And when the family opened it, there was Liederkranz. Another deserved distinction is that of being sandwiched in between two foreign immortals in the following recipe: Schnitzelbank Pot 1 ripe Camembert cheese 1 Liederkranz 1/8 pound imported Roquefort 1/4 pound butter 1 tablespoon flour 1 cup cream 1/2 cup finely chopped olives 1/4 cup canned pimiento A sprinkling of cayenne Depending on whether or not you like the edible rind of Camembert and Liederkranz, you can leave it on, scrape any thick part off, or remove it all. Mash the soft creams together with the Roquefort, butter and flour, using a silver fork. Put the mix into an enameled pan, for anything with a metal surface will turn the cheese black in cooking. Stir in the cream and keep stirring until you have a smooth, creamy sauce. Strain through sieve or cheesecloth, and mix in the olives and pimiento thoroughly. Sprinkle well with cayenne and put into a pot to mellow for a few days, or much longer. The name _Schnitzelbank_ comes from "school bench," a game. This snappy-sweet pot is specially suited to a beer party and stein songs. It is also the affinity-spread with rye and pumpernickel, and may be served in small sandwiches or on crackers, celery and such, to make appetizing tidbits for cocktails, tea, or cider. Like the trinity of cheeses that make it, the mixture is eaten best at room temperature, when its flavor is fullest. If kept in the refrigerator, it should be taken out a couple of hours before serving. Since it is a natural cheese mixture, which has gone through no process or doping with preservative, it will not keep more than two weeks. This mellow-sharp mix is the sort of ideal the factory processors shoot at with their olive-pimiento abominations. Once you've potted your own, you'll find it gives the same thrill as garnishing your own Liptauer. Minnesota Blue The discovery of sandstone caves in the bluffs along the Mississippi, in and near the Twin Cities of Minnesota, has established a distinctive type of Blue cheese named for the state. Although the Roquefort process of France is followed and the cheese is inoculated in the same way by mold from bread, it can never equal the genuine imported, marked with its red-sheep brand, because the milk used in Minnesota Blue is cow's milk, and the caves are sandstone instead of limestone. Yet this is an excellent, Blue cheese in its own right. Pineapple Pineapple cheese is named after its shape rather than its flavor, although there are rumors that some pineapple flavor is noticeable near the oiled rind. This flavor does not penetrate through to the Cheddar center. Many makers of processed cheese have tampered with the original, so today you can't be sure of anything except getting a smaller size every year or two, at a higher price. Originally six pounds, the Pineapple has shrunk to nearly six ounces. The proper bright-orange, oiled and shellacked surface is more apt to be a sickly lemon. Always an ornamental cheese, it once stood in state on the side-board under a silver bell also made to represent a pineapple. You cut a top slice off the cheese, just as you would off the fruit, and there was a rose-colored, fine-tasting, mellow-hard cheese to spoon out with a special silver cheese spoon or scoop. Between meals the silver top was put on the silver holder and the oiled and shellacked rind kept the cheese moist. Even when the Pineapple was eaten down to the rind the shell served as a dunking bowl to fill with some salubrious cold Fondue or salad. Made in the same manner as Cheddar with the curd cooked harder, Pineapple's distinction lies in being hung in a net that makes diamond-shaped corrugations on the surface, simulating the sections of the fruit. It is a pioneer American product with almost a century and a half of service since Lewis M. Norton conceived it in 1808 in Litchfield County, Connecticut. There in 1845 he built a factory and made a deserved fortune out of his decorative ingenuity with what before had been plain, unromantic yellow or store cheese. Perhaps his inspiration came from cone-shaped Cheshire in old England, also called Pineapple cheese, combined with the hanging up of Provolones in Italy that leaves the looser pattern of the four sustaining strings. Sage, Vermont Sage and Vermont State The story of Sage cheese, or green cheese as it was called originally, shows the several phases most cheeses have gone through, from their simple, honest beginnings to commercialization, and sometimes back to the real thing. The English _Encyclopedia of Practical Cookery_ has an early Sage recipe: This is a species of cream cheese made by adding sage leaves and greening to the milk. A very good receipt for it is given thus: Bruise the tops of fresh young red sage leaves with an equal quantity of spinach leaves and squeeze out the juice. Add this to the extract of rennet and stir into the milk as much as your taste may deem sufficient. Break the curd when it comes, salt it, fill the vat high with it, press for a few hours, and then turn the cheese every day. _Fancy Cheese in America, lay_ Charles A. Publow, records the commercialization of the cheese mentioned above, a century or two later, in 1910: Sage cheese is another modified form of the Cheddar variety. Its distinguishing features are a mottled green color and a sage flavor. The usual method of manufacture is as follows: One-third of the total amount of milk is placed in a vat by itself and colored green by the addition of eight to twelve ounces of commercial sage color to each 1,000 pounds of milk. If green corn leaves (unavailable in England) or other substances are used for coloring, the amounts will vary accordingly. The milk is then made up by the regular Cheddar method, as is also the remaining two-thirds, in a separate vat. At the time of removing the whey the green and white curds are mixed. Some prefer, however, to mix the curds at the time of milling, as a more distinct color is secured. After milling, the sage extract flavoring is sprayed over the curd with an atomizer. The curd is then salted and pressed into the regular Cheddar shapes and sizes. A very satisfactory Sage cheese is made at the New York State College of Agriculture by simply dropping green coloring, made from the leaves of corn and spinach, upon the curd, after milling. An even green mottling is thus easily secured without additional labor. Sage flavoring extract is sprayed over the curd by an atomizer. One-half ounce of flavoring is usually sufficient for a hundred pounds of curd and can be secured from dairy supply houses. A modern cheese authority reported on the current (1953) method: Instead of sage leaves, or tea prepared from them, at present the cheese is flavored with oil of Dalmatian wild sage because it has the sharpest flavor. This piny oil, thujone, is diluted with water, 250 parts to one, and either added to the milk or sprayed over the curds, one-eighth ounce for 500 quarts of milk. In scouting around for a possible maker of the real thing today, we wrote to Vrest Orton of Vermont, and got this reply: Sage cheese is one of the really indigenous and best native Vermont products. So far as I know, there is only one factory making it and that is my friend, George Crowley's. He makes a limited amount for my Vermont Country Store. It is the fine old-time full cream cheese, flavored with real sage. On this hangs a tale. Some years ago I couldn't get enough sage cheese (we never can) so I asked a Wisconsin cheesemaker if he would make some. Said he would but couldn't at that time--because the alfalfa wasn't ripe. I said, "What in hell has alfalfa got to do with sage cheese?" He said, "Well, we flavor the sage cheese with a synthetic sage flavor and then throw in some pieces of chopped-up alfalfa to make it look green." So I said to hell with that and the next time I saw George Crowley I told him the story and George said, "We don't use synthetic flavor, alfalfa or anything like that." "Then what do you use, George?" I inquired. "We use real sage." "Why?" "Well, because it's cheaper than that synthetic stuff." The genuine Vermont Sage arrived. Here are our notes on it: Oh, wilderness were Paradise enow! My taste buds come to full flower with the Sage. There's a slight burned savor recalling smoked cheese, although not related in any way. Mildly resinous like that Near East one packed in pine, suggesting the well-saged dressing of a turkey. A round mouthful of luscious mellowness, with a bouquet--a snapping reminder to the nose. And there's just a soupçon of new-mown hay above the green freckles of herb to delight the eye and set the fancy free. So this is the _véritable vert_, green cheese--the moon is made of it! _Vert véritable._ A general favorite with everybody who ever tasted it, for generations of lusty crumblers. Old-Fashioned Vermont State Store Cheese We received from savant Vrest Orton another letter, together with some Vermont store cheese and some crackers. This cheese is our regular old-fashioned store cheese--it's been in old country stores for generations and we have been pioneers in spreading the word about it. It is, of course, a natural aged cheese, no processing, no fussing, no fooling with it. It's made the same way it was back in 1870, by the old-time Colby method which makes a cheese which is not so dry as Cheddar and also has holes in it, something like Swiss. Also, it ages faster. Did you know that during the last part of the nineteenth century and part of the twentieth, Vermont was the leading cheesemaking state in the Union? When I was a lad, every town in Vermont had one or more cheese factories. Now there are only two left--not counting any that make process. Process isn't cheese! The crackers are the old-time store cracker--every Vermonter used to buy a big barrel once a year to set in the buttery and eat. A classic dish is crackers, broken up in a bowl of cold milk, with a hunk of Vermont cheese like this on the side. Grand snack, grand midnight supper, grand anything. These crackers are not sweet, not salt, and as such make a good base for anything--swell with clam chowder, also with toasted cheese.... Tillamook It takes two pocket-sized, but thick, yellow volumes to record the story of Oregon's great Tillamook. _The Cheddar Box_, by Dean Collins, comes neatly boxed and bound in golden cloth stamped with a purple title, like the rind of a real Tillamook. Volume I is entitled _Cheese Cheddar_, and Volume II is a two-pound Cheddar cheese labeled Tillamook and molded to fit inside its book jacket. We borrowed Volume I from a noted _littérateur_, and never could get him to come across with Volume II. We guessed its fate, however, from a note on the flyleaf of the only tome available: "This is an excellent cheese, full cream and medium sharp, and a unique set of books in which Volume II suggests Bacon's: 'Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.'" Wisconsin Longhorn Since we began this chapter with all-American Cheddars, it is only fitting to end with Wisconsin Longhorn, a sort of national standard, even though it's not nearly so fancy or high-priced as some of the regional natives that can't approach its enormous output. It's one of those all-purpose round cheeses that even taste round in your mouth. We are specially partial to it. Most Cheddars are named after their states. Yet, putting all of these thirty-seven states together, they produce only about half as much as Wisconsin alone. Besides Longhorn, in Wisconsin there are a dozen regional competitors ranging from White Twin Cheddar, to which no annatto coloring has been added, through Green Bay cheese to Wisconsin Redskin and Martha Washington Aged, proudly set forth by P.H. Kasper of Bear Creek, who is said to have "won more prizes in forty years than any ten cheesemakers put together." To help guarantee a market for all this excellent apple-pie cheese, the Wisconsin State Legislature made a law about it, recognizing the truth of Eugene Field's jingle: Apple pie without cheese Is like a kiss without a squeeze. Small matter in the Badger State when the affinity is made legal and the couple lawfully wedded in Statute No. 160,065. It's still in force: _Butter and cheese to be served._ Every person, firm or corporation duly licensed to operate a hotel or restaurant shall serve with each meal for which a charge of twenty-five cents or more is made, at least two-thirds of an ounce of Wisconsin butter and two-thirds of an ounce of Wisconsin cheese. Besides Longhorn, Wisconsin leads in Limburger. It produces so much Swiss that the state is sometimes called Swissconsin. [Illustration] _Chapter Five_ Sixty-five Sizzling Rabbits That nice little smoky room at the "Salutation," which is even now continually presenting itself to my recollection, with all its associated train of pipes, egg-hot, welsh-rabbits, metaphysics and poetry. Charles Lamb, IN A LETTER TO COLERIDGE Unlike the beginning of the classical Jugged Hare recipe: "First catch your hare!" we modern Rabbit-hunters start off with "First catch your Cheddar!" And some of us go so far as to smuggle in formerly forbidden _fromages_ such as Gruyère, Neufchâtel, Parmesan, and mixtures thereof. We run the gamut of personal preferences in selecting the Rabbit cheese itself, from old-time American, yellow or store cheese, to Coon and Canadian-smoked, though all of it is still Cheddar, no matter how you slice it. Then, too, guests are made to run the gauntlet of all-American trimmings from pin-money pickles to peanut butter, succotash and maybe marshmallows; we add mustard, chill, curry, tabasco and sundry bottled red devils from the grocery store, to add pep and piquance to the traditional cayenne and black pepper. This results in Rabbits that are out of focus, out of order and out of this world. Among modern sins of omission, the Worcestershire sauce is left out by braggarts who aver that they can take it or leave it. And, in these degenerate days, when it comes to substitutions for the original beer or stale pale ale, we find the gratings of great Cheddars wet down with mere California sherry or even ginger ale--yet so far, thank goodness, no Cokes. And there's tomato juice out of a can into the Rum Turn Tiddy, and sometimes celery soup in place of milk or cream. In view of all this, we can only look to the standard cookbooks for salvation. These are mostly compiled by women, our thoughtful mothers, wives and sweethearts who have saved the twin Basic Rabbits for us. If it weren't for these Fanny Farmers, the making of a real aboriginal Welsh Rabbit would be a lost art--lost in sporting male attempts to improve upon the original. The girls are still polite about the whole thing and protectively pervert the original spelling of "Rabbit" to "Rarebit" in their culinary guides. We have heard that once a club of ladies in high society tried to high-pressure the publishers of Mr. Webster's dictionary to change the old spelling in their favor. Yet there is a lot to be said for this more genteel and appetizing rendering of the word, for the Welsh masterpiece is, after all, a very rare bit of cheesemongery, male or female. Yet in dealing with "Rarebits" the distaff side seldom sets down more than the basic Adam and Eve in a whole Paradise of Rabbits: No. 1, the wild male type made with beer, and No. 2, the mild female made with milk. Yet now that the chafing dish has come back to stay, there's a flurry in the Rabbit warren and the new cooking encyclopedias give up to a dozen variants. Actually there are easily half a gross of valid ones in current esteem. The two basic recipes are differentiated by the liquid ingredient, but both the beer and the milk are used only one way--warm, or anyway at room temperature. And again for the two, there is but one traditional cheese--Cheddar, ripe, old or merely aged from six months onward. This is also called American, store, sharp, Rabbit, yellow, beer, Wisconsin Longhorn, mouse, and even rat. The seasoned, sapid Cheddar-type, so indispensable, includes dozens of varieties under different names, regional or commercial. These are easily identified as sisters-under-the-rinds by all five senses: sight: Golden yellow and mellow to the eye. It's one of those round cheeses that also tastes round in the mouth. hearing: By thumping, a cheese-fancier, like a melon-picker, can tell if a Cheddar is rich, ripe and ready for the Rabbit. When you hear your dealer say, "It's six months old or more," enough said. smell: A scent as fresh as that of the daisies and herbs the mother milk cow munched "will hang round it still." Also a slight beery savor. touch: Crumbly--a caress to the fingers. taste: The quintessence of this fivefold test. Just cuddle a crumb with your tongue and if it tickles the taste buds it's prime. When it melts in your mouth, that's proof it will melt in the pan. Beyond all this (and in spite of the school that plumps for the No. 2 temperance alternative) we must point out that beer has a special affinity for Cheddar. The French have clearly established this in their names for Welsh Rabbit, _Fromage Fondue à la Bière_ and _Fondue à l'Anglaise_. To prepare such a cheese for the pan, each Rabbit hound may have a preference all his own, for here the question comes up of how it melts best. Do you shave, slice, dice, shred, mince, chop, cut, scrape or crumble it in the fingers? This will vary according to one's temperament and the condition of the cheese. Generally, for best results it is coarsely grated. When it comes to making all this into a rare bit of Rabbit there is: The One and Only Method Use a double boiler, or preferably a chafing dish, avoiding aluminum and other soft metals. Heat the upper pan by simmering water in the lower one, but don't let the water boil up or touch the top pan. Most, but not all, Rabbits are begun by heating a bit of butter or margarine in the pan in which one cup of roughly grated cheese, usually sharp Cheddar, is melted and mixed with one-half cup of liquid, added gradually. (The butter isn't necessary for a cheese that should melt by itself.) The two principal ingredients are melted smoothly together and kept from curdling by stirring steadily in one direction only, over an even heat. The spoon used should be of hard wood, sterling silver or porcelain. Never use tin, aluminum or soft metal--the taste may come off to taint the job. Be sure the liquid is at room temperature, or warmer, and add it gradually, without interrupting the stirring. Do not let it come to the bubbling point, and never let it boil. Add seasonings only when the cheese is melted, which will take two or three minutes. Then continue to stir in the same direction without an instant's letup, for maybe ten minutes or more, until the Rabbit is smooth. The consistency and velvety smoothness depend a good deal on whether or not an egg, or a beaten yolk, is added. The hotter the Rabbit is served, the better. You can sizzle the top with a salamander or other branding iron, but in any case set it forth as nearly sizzling as possible, on toast hellishly hot, whether it's browned or buttered on one side or both. Give a thought to the sad case of the "little dog whose name was Rover, and when he was dead he was dead all over." Something very similar happens with a Rabbit that's allowed to cool down--when it's cold it's cold all over, and you can't resuscitate it by heating. BASIC WELSH RABBIT No. 1 (with beer) 2 tablespoons butter 3 cups grated old Cheddar 1/2 teaspoon English dry mustard 1/2 teaspoon salt A dash of cayenne 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce 2 egg yolks, lightly beaten with 1/2 cup light beer or ale 4 slices hot buttered toast Over boiling water melt butter and cheese together, stirring steadily with a wooden (or other tasteless) spoon in one direction only. Add seasonings and do not interrupt your rhythmic stirring, as you pour in a bit at a time of the beer-and-egg mixture until it's all used up. It may take many minutes of constant stirring to achieve the essential creamy thickness and then some more to slick it out as smooth as velvet. Keep it piping hot but don't let it bubble, for a boiled Rabbit is a spoiled Rabbit. Only unremitting stirring (and the best of cheese) will keep it from curdling, getting stringy or rubbery. Pour the Rabbit generously over crisp, freshly buttered toast and serve instantly on hot plates. Usually crusts are cut off the bread before toasting, and some aesthetes toast one side only, spreading the toasted side with cold butter for taste contrast. Lay the toast on the hot plate, buttered side down, and pour the Rabbit over the porous untoasted side so it can soak in. (This is recommended in Lady Llanover's recipe, which appears on page 52 of this book.) Although the original bread for Rabbit toast was white, there is now no limit in choice among whole wheat, graham, rolls, muffins, buns, croutons and crackers, to infinity. No. 2 (with milk) For a rich milk Rabbit use 1/2 cup thin cream, evaporated milk, whole milk or buttermilk, instead of beer as in No. 1. Then, to keep everything bland, cut down the mustard by half or leave it out, and use paprika in place of cayenne. As in No. 1, the use of Worcestershire sauce is optional, although our feeling is that any spirited Rabbit would resent its being left out. Either of these basic recipes can be made without eggs, and more cheaply, although the beaten egg is a guarantee against stringiness. When the egg is missing, we are sad to record that a teaspoon or so of cornstarch generally takes its place. Rabbiteers are of two minds about fast and slow heating and stirring, so you'll have to adjust that to your own experience and rhythm. As a rule, the heat is reduced when the cheese is almost melted, and speed of stirring slows when the eggs and last ingredients go in. Many moderns who have found that monosodium glutamate steps up the flavor of natural cheese, put it in at the start, using one-half teaspoon for each cup of grated Cheddar. When it comes to pepper you are fancy-free. As both black and white pepper are now held in almost equal esteem, you might equip your hutch with twin hand-mills to do the grinding fresh, for this is always worth the trouble. Tabasco sauce is little used and needs a cautious hand, but some addicts can't leave it out any more than they can swear off the Worcestershire. The school that plumps for malty Rabbits and the other that goes for milky ones are equally emphatic in their choice. So let us consider the compromise of our old friend Frederick Philip Stieff, the Baltimore _homme de bouche_, as he set it forth for us years ago in _10,000 Snacks_: "The idea of cooking a Rabbit with beer is an exploded and dangerous theory. Tap your keg or open your case of ale or beer and serve _with_, not in your Rabbit." The Stieff Recipe BASIC MILK RABBIT (_completely surrounded by a lake of malt beverages_) 2 cups grated sharp cheese 3 heaping tablespoons butter 1-1/2 cups milk 4 eggs 1 heaping tablespoon mustard 2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce Pepper, salt and paprika to taste--then add more of each. Grease well with butter the interior of your double boiler so that no hard particles of cheese will form in the mixture later and contribute undesirable lumps. Put cheese, well-grated, into the double boiler and add butter and milk. From this point vigorous stirring should be indulged in until Rabbit is ready for serving. Prepare a mixture of Worcestershire sauce, mustard, pepper, salt and paprika. These should be beaten until light and then slowly poured into the double boiler. Nothing now remains to be done except to stir and cook down to proper consistency over a fairly slow flame. The finale has not arrived until you can drip the rabbit from the spoon and spell the word _finis_ on the surface. Pour over two pieces of toast per plate and send anyone home who does not attack it at once. This is sufficient for six gourmets or four gourmands. _Nota bene_: A Welsh Rabbit, to be a success, should never be of the consistency whereby it may be used to tie up bundles, nor yet should it bounce if inadvertently dropped on the kitchen floor. Lady Llanover's Toasted Welsh Rabbit Cut a slice of the real Welsh cheese made of sheep's and cow's milk; toast it at the fire on both sides, but not so much as to drop (melt). Toast on one side a piece of bread less than 1/4 inch thick, to be quite crisp, and spread it very thinly with fresh, cold butter on the toasted side. (It must not be saturated.) Lay the toasted cheese upon the untoasted bread side and serve immediately on a very hot plate. The butter on the toast can, of course, be omitted. (It is more frequently eaten without butter.) From this original toasting of the cheese many Englishmen still call Welsh Rabbit "Toasted Cheese," but Lady Llanover goes on to point out that the Toasted Rabbit of her Wales and the Melted or Stewed Buck Rabbit of England (which has become our American standard) are as different in the making as the regional cheeses used in them, and she says that while doctors prescribed the toasted Welsh as salubrious for invalids, the stewed cheese of Olde England was "only adapted to strong digestions." English literature rings with praise for the toasted cheese of Wales and England. There is Christopher North's eloquent "threads of unbeaten gold, shining like gossamer filaments (that may be pulled from its tough and tenacious substance)." Yet not all of the references are complimentary. Thus Shakespeare in _King Lear_: Look, look a mouse! Peace, peace;--this piece of toasted cheese will do it. And Sydney Smith's: Old friendships are destroyed by toasted cheese, and hard salted meat has led to suicide. But Rhys Davis in _My Wales_ makes up for such rudenesses: _The Welsh Enter Heaven_ The Lord had been complaining to St. Peter of the dearth of good singers in Heaven. "Yet," He said testily, "I hear excellent singing outside the walls. Why are not those singers here with me?" St. Peter said, "They are the Welsh. They refuse to come in; they say they are happy enough outside, playing with a ball and boxing and singing such songs as '_Suspan Fach_.'" The Lord said, "I wish them to come in here to sing Bach and Mendelssohn. See that they are in before sundown." St. Peter went to the Welsh and gave them the commands of the Lord. But still they shook their heads. Harassed, St. Peter went to consult with St. David, who, with a smile, was reading the works of Caradoc Evans. St. David said, "Try toasted cheese. Build a fire just inside the gates and get a few angels to toast cheese in front of it" This St. Peter did. The heavenly aroma of the sizzling, browning cheese was wafted over the walls and, with loud shouts, a great concourse of the Welsh came sprinting in. When sufficient were inside to make up a male voice choir of a hundred, St Peter slammed the gates. However, it is said that these are the only Welsh in Heaven. And, lest we forget, the wonderful drink that made Alice grow and grow to the ceiling of Wonderland contained not only strawberry jam but toasted cheese. Then there's the frightening nursery rhyme: The Irishman loved usquebaugh, The Scot loved ale called Bluecap. The Welshman, he loved toasted cheese, And made his mouth like a mousetrap. The Irishman was drowned in usquebaugh, The Scot was drowned in ale, The Welshman he near swallowed a mouse But he pulled it out by the tail. And, perhaps worst of all, Shakespeare, no cheese-lover, this tune in _Merry Wives of Windsor_: 'Tis time I were choked by a bit of toasted cheese. An elaboration of the simple Welsh original went English with Dr. William Maginn, the London journalist whose facile pen enlivened the _Blackwoods Magazine_ era with _Ten Tales_: [Illustration] Dr. Maginn's Rabbit Much is to be said in favor of toasted cheese for supper. It is the cant to say that Welsh rabbit is heavy eating. I like it best in the genuine Welsh way, however--that is, the toasted bread buttered on both sides profusely, then a layer of cold roast beef with mustard and horseradish, and then, on the top of all, the superstratum, of Cheshire _thoroughly_ saturated, while, in the process of toasting, with genuine porter, black pepper, and shallot vinegar. I peril myself upon the assertion that this is not a heavy supper for a man who has been busy all day till dinner in reading, writing, walking or riding--who has occupied himself between dinner and supper in the discussion of a bottle or two of sound wine, or any equivalent--and who proposes to swallow at least three tumblers of something hot ere he resigns himself to the embrace of Somnus. With these provisos, I recommend toasted cheese for supper. The popularity of this has come down to us in the succinct summing-up, "Toasted cheese hath no master." The Welsh original became simple after Dr. Maginn's supper sandwich was served, a century and a half ago; for it was served as a savory to sum up and help digest a dinner, in this form: After-Dinner Rabbit Remove all crusts from bread slices, toast on both sides and soak to saturation in hot beer. Melt thin slices of sharp old cheese in butter in an iron skillet, with an added spot of beer and dry English mustard. Stir steadily with a wooden spoon and, when velvety, serve a-sizzle on piping hot beer-soaked toast. While toasted cheese undoubtedly was the Number One dairy dish of Anglo-Saxons, stewed cheese came along to rival it in Elizabethan London. This sophisticated, big-city dish, also called a Buck Rabbit, was the making of Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street, where Dr. Johnson later presided. And it must have been the pick of the town back in the days when barrooms still had sawdust on the floor, for the learned Doctor endorsed old Omar Khayyam's love of the pub with: "There is nothing which has been contrived by man by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern." Yet he was no gourmet, as may be judged by his likening of a succulent, golden-fried oyster to "a baby's ear dropped in sawdust." Perhaps it is just as well that no description of the world's first Golden Buck has come down from him. But we don't have to look far for on-the-spot pen pictures by other men of letters at "The Cheese," as it was affectionately called. To a man they sang praises for that piping hot dish of preserved and beatified milk. Inspired by stewed cheese, Mark Lemon, the leading rhymester of _Punch_, wrote the following poem and dedicated it to the memory of Lovelace: Champagne will not a dinner make, Nor caviar a meal Men gluttonous and rich may take Those till they make them ill If I've potatoes to my chop, And after chop have cheese, Angels in Pond and Spiers's shop Know no such luxuries. All that's necessary is an old-time "cheese stewer" or a reasonable substitute. The base of this is what was once quaintly called a "hot-water bath." This was a sort of miniature wash boiler just big enough to fit in snugly half a dozen individual tins, made squarish and standing high enough above the bath water to keep any of it from getting into the stew. In these tins the cheese is melted. But since such a tinsmith's contraption is hard to come by in these days of fireproof cooking glass, we suggest muffin tins, ramekins or even small cups to crowd into the bottom of your double boiler or chafing dish. But beyond this we plump for a revival of the "cheese stewer" in stainless steel, silver or glass. In the ritual at "The Cheese," these dishes, brimming over, "bubbling and blistering with the stew," followed a pudding that's still famous. Although down the centuries the recipe has been kept secret, the identifiable ingredients have been itemized as follows: "Tender steak, savory oyster, seductive kidney, fascinating lark, rich gravy, ardent pepper and delicate paste"--not to mention mushrooms. And after the second or third helping of pudding, with a pint of stout, bitter, or the mildest and mellowest brown October Ale in a dented pewter pot, "the stewed Cheshire cheese." Cheese was the one and only other course prescribed by tradition and appetite from the time when Charles II aled and regaled Nell Gwyn at "The Cheese," where Shakespeare is said to have sampled this "kind of a glorified Welsh Rarebit, served piping hot in the square shallow tins in which it is cooked and garnished with sippets of delicately colored toast." Among early records is this report of Addison's in _The Spectator_ of September 25,1711: They yawn for a Cheshire cheese, and begin about midnight, when the whole company is disposed to be drowsy. He that yawns widest, and at the same time so naturally as to produce the most yawns amongst his spectators, carries home the cheese. Only a short time later, in 1725, the proprietor of Simpson's in the Strand inaugurated a daily guessing contest that drew crowds to his fashionable eating and drinking place. He would set forth a huge portion of cheese and wager champagne and cigars for the house that no one present could correctly estimate the weight, height and girth of it. As late as 1795, when Boswell was accompanying Dr. Johnson to "The Cheese," records of St. Dunstan's Club, which also met there, showed that the current price of a Buck Rabbit was tuppence, and that this was also the amount of the usual tip. Ye Original Recipe 1-1/2 ounces butter 1 cup cream 1-1/2 cups grated Cheshire cheese (more pungent, snappier, richer, and more brightly colored than its first cousin, Cheddar) Heat butter and cream together, then stir in the cheese and let it stew. You dunk fingers of toast directly into your individual tin, or pour the Stewed Rabbit over toast and brown the top under a blistering salamander. The salamander is worth modernizing, too, so you can brand your own Rabbits with your monogram or the design of your own Rabbitry. Such a branding iron might be square, like the stew tin, and about the size of a piece of toast. It is notable that there is no beer or ale in this recipe, but not lamentable, since all aboriginal cheese toasts were washed down in tossing seas of ale, beer, porter, stout, and 'arf and 'arf. This creamy Stewed Buck, on which the literary greats of Johnson's time supped while they smoked their church wardens, received its highest praise from an American newspaper woman who rhapsodized in 1891: "Then came stewed cheese, on the thin shaving of crisp, golden toast in hot silver saucers--so hot that the cheese was the substance of thick cream, the flavor of purple pansies and red raspberries commingled." This may seem a bit flowery, but in truth many fine cheeses hold a trace of the bouquet of the flowers that have enriched the milk. Alpine blooms and herbs haunt the Gruyère, Parmesan wafts the scent of Parma violets, the Flower Cheese of England is perfumed with the petals of rose, violet, marigold and jasmine. Oven Rabbit (FROM AN OLD RECIPE) Chop small 1/2 pound of cooking cheese. Put it, with a piece of butter the size of a walnut, in a little saucepan, and as the butter melts and the cheese gets warm, mash them together, When softened add 2 yolks of eggs, 1/2 teacupful of ale, a little cayenne pepper and salt. Stir with a wooden spoon one way only, until it is creamy, but do not let it boil, for that would spoil it. Place some slices of buttered toast on a dish, pour the Rarebit upon them, and set inside-the oven about 2 minutes before serving. Yorkshire Rabbit _(originally called Gherkin Buck, from a pioneer recipe_) Put into a saucepan 1/2 pound of cheese, sprinkle with pepper (black, of course) to taste, pour over 1/2 teacup of ale, and convert the whole into a smooth, creamy mass, over the fire, stirring continually, for about 10 minutes. In 2 more minutes it should be done. (10 minutes altogether is the minimum.) Pour it over slices of hot toast, place a piece of broiled bacon on the top of each and serve as hot as possible. Golden Buck A Golden Buck is simply the Basic Welsh Rabbit with beer (No. 1) plus a poached egg on top. The egg, sunny side up, gave it its shining name a couple of centuries ago. Nowadays some chafing dish show-offs try to gild the Golden Buck with dashes of ginger and spice. Golden Buck II This is only a Golden Buck with the addition of bacon strips. The Venerable Yorkshire Buck Spread 1/2-inch slices of bread with mustard and brown in hot oven. Then moisten each slice with 1/2 glass of ale, lay on top a slice of cheese 1/4-inch thick, and 2 slices of bacon on top of that. Put back in oven, cook till cheese is melted and the bacon crisp, and serve piping hot, with tankards of cold ale. Bacon is the thing that identifies any Yorkshire Rabbit. Yale College Welsh Rabbit (MORIARTY'S) 1 jigger of beer 1/4 teaspoon salt 1/4 teaspoon black pepper 1/4 teaspoon mustard 1-1/2 cups grated or shaved cheese More beer Pour the jigger of beer into "a low saucepan," dash on the seasonings, add the cheese and stir unremittingly, moistening from time to time with more beer, a pony or two at a time. When creamy, pour over buttered toast (2 slices for this amount) and serve with still more beer. There are two schools of postgraduate Rabbit-hunters: Yale, as above, with beer both in the Rabbit and with it; and the other featured in the Stieff Recipe, which prefers leaving it out of the Rabbit, but taps a keg to drink with it. The ancient age of Moriarty's campus classic is registered by the use of pioneer black pepper in place of white, which is often used today and is thought more sophisticated by some than the red cayenne of Rector's Naughty Nineties Chafing Dish Rabbit, which is precisely the same as our Basic Recipe No. 1. Border-hopping Bunny, or Frijole Rabbit 1-1/2 tablespoons butter 1-1/2 tablespoons chopped onion 2 tablespoons chopped pepper, green or red, or both 1-1/2 teaspoon chili powder 1 small can kidney beans, drained 1-1/2 tablespoons catsup 1/2 teaspoon Worcestershire Salt 2 cups grated cheese Cook onion and pepper lightly in butter with chili powder; add kidney beans and seasonings and stir in the cheese until melted. Serve this beany Bunny peppery hot on tortillas or crackers, toasted and buttered. In the whole hutch of kitchen Rabbitry the most popular modern ones are made with tomato, a little or lots. They hop in from everywhere, from Mexico to South Africa, and call for all kinds of quirks, down to mixing in some dried beef, and there is even a skimpy Tomato Rabbit for reducers, made with farmer cheese and skimmed milk. Although the quaintly named Rum Tum Tiddy was doubtless the great-grandpappy of all Tomato Rabbits, a richer, more buttery and more eggy one has taken its place as the standard today. The following is a typical recipe for this, tried and true, since it has had a successful run through a score of the best modern cookbooks, with only slight personal changes to keep its juice a-flowing blood-red. Tomato Rabbit 2 tablespoons butter 2 tablespoons flour 3/4 cup thin cream or evaporated milk 3/4 cup canned tomato pulp, rubbed through a sieve to remove seeds A pinch of soda 3 cups grated cheese Pinches of dry mustard, salt and cayenne 2 eggs, lightly beaten Blend flour in melted butter, add cream slowly, and when this white sauce is a little thick, stir in tomato sprinkled with soda. Keep stirring steadily while adding cheese and seasonings, and when cooked enough, stir in the eggs to make a creamy texture, smooth as silk. Serve on buttered whole wheat or graham bread for a change. Instead of soda, some antiquated recipes call for "a tablespoon of bicarbonate of potash." South African Tomato Rabbit This is the same as above, except that 1/2 teaspoon of sugar is used in place of the soda and the Rabbit is poured over baked pastry cut into squares and sprinkled with parsley, chopped fine, put in the oven and served immediately. Rum Tum Tiddy, Rink Tum Ditty, etc. (OLD BOSTON STYLE) 1 tablespoon butter 1 onion, minced 1 teaspoon salt 1 big pinch of pepper 2 cups cooked tomatoes 1 tablespoon sugar 3 cups grated store cheese 1 egg, lightly beaten Slowly fry onion bright golden in butter, season and add tomatoes with sugar. Heat just under the bubbling point. Don't let it boil, but keep adding cheese and shaking the pan until it melts. Then stir in egg gently and serve very hot Tomato Soup Rabbit 1 can condensed tomato soup 2 cups grated cheese 1/4 teaspoon English mustard 1 egg, lightly beaten Salt and pepper Heat soup, stir in cheese until melted, add mustard and egg slowly, season and serve hot. This is a quickie Rum Tum Tiddy, without any onion, a poor, housebroken version of the original. It can be called a Celery Rabbit if you use a can of celery soup in place of the tomato. Onion Rum Tum Tiddy Prepare as in Rum Tum Tiddy, but use only 1-1/2 cups cooked tomatoes and add 1/2 cup of mashed boiled onions. Sherry Rum Tum Tiddy 1 tablespoon butter 1 small onion, minced 1 small green pepper, minced 1 can tomato soup 3/4 cup milk 3 cups grated cheese 1/2 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce Salt and pepper 1 egg, lightly beaten 1 jigger sherry Crackers Prepare as in Rum Tum Tiddy. Stir in sherry last to retain its flavor. Crumble crackers into a hot tureen until it's about 1/3 full and pour the hot Rum Tum Tiddy over them. Blushing Bunny This is a sister-under-the-skin to the old-fashioned Rum Tum Tiddy, except that her complexion is made a little rosier with a lot of paprika in place of plain pepper, and the paprika cooked in from the start, of course. Blushing Bunny is one of those playful English names for dishes, like Pink Poodle, Scotch Woodcock (given below), Bubble and Squeak _(Bubblum Squeakum_), and Toad in the Hole. Scotch Woodcock Another variant of Rum Tum Tiddy. Make your Rum Tum Tiddy, but before finishing up with the beaten egg, stir in 2 heaping tablespoons of anchovy paste and prepare the buttered toast by laying on slices of hard-cooked eggs. American Woodchuck 1-1/2 cups tomato purée 2 cups grated cheese 1 egg, lightly beaten Cayenne 1 tablespoon brown sugar Salt and pepper Heat the tomato and stir in the cheese. When partly melted stir in the egg and, when almost cooked, add seasonings without ever interrupting the stirring. Pour over hot toasted crackers or bread. No doubt this all-American Tomato Rabbit with brown sugar was named after the native woodchuck, in playful imitation of the Scotch Woodcock above. It's the only Rabbit we know that's sweetened with brown sugar. Running Rabbit (_as served at the Waldorf-Astoria, First Annual Cheeselers Field Day, November 12,1937_) Cut finest old American cheese in very small pieces and melt in saucepan with a little good beer. Season and add Worcestershire sauce. Serve instantly with freshly made toast. This running cony can be poured over toast like any other Rabbit, or over crushed crackers in a hot tureen, as in Sherry Rum Tum Tiddy, or served like Fondue, in the original cooking bowl or pan, with the spoon kept moving in it in one direction only and the Rabbit following the spoon, like a greyhound following the stuffed rabbit at the dog races. Mexican Chilaly 1 tablespoon butter 3 tablespoons chopped green pepper 1-1/2 tablespoons chopped onion 1 cup chopped and drained canned tomatoes, without seeds 2-1/2 cups grated cheese 3/4 teaspoon salt Dash of cayenne 1 egg, lightly beaten 2 tablespoons canned tomato juice Water cress Cook pepper and onion lightly in butter, add tomato pulp and cook 5 minutes before putting over boiling water and stirring steadily as you add cheese and seasonings. Moisten the egg with the tomato juice and stir in until the Rabbit is thick and velvety. Serve on toast and dress with water cress. This popular modern Rabbit seems to be a twin to Rum Tum Tiddy in spite of the centuries' difference in age. Fluffy, Eggy Rabbit Stir up a Chilaly as above, but use 2 well-beaten eggs to make it more fluffy, and leave out the watercress. Serve it hot over cold slices of hard-cooked eggs crowded flat on hot buttered toast, to make it extra eggy. Grilled Tomato Rabbit Slice big, red, juicy tomatoes 1/2-inch thick, season with salt, pepper and plenty of brown sugar. Dot both sides with all the butter that won't slip off. Heat in moderate oven, and when almost cooked, remove and broil on both sides. Put on hot plates in place of the usual toast and pour the Rabbit over them. (The Rabbit is made according to either Basic Recipe No. 1 or No. 2.) Slices of crisp bacon on top of the tomato slices and a touch of horseradish help. Grilled Tomato and Onion Rabbit Slice 1/4-inch thick an equal number of tomato and onion rings. Season with salt, pepper, brown sugar and dots of butter. Heat in moderate oven, and when almost cooked remove and broil lightly. On hot plates lay first the onion rings, top with the tomato ones and pour the Rabbit over, as in the plain Grilled Tomato recipe above. For another onion-flavored Rabbit see Celery and Onion Rabbit. The Devil's Own (_a fresh tomato variant_) 2 tablespoons butter 1 large peeled tomato in 4 thick slices 2-1/2 cups grated cheese 1/4 teaspoon English mustard A pinch of cayenne A dash of tabasco sauce 2 tablespoons chili sauce 1/2 cup ale or beer 1 egg, lightly beaten Sauté tomato slices lightly on both sides in 1 tablespoon butter. Keep warm on hot platter while you make the toast and a Basic Rabbit, pepped up by the extra-hot seasonings listed above. Put hot tomato slices on hot toast on hot plates; pour the hot mixture over. Dried Beef or Chipped Beef Rabbit 1 tablespoon butter 1 cup canned tomato, drained, chopped and de-seeded 1/4 pound dried beef, shredded 2 eggs, lightly beaten 1/4 teaspoon pepper 2 cups grated cheese Heat tomato in butter, add beef and eggs, stir until mixed well, then sprinkle with pepper, stir in the grated cheese until smooth and creamy. Serve on toast. No salt is needed on this jerked steer meat that is called both dried beef and chipped beef on this side of the border, _tasajo_ on the other side, and _xarque_ when you get all the way down to Brazil. Kansas Jack Rabbit 1 cup milk 3 tablespoons butter 3 tablespoons flour 2 cups grated cheese 1 cup cream-style corn Salt and pepper Make a white sauce of milk, butter and flour and stir in cheese steadily and gradually until melted. Add corn and season to taste. Serve on hot buttered toast. Kansas has plenty of the makings for this, yet the dish must have been easier to make on Baron Münchhausen's "Island of Cheese," where the cornstalks produced loaves of bread, ready-made, instead of ears, and were no doubt crossed with long-eared jacks to produce Corn Rabbits quite as miraculous. After tomatoes, in popularity, come onions and then green peppers or canned pimientos as vegetable ingredients in modern, Americanized Rabbits. And after that, corn, as in the following recipe which appeals to all Latin-Americans from Mexico to Chile because it has everything. Latin-American Corn Rabbit 2 tablespoons butter 1 green pepper, chopped 1 large onion, chopped 1/2 cup condensed tomato soup 3 cups grated cheese 1 teaspoon salt 1/4 teaspoon black pepper 1/2 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce 1 cup canned corn 1 egg, lightly beaten Fry pepper and onion 5 minutes in butter; add soup, cover and cook 5 minutes more. Put over boiling water; add cheese with seasonings and stir steadily, slowly adding the corn, and when thoroughly blended and creamy, moisten the egg with a little of the liquid, stir in until thickened and then pour over hot toast or crackers. Mushroom-Tomato Rabbit In one pan commence frying in butter 1 cup of sliced fresh mushrooms, and in another make a Rabbit by melting over boiling water 2 cups of grated cheese with 1/2 teaspoon salt and 1/2 teaspoon paprika. Stir steadily and, when partially melted, stir in a can of condensed tomato soup, previously heated. Then add the fried mushrooms slowly, stir until creamy and pour over hot toast or crackers. Celery and Onion Rabbit 1/2 cup chopped hearts of celery 1 small onion, chopped 1 tablespoon butter 1-1/2 cups grated sharp cheese Salt and pepper In a separate pan boil celery and onion until tender. Meanwhile, melt cheese with butter and seasonings and stir steadily. When nearly done stir the celery and onion in gradually, until smooth and creamy. Pour over buttered toast and brown with a salamander or under the grill. Asparagus Rabbit Make as above, substituting a cupful of tender sliced asparagus tops for the celery and onion. Oyster Rabbit 2 dozen oysters and their liquor 1 teaspoon butter 2 eggs, lightly beaten 1 large pinch of salt 1 small pinch of cayenne 3 cups grated cheese Heat oysters until edges curl and put aside to keep warm while you proceed to stir up a Rabbit. When cheese is melted add the eggs with some of the oyster liquor and keep stirring. When the Rabbit has thickened to a smooth cream, drop in the warm oysters to heat a little more, and serve on hot buttered toast. Sea-food Rabbits _(crab, lobster, shrimp, scallops, clams, mussels, abalone, squid, octopi; anything that swims in the sea or crawls on the bottom of the ocean)_ Shred, flake or mince a cupful of any freshly cooked or canned sea food and save some of the liquor, if any. Make according to Oyster Rabbit recipe above. Instead of using only one kind of sea food, try several, mixed according to taste. Spike this succulent Sea Rabbit with horseradish or a dollop of sherry, for a change. "Bouquet of the Sea" Rabbit The seafaring Portuguese set the style for this lush bouquet of as many different kinds of cooked fish (tuna, cod, salmon, etc.) as can be sardined together in the whirlpool of melted cheese in the chafing dish. They also accent it with tidbits of sea food as above. Other Fish Rabbit, Fresh or Dried Any cooked fresh fish, flaked or shredded, from the alewife to the whale, or cooked dried herring, finnan haddie, mackerel, cod, and so on, can be stirred in to make a basic Rabbit more tasty. Happy combinations are hit upon in mixing leftovers of several kinds by the cupful. So the odd old cookbook direction, "Add a cup of fish," takes on new meaning. Grilled Sardine Rabbit Make a Basic Rabbit and pour it over sardines, skinned, boned, halved and grilled, on buttered toast. Similarly cooked fillets of any small fish will make as succulent a grilled Rabbit. Roe Rabbits Slice cooked roe of shad or toothsome eggs of other fish, grill on toast, butter well and pour a Basic Rabbit over. Although shad roe is esteemed the finest, there are many other sapid ones of salmon, herring, flounder, cod, etc. Plain Sardine Rabbit Make Basic Rabbit with only 2 cups of cheese, and in place of the egg yolks and beer, stir in a large tin of sardines, skinned, boned and flaked. Anchovy Rabbit Make Basic Rabbit, add 1 tablespoon of imported East Indian chutney with the egg yolks and beer at the finish, spread toast thickly with anchovy paste and butter, and pour the Rabbit over. Smoked sturgeon, whiting, eel, smoked salmon, and the like Lay cold slices or flakes of any fine smoked fish (and all of them are fine) on hot buttered toast and pour a Basic Rabbit over the fish. The best combination we ever tasted is made by laying a thin slice of smoked salmon over a thick one of smoked sturgeon. Smoked Cheddar Rabbit With or without smoked fish, Rabbit-hunters whose palates crave the savor of a wisp of smoke go for a Basic Rabbit made with smoked Cheddar in place of the usual aged, but unsmoked, Cheddar. We use a two-year-old that Phil Alpert, Mr. Cheese himself, brings down from Canada and has specially smoked in the same savory room where sturgeon is getting the works. So his Cheddar absorbs the de luxe flavor of six-dollar-per-pound sturgeon and is sold for a fraction of that. And just in case you are fishing around for something extra special, serve this smoky Rabbit on oven-browned Bombay ducks, those crunchy flat toasts of East Indian fish. Or go Oriental by accompanying this with cups of smoky Lapsang Soochong China tea. Crumby Rabbit 1 tablespoon butter 2 cups grated cheese 1 cup stale bread crumbs soaked with 1 cup milk 1 egg, lightly beaten Salt Cayenne Toasted crackers Melt cheese in butter, stir in the soaked crumbs and seasonings. When cooked smooth and creamy, stir in the egg to thicken the mixture and serve on toasted crackers, dry or buttered, for contrast with the bread. Some Rabbiteers monkey with this, lacing it with half a cup of catsup, making a sort of pink baboon out of what should be a white monkey. There is a cult for Crumby Rabbits variations on which extend all the way to a deep casserole dish called Baked Rabbit and consisting of alternate layers of stale bread crumbs and grated-cheese crumbs. This illegitimate three-layer Rabbit is moistened with eggs beaten up with milk, and seasoned with salt and paprika. Crumby Tomato Rabbit 2 teaspoons butter 2 cups grated cheese 1/2 cup soft bread crumbs 1 cup tomato soup Salt and pepper 1 egg, lightly beaten Melt cheese in butter, moisten bread crumbs with the tomato soup and stir in; season, add egg and keep stirring until velvety. Serve on toasted crackers, as a contrast to the bread crumbs. Gherkin or Irish Rabbit 2 tablespoons butter 2 cups grated cheese 1/2 cup milk (or beer) A dash of vinegar 1/2 teaspoon mustard Salt and pepper 1/2 cup chopped gherkin pickles Melt cheese in butter, steadily stir in liquid and seasonings. Keep stirring until smooth, then add the pickles and serve. This may have been called Irish after the green of the pickle. Dutch Rabbit Melt thin slices of any good cooking cheese in a heavy skillet with a little butter, prepared mustard, and a splash of beer. Have ready some slices of toast soaked in hot beer or ale and pour the Rabbit over them. The temperance version of this substitutes milk for beer and delicately soaks the toast in hot water instead. Proof that there is no Anglo-Saxon influence here lies in the use of prepared mustard. The English, who still do a lot of things the hard way, mix their biting dry mustard fresh with water before every meal, while the Germans and French bottle theirs, as we do. Pumpernickel Rabbit This German deviation is made exactly the same as the Dutch Rabbit above, but its ingredients are the opposite in color. Black bread (pumpernickel) slices are soaked in heated dark beer (porter or stout) and the yellow cheese melted in the skillet is also stirred up with brunette beer. Since beer is a kind of liquid bread, it is natural for the two to commingle in Rabbits whether they are blond Dutch or black pumpernickel. And since cheese is only solid milk, and the Cheddar is noted for its beery smell, there is further affinity here. An old English proverb sums it up neatly: "Bread and cheese are the two targets against death." By the way, the word pumpernickel is said to have been coined when Napoleon tasted his first black bread in Germany. Contemptuously he spat it out with: "This would be good for my horse, Nicole." "_Bon pour Nicole_" in French. Gruyère Welsh Rabbit _au gratin_ Cut crusts from a half-dozen slices of bread. Toast them lightly, lay in a roasting pan and top each with a matching slice of imported Gruyère 3/8-inch thick. Pepper to taste and cover with bread crumbs. Put in oven 10 minutes and rush to the ultimate consumer. To our American ears anything _au gratin_ suggests "with cheese," so this Rabbit _au gratin_ may sound redundant. To a Frenchman, however, it means a dish covered with bread crumbs. Swiss Cheese Rabbit 1/2 cup white wine, preferably Neufchâtel 1/2 cup grated Gruyère 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce 1/2 saltspoon paprika 2 egg yolks Stir wine and seasonings together with the cheese until it melts, then thicken with the egg yolks, stirring at least 3 more minutes until smooth. Sherry Rabbit 3 cups grated cheese 1/2 cup cream or evaporated milk 1/2 cup sherry 1/4 teaspoon English mustard 1/2 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce A dash of paprika Heat cheese over hot water, with or without a bit of butter, and when it begins to melt, stir in the cream. Keep stirring until almost all of the cheese is melted, then add sherry. When smooth and creamy, stir in the mustard and Worcestershire sauce, and after pouring over buttered toast dash with paprika for color. Spanish Sherry Rabbit 3 tablespoons butter 3 tablespoons flour 1 bouillon cube, mashed 1/2 teaspoon salt 1/2 teaspoon dry mustard 1-1/2 cups milk 1-1/2 cups grated cheese 1 jigger sherry Make a smooth paste of butter, flour, bouillon cube and seasonings, and add milk slowly. When well-heated stir in the cheese gradually. Continue stirring at least 10 minutes, and when well-blended stir in the sherry and serve on hot, buttered toast. Pink Poodle 2 tablespoons butter 1 tablespoon chopped onion 1 tablespoon flour 1 jigger California claret 1 cup cream of tomato soup A pinch of soda 1/2 teaspoon dry mustard 1/2 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon paprika A dash of powdered cloves 3 cups grated cheese 1 egg, lightly beaten Cook onion in butter until light golden, then blend in flour, wine and soup with the soda and all seasonings. Stir in cheese slowly until melted and finish off by thickening with the egg and stirring until smooth and velvety. Serve on crisp, buttered toast with a dry red wine. Although wine Rabbits, red or white, are as unusual as Swiss ones with Gruyère in place of Cheddar, wine is commonly drunk with anything from a Golden Buck to a Blushing Bunny. But for most of us, a deep draught of beer or ale goes best with an even deeper draught of the mellow scent of a Cheddar golden-yellow. Savory Eggy Dry Rabbit 1/8 pound butter 2 cups grated Gruyère 4 eggs, well-beaten Salt Pepper Mustard Melt butter and cheese together with the beaten eggs, stirring steadily with wooden spoon until soft and smooth. Season and pour over dry toast. This "dry" Rabbit, in which the volume of the eggs makes up for any lacking liquid, is still served as a savory after the sweets to finish a fine meal in some old-fashioned English homes and hostelries. Cream Cheese Rabbit This Rabbit, made with a package of cream cheese, is more scrambled hen fruit than Rabbit food, for you simply scramble a half-dozen eggs with butter, milk, salt, pepper and cayenne, and just before the finish work in the cheese until smooth and serve on crackers--water crackers for a change. Reducing Rarebit (Tomato Rarebit)[A] YIELD: 2 servings. 235 calories per serving. 1/2 pound farmer cheese 2 eggs 1 level tablespoon powdered milk 1 level teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon gelatin or agar powder 4 egg tomatoes, quartered, or 2 tomatoes, quartered 1 teaspoon caraway seeds 1/4 teaspoon garlic powder 1 teaspoon parsley flakes 1/2 head lettuce and/or 1 cucumber 1/4 cup wine vinegar Salt and pepper to taste [Footnote A: (from _The Low-Calory Cookbook_ by Bernard Koten, published by Random House)] Fill bottom of double boiler with water to 3/4 mark. Sprinkle salt in upper part of double boiler. Boil over medium flame. When upper part is hot, put in cheese, powdered milk, baking powder, gelatin, caraway seeds and pepper and garlic powder to taste. Mix. Break eggs into this mixture, cook over low flame, continually stirring. Add tomatoes when mixture bubbles and continue cooking and stirring until tomatoes have been cooked soft. Remove to lettuce and/or cucumber (sliced thin) which has been slightly marinated in wine vinegar and sprinkle the parsley flakes over the top of the mixture. Curry Rabbit 1 tablespoon cornstarch 2 cups milk 2-1/2 cups grated cheese 1 tablespoon minced chives 2 green onions, minced 2 shallots, minced 1/4 teaspoon imported curry powder 1 tablespoon chutney sauce Dissolve cornstarch in a little of the milk and scald the rest over hot water. Thicken with cornstarch mixture and stir in the cheese, chives, onions, shallots, curry and chutney while wooden-spooning steadily until smooth and sizzling enough to pour over buttered toast. People who can't let well enough alone put cornstarch in Rabbits, just as they add soda to spoil the cooking of vegetables. Ginger Ale Rabbit Simply substitute ginger ale for the real thing in the No. 1 Rabbit of all time. Buttermilk Rabbit Substitute buttermilk for plain milk in the No. 2 Rabbit. To be consistent, use fresh-cured Buttermilk Cheese, instead of the usual Cheddar of fresh cow's milk. This is milder. Eggnog Rabbit 2 tablespoons sweet butter 2 cups grated mellow Cheddar 1-1/3 cups eggnog Dashes of spice to taste. After melting the cheese in butter, stir in the eggnog and keep stirring until smooth and thickened. Season or not, depending on taste and the quality of eggnog employed. Ever since the innovation of bottled eggnogs fresh from the milkman in holiday season, such supremely creamy and flavorful Rabbits have been multiplying as fast as guinea pigs. All-American Succotash Rabbit 1 cup milk 3 tablespoons butter 3 tablespoons flour 3 cups grated cheese 1 cup creamed succotash, strained Salt and pepper Make a white sauce of milk, butter and flour and stir in the cheese steadily and gradually until melted. Add the creamed succotash and season to taste. Serve on toasted, buttered corn bread. Danish Rabbit 1 quart warm milk 2 cups grated cheese Stir together to boiling point and pour over piping-hot toast in heated bowl. This is an esteemed breakfast dish in north Denmark. As in all Rabbits, more or less cheese may be used, to taste. Easy English Rabbit Soak bread slices in hot beer. Melt thin slices of cheese with butter in iron frying pan, stir in a few spoonfuls of beer and a bit of prepared mustard. When smoothly melted, pour over the piping-hot, beer-soaked toast. [Illustration] _Chapter Six_ The Fondue There is a conspiracy among the dictionary makers to take the heart out of the Fondue. Webster makes it seem no better than a collapsed soufflé, with his definition: Fondue. Also, erroneously, _fondu_. A dish made of melted cheese, butter, eggs, and, often, milk and bread crumbs. Thorndike-Barnhart further demotes this dish, that for centuries has been one of the world's greatest, to "a combination of melted cheese, eggs and butter" and explains that the name comes from the French _fondre_, meaning melt. The latest snub is delivered by the up-to-date _Cook's Quiz_ compiled by TV culinary experts: A baked dish with eggs, cheese, butter, milk and bread crumbs. A baked dish, indeed! Yet the Fondue has added to the gaiety and inebriety of nations, if not of dictionaries. It has commanded the respect of the culinary great. Savarin, Boulestin, André Simon, all have hailed its heavenly consistency, all have been regaled with its creamy, nay velvety, smoothness. A touch of garlic, a dash of kirsch, fresh ground black pepper, nutmeg, black pearl truffles of Bugey, red cayenne pepper, the luscious gravy of roast turkey--such little matters help to make an authentic dunking Fondue, not a baked Fondue, mind you. Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin a century and a half ago brought the original "receipt" with him and spread it around with characteristic generosity during the two years of his exile in New York after the French Revolution. In his monumental _Physiologie du Goût_ he records an incident that occurred in 1795: Whilst passing through Boston ... I taught the restaurant-keeper Julien to make a _Fondue_, or eggs cooked with cheese. This dish, a novelty to the Americans, became so much the rage, that he (Julien) felt himself obliged, by way of thanks, to send me to New York the rump of one of those pretty little roebucks that are brought from Canada in winter, and which was declared exquisite by the chosen committee whom I convoked for the occasion. As the great French gourmet, Savarin was born on the Swiss border (at Belley, in the fertile Province of Bugey, where Gertrude Stein later had a summer home), he no doubt ate Gruyère three times a day, as is the custom in Switzerland and adjacent parts. He sets down the recipe just as he got it from its Swiss source, the papers of Monsieur Trolliet, in the neighboring Canton of Berne: Take as many eggs as you wish to use, according to the number of your guests. Then take a lump of good Gruyère cheese, weighing about a third of the eggs, and a nut of butter about half the weight of the cheese. (Since today's eggs in America weigh about 1-1/2 ounces apiece, if you start the Fondue with 8. your lump of good Gruyère would come to 1/4 pound and your butter to 1/8 pound.) Break and beat the eggs well in a flat pan, then add the butter and the cheese, grated or cut in small pieces. Place the pan on a good fire and stir with a wooden spoon until the mixture is fairly thick and soft; put in a little or no salt, according to the age of the cheese, and a good deal of pepper, for this is one of the special attributes of this ancient dish. Let it be placed on the table in a hot dish, and if some of the best wines be produced, and the bottle passed quite freely, a marvelous effect will be beheld. This has long been quoted as the proper way to make the national dish of Switzerland. Savarin tells of hearing oldsters in his district laugh over the Bishop of Belley eating his Fondue with a spoon instead of the traditional fork, in the first decade of the 1700's. He tells, too, of a Fondue party he threw for a couple of his septuagenarian cousins in Paris "about the year 1801." The party was the result of much friendly taunting of the master: "By Jove, Jean, you have been bragging for such a long time about your Fondues, you have continually made our mouths water. It is high time to put a stop to all this. We will come and breakfast with you some day and see what sort of thing this dish is." Savarin invited them for ten o'clock next day, started them off with the table laid on a "snow white cloth, and in each one's place two dozen oysters with a bright golden lemon. At each end of the table stood a bottle of sauterne, carefully wiped, excepting the cork, which showed distinctly that it had been in the cellar for a long while.... After the oysters, which were quite fresh, came some broiled kidneys, a _terrine_ of _foie gras_, a pie with truffles, and finally the Fondue. The different ingredients had all been assembled in a stewpan, which was placed on the table over a chafing dish, heated with spirits of wine. "Then," Savarin is quoted, "I commenced operations on the field of battle, and my cousins did not lose a single one of my movements. They were loud in the praise of this preparation, and asked me to let them have the receipt, which I promised them...." This Fondue breakfast party that gave the nineteenth century such a good start was polished off with "fruits in season and sweets, a cup of genuine mocha ... and finally two sorts of liqueurs, one a spirit for cleansing, and the other an oil for softening." This primitive Swiss Cheese Fondue is now prepared more elaborately in what is called: Neufchâtel Style 2-1/2 cups grated imported Swiss 1-1/2 tablespoons flour 1 clove of garlic 1 cup dry white wine Crusty French "flute" or hard rolls cut into big mouthfuls, handy for dunking 1 jigger kirsch Salt Pepper Nutmeg The cheese should be shredded or grated coarsely and mixed well with the flour. Use a chafing dish for cooking and a small heated casserole for serving. Hub the bottom and sides of the blazer well with garlic, pour in the wine and heat to bubbling, just under boiling. Add cheese slowly, half a cup at a time, and stir steadily in one direction only, as in making Welsh Rabbit. Use a silver fork. Season with very little salt, always depending on how salty the cheese is, but use plenty of black pepper, freshly ground, and a touch of nutmeg. Then pour in the kirsch, stir steadily and invite guests to dunk their forked bread in the dish or in a smaller preheated casserole over a low electric or alcohol burner on the dining table. The trick is to keep the bubbling melted cheese in rhythmic motion with the fork, both up and down and around and around. The dunkers stab the hunks of crusty French bread through the soft part to secure a firm hold in the crust, for if your bread comes off in dunking you pay a forfeit, often a bottle of wine. The dunking is done as rhythmically as the stirring, guests taking regular turns at twirling the fork to keep the cheese swirling. When this "chafing dish cheese custard," as it has been called in England, is ready for eating, each in turn thrusts in his fork, sops up a mouthful with the bread for a sponge and gives the Fondue a final stir, to keep it always moving in the same direction. All the while the heat beneath the dish keeps it gently bubbling. Such a Neufchâtel party was a favorite of King Edward VII, especially when he was stepping out as the Prince of Wales. He was as fond of Fondue as most of the great gourmets of his day and preferred it to Welsh Rabbit, perhaps because of the wine and kirsch that went into it. At such a party a little heated wine is added if the Fondue gets too thick. When finally it has cooked down to a crust in the bottom of the dish, this is forked out by the host and divided among the guests as a very special dividend. Any dry white wine will serve in a pinch, and the Switzerland Cheese Association, in broadcasting this classical recipe, points out that any dry rum, slivovitz, or brandy, including applejack, will be a valid substitute for the kirsch. To us, applejack seems specially suited, when we stop to consider our native taste that has married apple pie to cheese since pioneer times. In culinary usage fondue means "melting to an edible consistency" and this, of course, doesn't refer to cheese alone, although we use it chiefly for that. In France Fondue is also the common name for a simple dish of eggs scrambled with grated cheese and butter and served very hot on toasted bread, or filled into fancy paper cases, quickly browned on top and served at once. The reason for this is that all baked Fondues fall as easily and as far as Soufflés, although the latter are more noted for this failing. There is a similarity in the soft fluffiness of both, although the Fondues are always more moist. For there is a stiff, stuffed-shirt buildup around any Soufflé, suggesting a dressy dinner, while Fondue started as a self-service dunking bowl. Our modern tendency is to try to make over the original French Fondue on the Welsh Rabbit model--to turn it into a sort of French Rabbit. Although we know that both Gruyère and Emmentaler are what we call Swiss and that it is impossible in America to duplicate the rich Alpine flavor given by the mountain herbs, we are inclined to try all sorts of domestic cheeses and mixtures thereof. But it's best to stick to Savarin's "lump of Gruyère" just as the neighboring French and Italians do. It is interesting to note that this Swiss Alpine cooking has become so international that it is credited to Italy in the following description we reprint from _When Madame Cooks_, by an Englishman, Eric Weir: Fondue à l'Italienne This is one of those egg dishes that makes one feel really grateful to hens. From its name it originated probably in Italy, but it has crossed the Alps. I have often met it in France, but only once in Italy. First of all, make a very stiff white sauce with butter, flour and milk. The sauce should be stiff enough to allow the wooden spoon to stand upright or almost. Off the fire, add yolks of eggs and 4 ounces of grated Gruyère cheese. Mix this in well with the white sauce and season with salt, pepper and some grated nutmeg. Beat whites of egg firm. Add the whites to the preparation, stir in, and pour into a pudding basin. Take a large saucepan and fill half full of water. Bring to a boil, and then place the pudding basin so that the top of the basin is well out of the water. Allow to boil gently for 1-1/2 to 2 hours. Renew the boiling water from time to time, as it evaporates, and take care that the water, in boiling, does not bubble over the mixture. Test with a knife, as for a cake, to see if it is cooked. When the knife comes out clean, take the basin out of the water and turn the Fondue out on a dish. It should be fairly firm and keep the shape of the basin. Sprinkle with some finely chopped ham and serve hot. The imported Swiss sometimes is cubed instead of grated, then marinated for four or five hours in dry white wine, before being melted and liquored with the schnapps. This can be pleasantly adopted here in: All-American Fondue 1 pound imported Swiss cheese, cubed 3/4 cup scuppernong or other American white wine 1-1/2 jiggers applejack After marinating the Swiss cubes in the wine, simply melt together over hot water, stir until soft and creamy, add the applejack and dunk with fingers of toast or your own to a chorus of "All Bound Round with a Woolen String." Of course, this can be treated as a mere vinous Welsh Rabbit and poured over toast, to be accompanied by beer. But wine is the thing, for the French Fondue is to dry wine what the Rabbit is to stale ale or fresh beer. We say French instead of Swiss because the French took over the dish so eagerly, together with the great Gruyère that makes it distinctive. They internationalized it, sent it around the world with bouillabaisse and onion soup, that celestial _soupe à l'oignon_ on which snowy showers of grated Gruyère descend. To put the Welsh Rabbit in its place they called it Fondue à l'Anglaise, which also points up the twinlike relationship of the world's two favorite dishes of melted cheese. But to differentiate and show they are not identical twins, the No. 1 dish remained Fromage Fondue while the second was baptized Fromage Fondue à la Bière. Beginning with Savarin the French whisked up more rapturous, rhapsodic writing about Gruyère and its offspring, the Fondue, together with the puffed Soufflé, than about any other imported cheese except Parmesan. Parmesan and Gruyère were praised as the two greatest culinary cheeses. A variant Fondue was made of the Italian cheese. Parmesan Fondue 3 tablespoons butter 1 cup grated Parmesan cheese 4 eggs, lightly beaten Salt Pepper Over boiling water melt butter and cheese slowly, stir in the eggs, season to taste and stir steadily in one direction only, until smooth. Pour over fingers of buttered toast. Or spoon it up, as the ancients did, before there were any forks. It's beaten with a fork but eaten catch-as-catch-can, like chicken-in-the-rough. Sapsago Swiss Fondue 2 tablespoons butter 2 tablespoons flour 1/2 teaspoon salt 1-1/2 cups milk 2-1/2 cups shredded Swiss cheese 2-1/2 tablespoons grated Sapsago 1/2 cup dry white wine Pepper, black and red, freshly ground Fingers of toast Over boiling water stir the first four ingredients into a smooth, fairly thick cream sauce. Then stir in Swiss cheese until well melted. After that add the Sapsago, finely grated, and wine in small splashes. Stir steadily, in one direction only, until velvety. Season sharply with the contrasting peppers and serve over fingers of toast. This is also nice when served bubbling in individual, preheated pastry shells, casseroles or ramekins, although this way most of the fun of the dunking party is left out. To make up for it, however, cooked slices of mushrooms are sometimes added. At the Cheese Cellar in the New York World's Fair Swiss Pavilion, where a continual dunking party was in progress, thousands of amateurs learned such basic things as not to overcook the Fondue lest it become stringy, and the protocol of dunking in turn and keeping the mass in continual motion until the next on the Fondue line dips in his cube of bread. The success of the dish depends on making it quickly, keeping it gently a-bubble and never letting it stand still for a split second. The Swiss, who consume three or four times as much cheese per capita as we, and almost twice as much as the French, are willing to share Fondue honors with the French Alpine province of Savoy, a natural cheese cellar with almost two dozen distinctive types of its very own, such as Fat cheese, also called Death's Head; La Grande Bornand, a luscious half-dried sheep's milker; Chevrotins, small, dry goat milk cheeses; and Le Vacherin. The latter, made in both Savoy and Switzerland, boasts two interesting variants: