The Hash Browns Ditch

The Swiss Hash Browns Ditch and Other Cultural Divides

Unbelievably, less than seven weeks in the European country somewhat noted for its xenophobia, we attended our first Swiss-hosted dinner party last Saturday evening. Even more unbelievably, we were actually invited.

Our neighbor and temporary-apartment landlady, so welcoming and helpful since our arrival, fulfilled her mention during our original ice-breaking, gin-tasting conversation of hosting a dinner party to also include her neighboring good friends--all our front doors are within fifteen feet of each other. Luckily I'd softened up the neighbors several weeks prior by offering a bottle of wine accompanied by a German thank you note (I'm dangerous with the German notes) for allowing our initially-unwitting use of their basement storage area for our empty suitcases and mammoth dog crate. Steph and I always believe the way to the heart is through the liver. Therefore likewise during our Saturday afternoon Zürich shopping spree--again surprisingly routing us through Globus-Bellevueplatz--we brought home a gift-wrapped bottle of premier Scottish Hendrick's gin as dinner party thanks for the landlady.

Hobbes was regrettably doubly uninvited due to the landlady owning cats and to his party penchant for gulping entire blocks of stinky cheese when people aren't looking. Kissing him goodbye at 5:59 and 50 seconds PM, we took one step outside our door, rang the landlady's doorbell and were admitted at 6pm sharp; the neighbors, Mr. & Mrs. A, had already arrived. Mr. A speaks very good English, however, Mrs. A understands only some and speaks even less, which actually made the evening more entertaining as the conversations see-sawed between English and Swiss-German as the landlady (Ms. D) and Mr. A translated. Situated near the wood-burning fireplace, we started with glasses of Prosecco and got down to socializing.

We began by establishing that metro Chicago is more populous than all of Switzerland. They appreciated our attempts at learning several Swiss-German words. We chatted a little about jobs and early years, Mr. and Mrs. A grew up in neighboring villages in central Switzerland and had lived in Zürich 20 years or more ago before moving to Kloten. Our Swiss hosts were older than Steph and me, just a few years younger than our parents. Our landlady is half-Dutch, renowned for their friendliness, which explains her un-Swiss extroverted and convivial nature. Of course we wouldn't have been invited to dinner so quickly by a 100% Swiss! As the conversation unfolded, Mr. A appeared "progressive" Swiss, more comfortable with foreign viewpoints and the current-day practicalities of a shrinking globe, while Mrs. A interjected with "conservative" or more classically Swiss sequestered opinions and questions; of course our mutual explanations were unfairly hampered with Mrs. A due to the language barrier.

After two bottles of sparkling wine for warmup, dinner unfolded, beginning with an excellent avocado and grapefruit salad. We then moved to Italian red wine and the main course. Ms. D is incredibly sweet as she prepared my "favorite" Kalbsgeschnetzeltes, veal in mushroom cream sauce, alongside the usual accompaniment of hash browns or Rösti, because I previously explained to her that I was testing them everywhere I went. She divulged the secret to good Rösti is cooking and grating the potatoes a day before, keeping them in the fridge and then frying them while still cold, so the outside becomes crusty brown; she also demonstrated the classic Rösti flip onto an inverted pan lid to then slide them back into the frying pan to brown the other side. And no lie, her homemade Kalbsgeschnetzeltes was by far the best we've had in Zürich.

So we talked and talked and talked. We received an in-depth Swiss history lesson, explaining that Switzerland was the world's first democracy and that its current country code, CH (as Steph and I had noted, inexplicably not an abbreviation for the German or French or Italian word for Switzerland), is actually Latin for Confoederatio Helvetica, derived from original Roman influence. Importantly, we clarified the makeup of Heidelberg's Fire Pliers Punch--actually our translation was correct--in which a cone of burning sugar (not fruit) is doused with flaming rum (not schnapps); the burning cone can only be moved with smith's tongs or pincers, thus Fire Pliers. Our Swiss hosts had never stopped to consider their farewell salutation of, "Merci vielmals, ciao!" as an amusing blend of three languages, they simply considered it Swiss. Their esteem of me was disappointingly not elevated by my ingestion of Migros' Pferde steak, in fact they were nonplussed and don't eat it themselves (I was duped!)

Of course we talked in depth about politics, both U.S. and Swiss, and religion and Germany, the "Big 3" taboo subjects (the Swiss generally don't like Germans all that much). We learned of Switzerland's Röstigraben, literally the Hash Browns Ditch, which is the invisible line in western Switzerland where the culture and cuisine shifts from Swiss-German to Swiss-French and hash browns disappear from the dinner menus. We learned the very useful term for "bloody foreigners" in German, verdammt Ausländer. We promised to invite them all to dinner in the big city once we're settled in our new apartment. And because we can't help ourselves, we extolled the virtues of traditional authentic Mexican food, not just the usual pedestrian tacos or burritos. Ready for the best part? They had never heard of a taco or a burrito. Not that they hadn't ever tried one, you see. They had never even heard the words! So the moles and rajas and such in our minds are probably a stretch. If we ever do host dinner, we'll probably stick with something slightly more familiar. Like French.

We stopped eating for a smoke break before dessert, with cigarettes or cigars all around (Steph was the only one not smoking but her clothes couldn't tell the difference). Dessert was chocolate cream, like a cold soup. Then of course came coffee and espresso. And then a choice of eight different bottles of grappa and/or eaux de vie. I'm telling you, we'll need to stock back up before hosting any European dinner parties, they're serious here. Finally at 12:30am we departed, but not before opening our front door, waking Hobbes and all five people scratching his tired head.

Overall the evening was extremely enjoyable and I believe that Steph and I represented ourselves fairly well. And ever since then, you'll never guess what's happened. We've passed by Mrs. A several times in the neighborhood, you know, the more guarded and traditional classic Swiss type with a healthy distrust of foreigners. And she smiles and calls out hello and seems genuinely pleased to see us. Funny how that works.