Fun with sharp prongs
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The Florida-based chain is a cheese whiz!
by Jake de Paul
Apr 26, 2007
I glanced at a book I recently grabbed from my grandparents house. Just by examining the literature, I can see the crypto-hipster appeal. A 1970 Better Homes and Gardens fondue cookbook reads like a commercial on “Nick at Nite.” Ladies of the household are advised to “experiment with these recipes and you’ll become an effervescent, day-by-day fondue hostess.” There are special sections devoted entirely to “Pert and Saucy Hot Dips” and “The After Ski Scene.” My mouth watered thinking back to my childhood fondue memories. I asked the Misses if she desired to be a fondue hostess. Ducking the sock projectile, I grabbed the phone and secured our Sunday spot at the Melting Pot.
The Melting Pot is a national chain of fondue restaurants, including one nestled on Pacific Avenue in downtown Tacoma. There are more than 100 Pots scattered across the country. The majority boil in Florida, where many Swiss immigrants settled in the late 19th century. I didn’t even think there were 100 people in the nation who remembered fondue. I certainly missed the mark.
After giggling moronically at the entree title “Pacific Rim,” we got down to business and ordered what has to be the unhealthiest meal I’ve ever encountered. I was worried over the insane lane changes on Interstate 5 due to construction, and yet we ate cheese fondue appetizer ($16), followed by hot-oil fondue entrees ($22-$28), and then one of the chocolate fondue desserts ($14-$28). I named it “Heart Attack in Three Pots.”
As the two of us peered into our simmering table pot as if it were a crystal ball, I asked the Misses what she saw. She said, “I see my mom in billowing palazzo pants circa 1971. She’s serving fondue to her guests out of an avocado-colored ceramic pot. She’s whispering to the other housewives, exalting over how simple it is to prepare. She’s not a slave to the kitchen; fondue has emancipated her.”
I said, “Look again. Don’t you see how disgusting fondue is? Talk about double-dipping. She and her guests may as well be drinking from each other’s bath water. The wife-swapping afterwards is going to be more sanitary.”
An eavesdropping 25-year-old Eddie Vedder look-alike leaned over and said, “I see the La Brea Tar Pits. I’m afraid my meat is going to go in there and never come back.”
But once the two of us got the hang of things (stab, dip, wait and chat about snow, eat; repeat as necessary), we got into the spirit. Fondue is not just food, It’s an event. The fun, as far as I can tell, is that one gets to cook one’s own food, at the table, throughout the meal. Plus, all your friends are doing the same thing, so there is a pleasant communal aspect to the whole shebang. Fondue is process over product, and I like that philosophy.
Fondue is not a food for the inattentive. If you stick it in there, you will have to remember to rescue it later. Nor is fondue a meal for the socially phobic. If you eat it, chances are you will do so at some hipster’s party. You will be expected to dress to the elevens. Some Burt Bacharach or the soundtrack to “Boogie Nights” will be involved. Prepare yourself for potside conversation about the episode where the Angels became bodyguards for Sammy Davis, Jr. By the way, people dressed to the elevens for The Melting Pot — a very romantic environment.
I am a child of the ’70s, but my fondue memories are scarce. I called Mom to engage her in some reminiscing. Our family did not save fondue for special occasions; I remember it just sort of appearing at the table, every so often, without warning. Mom always prepared the kill-your-kids-and-husband/meat-dipped-in-boiling-oil variety. I thought of my wife’s fantasy ’70s housewife and asked, “Did you find that serving fondue ‘emancipated’ you in any way?”
“Josh darn no,” my Mom answered. “I was always panicked about you kids. It was a relief when the meal was over and no one had lost a face.”
[The Melting Pot, 2121 Pacific Ave., Tacoma, 253.535.3939]
