Switzerland: Helvetica Heat
Switzerland: Helvetica Heat
Nestled in the Alps, isolated from the wars and upheaval of the world, Switzerland gives off the vibe of a magical place; a real life Rivendell that looks like someone stretched a thin layer of grass and trees over a bumpy rock. Its an unlikely nation, with four languages spoken and the only commonality being geographic proximity, and a deeply shared commitment to a unique mountain democracy.
Often portrayed as a pristine alpine haven; a land of chocolate-box chalets, precision watches, and unshakeable neutrality, where bankers in Zurich sip fine wine amid snow-capped peaks, the truth is far more complicated. Beneath this glossy facade of luxury and efficiency lies a turbulent underbelly: a history of fierce labor battles that forged the nation's modern identity, hidden in the shadows of its multilingual cantons.
From the German-speaking industrial hubs to the French valleys, Italian enclaves, and Romansch-speaking mountains, Switzerland's independence in 1291 and its federal evolution masked deep inequalities. As Europe industrialized in the 19th century, Swiss workers, textile weavers, railway builders, watchmakers, and factory hands, faced exploitation by elites and foreign investors, toiling in harsh conditions for meager wages. The early 20th century brought waves of unrest: strikes against grueling hours, low pay, and unsafe work, often met with military force. While the world hailed Switzerland's direct democracy, its working class clashed with authorities in pivotal moments, from the 1907 Bernina Railway strike in the remote Romansch-speaking Graubünden to the nationwide 1918 General Strike amid post-WWI chaos. These struggles, spanning linguistic divides, culminated in hard-won reforms like the 48-hour workweek, union rights, and the foundations of a welfare state that endures today.
Of course, this is a food blog, and Switzerland's cuisine, rooted in the ingenuity of peasants trying to stretch meals in harsh mountain weather, and the diversity of its regions, is linked to these labor histories. Simple, communal dishes sustained strikers through hardship, symbolizing solidarity both directly and indirectly. Capuns, chard-wrapped bundles from the Romansch Engadine mountain range, nourished railway workers during the 1907 Bernina strike against alpine exploitation. Cheese fondue's shared pot mirrored the unity of the 1912 watchmakers’ strike. Zürcher Geschnetzeltes, sliced veal in creamy sauce, fueled Zurich's urban protesters in the 1912 general strike for labor freedoms. Rösti's crispy potatoes embodied the collective demands of the 1918 nationwide uprising against inflation and shortages. Raclette's melting warmth mirrored the patient resolve of Geneva's metalworkers in 1937 amid wage battles. And Polenta Ticinese, a hearty cornmeal staple from Italian-speaking Ticino, sustained teachers in the 1946 push for education reforms.
We'll explore how these dishes became emblems of resistance, shared in protest camps, lunch pails, and family hearths, while discussing how these fights created modern Switzerland. So grab a fondue pot and bread, and lets get melting.
Capuns: Wrapped Unity
Graubünden, also known as the Grisons, Grischun, or Grigoni, is more than just the largest and least densely populated canton of Switzerland; it is an Alpine anomaly. Covering over 7,100 square kilometers, it is a mosaic of deeply carved valleys and towering peaks, where the Alps press close and winters linger. Survival here was, for centuries,only afforded to those willing to adapt, innovate, and conserve. It is also the only trilingual canton, a diverse area where German, Italian, and Romansch meet. Romansch, a collection of ancient Latin-based mountain dialects, survives in the most remote areas, a testament to the region’s isolation and resilience.
Out of this rugged landscape came capuns, a dish born by the thrift of Romansch-speaking peasants and shepherds. The name itself is thought to derive from the Romansch word chapun, or perhaps the German Kapaun (capon), implying a dish substantial enough to replace a main meat course, an indication of its value in a meat-scarce economy.
Capuns are small, yet hearty bundles of Spätzle-like dough (sometimes a mixture of flour, eggs, and milk), supplemented with whatever protein was available: scraps of dried meat like Bündnerfleisch (air-dried beef) or Salsiz (a cured sausage), strong Alpine cheese, or garden herbs. This hearty stuffing is then wrapped in the broad, vibrant green leaves of Swiss chard. This simple act of wrapping elevates the ingredients; it’s a preservation technique, a portion-control measure, and a practical way to transport a meal.
The preparation is just as crucial: the bundles are typically simmered in a mixture of broth, milk, or cream, often enriched with smoked bacon or onions. This simmering process transforms the often-sturdy chard leaves into tender casings and allows the dough to swell and absorb the rich cooking liquid, fusing garden greens and pantry scraps into something communal, long-lasting, and deeply satisfying. It is a dish that speaks directly to the soul of Romansch culture, which, fragmented by isolated valleys and distinct dialects, found a powerful, unifying cohesion in this dish.
While the dish is first officially documented in the 19th century, its roots stretch deeper. As long as summer gardens yielded chard, and autumn pantries were stocked with cured meats, and the principle that nothing could be wasted ruled the mountain kitchens, such dishes existed. Capuns sustained families through the long, harsh winters. However, this enduring tradition was about to collide with the sudden, jarring arrival of industrial modernity.
By the early 20th century, Switzerland was no longer solely a land of pastoral herders and isolated valleys; it was a nation aggressively pulled into Europe’s industrial race. Graubünden was strategically important, not just for tourism but for trans-Alpine trade. The Bernina Railway, begun in 1906, was to be an engineering marvel: a high-altitude electric line linking the chic ski resort of St. Moritz to Tirano in Italy. The route was an ambitious undertaking, threading through glaciers, crossing precarious viaducts like the Landwasser, and boring tunnels through solid rock.
But progress came at a profound human cost. The workforce that built this testament to Swiss engineering was a stark microcosm of European labor relations. It was a volatile mix of local Romansch peasants, who traded their farm tools for pickaxes and dynamite to earn much-needed cash, and thousands of Italian migrant laborers who flowed north across the border, desperate for work. These men labored at altitudes often exceeding 2,000 meters, battling the elements, avalanches, brutal frostbite, and unpredictable rockslides. Wages were meager, hours were exceptionally long (often 10 to 12 hours a day), and safety protocols were nearly nonexistent. It was, in effect, a system of exploitation that fueled national pride.
In May 1907, the breaking point came. An estimated 1,000 workers in the Engadine region, centered around St. Moritz and Pontresina, went on strike. They demanded basic rights: higher pay, a maximum workday of 10 hours, and crucially, safer working conditions. The makeshift work camps, initially centers of relentless toil, transformed into encampments of organized dissent.
The Swiss federal government, viewing the Bernina Railway as a prestige project and fearing significant delays and a damaging precedent, responded with force, a common tactic in European industrial disputes of the era. Federal troops were dispatched to the snowy passes to suppress the uprising. Clashes followed; workers were often bloodied, and the dream of modernity was enforced at gunpoint. Though the strike was eventually suppressed, forcing most laborers back to work without concessions, it had achieved something profound: it exposed the deep fragility of Alpine labor and the nation's dependence on the migrant workers it treated as disposable. It was a moment when the revered silence and tranquility of the mountains was broken, echoing with the sound of collective resistance.
Amid this turmoil, the humble capuns stepped up. In the cold, makeshift camps, strikers, Romansch and Italian alike, huddled around fires. Parcels of capuns were passed from hand to hand. Some had been sent from home kitchens, carefully wrapped by wives and mothers, embodying the enduring support of the local community. Others were improvised in the camp, with chard leaves perhaps plucked from nearby gardens and dough mixed with whatever scraps of lard, cheese, or dried meat could be spared.
Capuns, therefore, became an emblem of the strike itself, a dish of insiders, deeply rooted in the Romansch valleys, now fueling a fight that necessarily crossed borders and languages. Where Italian migrants brought their simple, filling staples like polenta and hard bread, and locals brought capuns, the shared, communal act of eating forged a fragile and necessary unity. In the shadow of exploitation and the threat of the federal army, a shared bowl of hot, nourishing food created a bond that the companies had sought to prevent through division.
The 1907 Bernina strike was crushed, yet its impact was undeniable. It spotlighted the abuses rampant within major infrastructure projects in Switzerland’s peripheries and fed into broader, national debates about labor rights and immigration. Over the following decades, Swiss labor law slowly evolved, granting the protections and safeguards that the workers in the Engadine had once demanded with their bodies.
The Bernina Railway itself was completed in 1910, heralded internationally as an engineering triumph. Today, it stands as a UNESCO World Heritage site, its iconic red trains gliding past glaciers and dramatic viaducts. Tourists from around the world marvel at the stunning scenery, rarely pausing to consider the men whose blood and sweat went into the rock to build it.
But in Graubünden kitchens, capuns endure. They are served in traditional restaurants and modern homes, a staple of regional pride. They are no longer just food; they are a deep, flavorful connection to the past, a reminder that the history of this proud Alpine canton, the perseverance of the Romansch language, and the struggle for human dignity are all, in a very real sense, wrapped up in the simple green leaf of chard. The history that fed the movement continues to go into the dish.
When making it, I had a misfire at first. But, it was easier when I let the chard cool a bit after blanching.
Capuns
Servings: 4
Prep Time: 20 minutes
Cook Time: 20 minutes
Total Time: 40 minutes
Ingredients
Dough
200 g all-purpose flour (~1.5 cups)
2 large eggs
50 ml milk (~1/4 cup)
50 ml water (~1/4 cup)
5 g salt (~1 tsp)
50 g Salsiz or Landjäger sausage, finely chopped (~1.7 oz)
50 g cooked ham or bacon, finely chopped (~1.7 oz)
1 tbsp parsley, finely chopped
1 tbsp chives, finely chopped
1 small onion, finely chopped
Wrapping
12–16 large Swiss chard leaves, stalks removed
Broth and Sauce
500 ml beef or vegetable broth (~2 cups)
200 ml heavy cream (~3/4 cup)
50 g Sbrinz or Parmesan cheese, grated (~1/2 cup)
15 g butter (~1 tbsp)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Optional: pinch of ground nutmeg
Instructions
Prepare Chard Leaves: Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Blanch chard leaves for 30–60 seconds until softened. Plunge into ice water, drain, and pat dry.
Make Dough: In a large bowl, combine flour and salt. Whisk eggs, milk, and water in a separate bowl, then pour into flour. Mix to form a smooth, thick batter. Fold in Salsiz, ham, parsley, chives, and onion. Adjust with flour or milk if too wet or dry.
Assemble Capuns: Lay a chard leaf flat, shiny side down. Place 1–2 tbsp of dough near the base. Fold sides over filling and roll tightly from base to tip. Repeat with remaining leaves and dough.
Cook Capuns: Bring broth to a gentle simmer in a large pot. Add capuns, ensuring they are submerged, and simmer for 10–15 minutes until dough is cooked.
Make Sauce: In a saucepan, melt butter over medium heat. Add cream and simmer. Stir in cheese until melted and smooth. Season with salt, pepper, and optional nutmeg. Thin with a ladle of cooking broth if desired.
Serve: Remove capuns with a slotted spoon and place in bowls. Pour sauce over or serve on the side. Garnish with extra chives or parsley, if desired.
Tips
Substitute Salsiz with salami or prosciutto, or use mushrooms for a vegetarian version.
Assemble capuns up to a day ahead and refrigerate; cook just before serving.
Serve with crusty bread or a light green salad.
Notes
Cooking time may vary based on capuns size and chard thickness; check doneness by cutting one open.
Traditionally served in broth with sauce, but can be strained for a cleaner presentation.
Cheese Fondue: Communal Solidarity
Cheese fondue is arguably Switzerland’s most famous culinary export, a communal pot of melted perfection that has come to symbolize Switzerland abroad. Yet, the story of its ascent from a regional dish to a national metaphor is less a tale of rustic myth and more a fascinating study in cultural construction and political branding. While its contemporary image is one of cozy, wholesome tradition, its history is spiced with elements of bourgeois indulgence, aggressive marketing, and, perhaps most surprisingly, labor solidarity and defiance.
The myth of fondue paints it as a "peasant survival dish," a clever way for frugal Alpine families to stretch hard, aged cheese and stale bread through the harsh, isolating winters. This imagery, however appealing, is largely an invention. The first known recipe resembling modern fondue appeared in a 1699 cookbook from Zürich, describing melted cheese blended with wine and eaten with bread. This was an urban recipe, a specialty of the canton’s more affluent citizens.
Indeed, throughout the 18th and 19th centuries, Gruyère and Emmentaler, the cheeses essential to true fondue, were prized, high-value exports, far too costly for the average Swiss peasant to consume regularly. Fondue was, in its early life, more often a bourgeois specialty, enjoyed in the towns and cities of the French-speaking regions, shared at gatherings and celebrations, an indulgence rather than a necessity.
The dish’s true transformation into a national symbol and culinary institution came later, driven by economic necessity. In the 1930s, the Swiss Cheese Union (Schweizerische Käseunion), a powerful marketing and quality control body, faced a significant problem: a massive surplus of domestic cheese. Their solution was ingenious and comprehensive. They launched an unprecedented, massive marketing campaign to boost domestic consumption, and fondue was its spearhead.
The campaign skillfully rebranded the regional specialty as the dish of national unity. They promoted it as a tradition shared across all four linguistic regions, even inventing "regional" variations where none truly existed to give the impression of deep, diverse roots. The marketing was relentless, utilizing posters, cookbooks, and even mandatory army rations to introduce fondue to every Swiss citizen. This was the moment fondue became more than just food, it became a ritual of solidarity, a pot into which everyone dipped equally, a culinary metaphor for the cohesion and political neutrality that Switzerland projected to the world.
The Cheese Union’s campaign sought to soften the dish's edges, wrapping it in the warm, predictable embrace of Alpine nostalgia. Yet, two decades before this governmental marketing push, fondue had already embodied solidarity, but in a far more urgent and politically charged context: the 1912 Neuchâtel watchmaking strike.
The canton of Neuchâtel, in French-speaking Switzerland, was the global epicenter of precision watchmaking. Its artisans were renowned, crafting timepieces that were the very symbol of Swiss precision and excellence. But behind the elegance of pocket watches lay a grueling industrial reality. Watchmakers toiled for long hours in cramped workshops, often for meager wages, their existence becoming increasingly precarious as the early 20th century introduced greater industrial competition and the threat of mechanization to skilled labor.
In February 1912, the tensions snapped. Watchmakers, organized under local trade unions, launched a courageous strike against wage cuts and deteriorating working conditions. This was a bold stand in a region fundamentally dependent on the watch industry. Workers demanded fair pay, shorter hours, and respect for their irreplaceable craft.
Over 5,000 artisans walked out, grinding production to a halt in workshops across key centers like La Chaux-de-Fonds and Le Locle. The action was disciplined, marked by defiant marches and assemblies filling the snowy streets of the Jura Mountains. Employers, backed by local authorities, resisted fiercely. But the strikers’ unity was resolute, bolstered by support from socialist groups and neighboring cantons.
In the cold, tense days of the strike, communal kitchens became vital lifelines. Families, strikers, and supporters gathered to share food and warmth in homes and makeshift strike camps. This is where fondue re-emerged in a powerful, non-bourgeois context. Already a dish of communal dipping in the French-speaking area, fondue became a tangible symbol of resilience and shared struggle.
The shared pot of melted cheese and wine mirrored the collective demands of the watchmakers. Each dip of the bread was a small act of unity, and a reminder of their shared struggle against economic exploitation..
The 1912 Neuchâtel strike lasted for weeks, eventually yielding partial victories, including some secured wage protections and a significant strengthening of the regional trade unions. More importantly, it highlighted the formidable power of collective action in an industry central to the modern Swiss identity which was in the process of being shaped. The strike’s spirit and legacy fed into broader labor movements, foreshadowing the seismic 1918 General Strike that would demand systemic reforms across the nation.
By the time the Swiss Cheese Union successfully rebranded fondue in the 1930s, softening its revolutionary undertones into generalized Alpine nostalgia, the dish's association with rebellion was muted for the national audience. The memory of the striking watchmakers was smoothed over by decades of marketing promoting the image of the unified, neutral Swiss nation.
Yet, for those who know its history, the pot still simmers with the spirit of the Neuchâtel watchmakers’. When a group of friends gathers around a fondue pot today, they are not merely participating in a quaint national ritual; they are engaging in an act that has, at least once, been fundamentally radical.
Creating fondue itself is an act of patience and trust in one’s self. The smallest candle can keep the pot bubbling.
Cheese Fondue
Servings: 4
Prep Time: 10 minutes
Cook Time: 15 minutes
Total Time: 25 minutes
Ingredients
200 g Gruyère cheese, grated (~2 cups)
200 g Emmental cheese, grated (~2 cups)
1 small garlic clove, halved
150 ml dry white wine (e.g., Fendant or Sauvignon Blanc) (~2/3 cup)
1.5 tsp cornstarch
15 ml kirsch (cherry schnapps) (~1 tbsp)
2.5 ml lemon juice (~0.5 tsp)
Pinch of ground nutmeg
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
400 g crusty bread (e.g., baguette or sourdough), cubed (~1/2 loaf)
Optional: 200 g boiled baby potatoes, 100 g pickles, or 1 apple, sliced, for dipping
Instructions
Rub the inside of a 350 ml fondue pot with the cut garlic clove; discard garlic.
In a small saucepan, heat wine and lemon juice over medium heat until simmering.
Gradually add grated cheeses in small handfuls, stirring constantly in a figure-eight motion until melted and smooth.
In a small bowl, mix cornstarch with kirsch to form a slurry. Stir into the cheese ugh high hmh mixture to thicken.
Season with nutmeg and black pepper.
Transfer melted cheese to the fondue pot and place over a tea candle to keep warm.
Serve with cubed bread and optional dippers (potatoes, pickles, or apple slices).
Tips
Melt cheese on the stovetop, as a tea candle is insufficient for melting from cold.
The 350 ml fondue pot may not hold all the cheese; keep excess warm in the saucepan and refill as needed.
Stir continuously during serving to prevent curdling and maintain consistency.
If fondue thickens, add a splash of warmed wine and stir.
Notes
Ensure the fondue stays warm but does not boil to avoid curdling.
Zürcher Geschnetzeltes: Sliced Fury
Zürcher Geschnetzeltes, or “sliced meat Zurich-style,” is a dish that does more than satisfy an appetite; it serves as a culinary encapsulation of Zurich’s complex identity. It’s a plate of food that is at once precise, refined, and deeply rooted in the pragmatic traditions of Swiss comfort. First formally recorded in a 1947 Swiss cookbook, it quickly ascended the ranks to become the city’s undisputed culinary calling card. The classic rendition involves thin, tender strips of veal, a prized meat, sautéed with meticulous precision and then folded into a velvety sauce rich with cream, white wine, and mushrooms. This elegant assembly is usually served alongside a generous portion of rösti, the golden, pan-fried potato cake that is the very anchor of Swiss home cooking.
The origins of the dish’s technique stretch back much further than its mid-century codification. In the historical guild houses of Zurich, where butchers, tanners, and various craftsmen gathered, veal was a valuable commodity. The practice of slicing the meat into thin strips, or geschnetzeltes, was a practical economic measure. It was a way to stretch a modest portion across more mouths, making a costly cut accessible and substantial. This technique was echoed in home kitchens, where transforming a small amount of meat into a hearty, satisfying meal was achieved by binding it with a rich, unifying sauce.
The inherent elegance of Zürcher Geschnetzeltes lies precisely in its restraint and efficiency. It is neither a slow-cooked, rustic stew nor an elaborate roast. It is a quick sauté, for those whom time is a premium, yet the palate demands both quality and precision. This rapid preparation mirrors the pace and precision often associated with the city of Zurich itself, an international center for finance and trade.
However, the polished veneer of Zurich’s banking halls, its pristine Lake Zurich waterfront, and its ancient guild traditions masked a city that was, in the early 20th century, simmering with profound social and industrial unrest. Switzerland’s rapid industrial boom had fundamentally transformed Zurich into a bustling, often chaotic, hub of machine shops, textile mills, and sprawling construction sites. This economic expansion necessitated a massive influx of migrant workers, primarily from neighboring Italy and Germany.
These laborers, vital to the city’s growth, often faced hostility, brutally low wages, and precarious working conditions. The city, though seemingly prosperous, was divided by a sharp class divide. The quiet precision celebrated in the preparation of Zürcher Geschnetzeltes stood in stark contrast to the volatile, untidy reality of its working-class districts.
In July 1912, these tensions boiled over. The catalyst was a move by the Zurich city council to ban strike picketing, a measure immediately interpreted by workers’ unions as a direct and aggressive assault on their fundamental rights to collective action and protest.
On July 12, 1912, the simmering discontent erupted into a one-day general strike that stunned the city’s elite. Nearly 23,000 workers, encompassing employees from transport, textiles, construction, and various other trades, unanimously downed their tools. They didn’t merely stop working; they marched. The protest was disciplined, almost choreographed: starting precisely on time, with organized columns marching from the Rotwandwiese, a known gathering spot, to key train depots and industrial arteries, effectively halting the movement of the city.
Though orderly, the energy of the protest was raw and unyielding. It was the largest of nine general strikes that swept Switzerland between 1902 and 1912, serving as a powerful warning shot for the even greater, nationwide upheaval that would follow in 1918. The Swiss government, alarmed by the scale of the coordinated resistance, deployed troops, but the repression could not easily erase the sense of collective purpose and solidarity forged that day. The exiled Russian revolutionary Vladimir Lenin, then living in Western Europe, even took note, praising the Zurich workers in Pravda as tangible proof of a class-conscious proletariat ready to fight for its rights.
In the simple kitchens of the working-class neighborhoods, families of the strikers prepared basic, hearty meals to sustain their comrades returning from the long marches. The omnipresent rösti, crisp and golden, was a staple, often dipped into sauces designed to stretch the flavor and substance of whatever meager meat they had. This communal act of sharing bound the community together. Later, as Zürcher Geschnetzeltes solidified its place as Zurich’s signature dish, it carried a subtle, perhaps unconscious, echo of that volatile moment: a reminder that the city's identity was forged not just in its imposing banks and grand boulevards, but also in the streets where workers, with collective discipline, effectively sliced through repression.
The 1912 strike did not immediately yield grand victories or win major, instant concessions. The city council initially held firm, and government repression continued. However, the action left an mark on the political landscape. It was the crucial rehearsal for the much larger 1918 Swiss General Strike, a national event where hundreds of thousands of people across the country united to demand fundamental social reforms, including the eight-hour workday, women’s suffrage, and social insurance. Zurich’s 1912 protest was the first, defining taste of a broader, more powerful labor movement that would permanently and peacefully reshape the foundations of Swiss society and its political consciousness.
Meanwhile, Zürcher Geschnetzeltes flourished, becoming the city’s most sophisticated culinary ambassador. By the post-war decades, it had fully transitioned from a simple, domestic staple into a mandatory restaurant fixture.
Make sure when cooking to remember that it cooks much faster than you anticipate!
Zürcher Geschnetzeltes
Servings: 4
Prep Time: 15 minutes
Cook Time: 20 minutes
Total Time: 35 minutes
Ingredients
600 g veal (or pork/chicken), thinly sliced (~1.3 lb)
15 g flour (~2 tbsp)
30 g butter (~2 tbsp)
1 small onion, finely chopped
200 g mushrooms, sliced (~2 cups)
200 ml dry white wine (~3/4 cup)
200 ml heavy cream (~3/4 cup)
100 ml beef or veal stock (~1/2 cup)
1 tbsp parsley, chopped
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Optional: 1 tsp lemon zest
Instructions
Lightly coat veal slices in flour, shaking off excess.
Heat 15 g butter in a large skillet over high heat. Sear veal in batches for 1–2 minutes per side until browned. Remove and set aside.
In the same skillet, melt remaining 15 g butter. Sauté onions until soft, about 3 minutes. Add mushrooms and cook until golden, about 5 minutes.
Deglaze with white wine, scraping up browned bits. Reduce by half, about 3 minutes.
Add stock and cream, simmering until thickened, about 5–7 minutes.
Return veal to the skillet, heat through for 1–2 minutes, and season with salt, pepper, and optional lemon zest.
Garnish with parsley and serve with rösti or egg noodles.
Tips
Substitute pork or chicken for veal if preferred, but avoid overcooking to keep meat tender.
Prepare rösti in advance to serve alongside for a traditional pairing.
Notes
The sauce should be creamy but not overly thick; adjust with a splash of stock if needed.
Rösti: Crispy Rage
Rösti, a humble dish of grated, fried potatoes, is paradoxically Switzerland’s most profound national emblem. It’s a culinary masterpiece born not of a chef’s kitchen but of the hard, gritty reality of the Bernese farmlands in the 16th century. The dish was never intended for ceremony; it was engineered for survival. Farmers would grate raw potatoes, fry them vigorously in fat, lard, butter, or whatever was at hand, and consume them at the cusp of dawn. This was the fuel for their punishing day. Sometimes a farmer's wife might fold in scraps of bacon or a handful of onions; perhaps a melting of local cheese would crown the top, but the essence was simple: a golden, crisp crust encasing a dense, filling interior.
By the 19th century, this peasant food had migrated from the private farmhouse to become a staple across German-speaking Switzerland, transforming from a mere breakfast into an element of regional identity. Its social ascent continued through the 20th century, crossing the cultural boundary into French-speaking Switzerland and finally arriving on the national restaurant table. It became the ultimate side dish, accompanying Züri-Gschnätzlets (as seen in the last section), plump sausages, or a simple fried egg. Yet, even as it gained status, Rösti never fully shed its origins. It remained the simple food of endurance,a no-nonsense dish that asked little in the way of ingredients or effort but gave much in terms of energy. This ability to be both basic and essential, set the stage for its role in one of Switzerland’s most significant moments of social reckoning.
The end of World War I in November 1918 brought a reckoning to officially neutral Switzerland. The nation had mobilized 220,000 soldiers to guard its borders, an enormous drain on an already strained economy. Inflation soared, wages were brutally stagnant, and by 1917, a staggering 700,000 people, nearly one-fifth of the population, were dependent on food aid. The price of essential goods like bread had doubled. Farmers and export-focused industries were insulated, even profiting, but the urban working class was sinking into abject poverty. The existing political system, with its archaic majoritarian voting, had proven incapable of addressing this monumental suffering.
In response, the Olten Action Committee (OAK), a powerful coalition of unions and the Socialist Party, published the "Nine Points," a non-negotiable call for systemic reform. Their demands were a blueprint for the modern Swiss state: the introduction of proportional representation, which would give urban workers a voice; women's suffrage; a 48-hour workweek; the establishment of old-age and disability insurance; and long-overdue army reform.
With their demands ignored, the OAK made a decisive move. On November 12, 1918, just a day after the Armistice that ended the fighting in Europe, they launched the Swiss General Strike. Over 250,000 workers walked out of factories, off railways, and away from services across the major cities of Zürich, Basel, Bern, and beyond. The country’s industrial heart briefly stopped beating.
The federal government reacted with intense fear, seeing in the strike the terrifying specter of a Bolshevik-style revolution sweeping across Europe. They deployed federal troops under General Ulrich Wille. In the watchmaking town of Grenchen, the tension violently broke: soldiers fired on striking workers, killing three.
Yet, the strike’s leaders maintained a disciplined and defiant dignity. Alcohol was banned in the strike camps, and workers were instructed to dress in their Sunday best, a visual projection of their respectability and the legitimacy of their demands. In this tense, frozen landscape of protest and military threat, Rösti emerged as a potent symbol.
Rösti was the perfect food for the general strike. It was cheap to make, requiring only the most basic and available ingredient, the potato. Critically, it was also immensely portable. Strikers carried slices of it wrapped in cloth to the picket lines in the cold, German-speaking cities where the strike was most concentrated, such as Bern and Zürich. Its hearty core provided the slow-burning energy needed for long days of standing guard.
In the makeshift strike kitchens and communal camps, Rösti was shared. Passed around among workers gathered to hear speeches and coordinate actions, it embodied the very communal spirit of the movement. Just as it had once sustained farmers in their solitary endurance against nature, it now fortified workers in their collective fight against the machinery of capital and the threat of military repression.
The dish's simple, almost austere nature mirrored the economic precarity of the workers who relied on it. Yet, its golden, crisp edges carried a powerful, almost subconscious resonance: they evoked the "golden" security they were demanding, security of wages, working hours, and a future free from poverty. Rösti became an emblem of the strike's quiet power. It served as a reminder that the act of survival itself, the ability to feed and sustain oneself in the face of profound economic and military power, was a political act of resistance.
The General Strike lasted only three days. Under the threat of an overwhelming military crackdown, the OAK reluctantly called it off. Leaders were arrested and many were imprisoned. The government had avoided the immediate collapse it feared, but the workers had, in a sense, won the war.
The pressure exerted by the quarter-million strikers was undeniable. The government was forced to make concessions that would fundamentally reshape the nation. Within a year, proportional representation was introduced, giving workers a democratic voice. The 48-hour workweek became law. Crucially, the seeds for the modern Swiss welfare state, the old-age and disability insurance the strikers had demanded, were planted.
Rösti, carried through those tense, pivotal days, remains far more than a simple side dish. It is an emblem of Switzerland’s democratic core.
Much like other potato pancakes, trust that the inside will be cooked as the outside crisps. It should be almost gooey and nourishing on the inside.
Rösti
Servings: 4
Prep Time: 15 minutes
Cook Time: 30 minutes
Total Time: 45 minutes
Ingredients
1 kg waxy potatoes (e.g., Yukon Gold) (~2.2 lb)
30 g butter (~2 tbsp)
30 ml vegetable oil (~2 tbsp)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Optional: 1 small onion, finely chopped; 1 tbsp fresh parsley, chopped
Instructions
Parboil whole potatoes in salted water for 10–12 minutes until just tender. Cool, peel, and coarsely grate.
Season grated potatoes with salt and pepper. Mix in onions, if using.
Heat 15 g butter and 15 ml oil in a large non-stick skillet over medium heat.
Spread potatoes evenly in the skillet, pressing down to form a pancake. Cook for 8–10 minutes until golden and crispy.
Flip rösti using a plate to invert it. Add remaining butter and oil to the skillet. Cook the other side for 8–10 minutes.
Slice into wedges, garnish with parsley if desired, and serve hot.
Tips
Top with fried eggs or smoked salmon for added flavor.
Keep rösti warm in a low oven (120°C/250°F) if making multiple batches.
Notes
Ensure even pressing for a uniform, crispy texture.
Raclette: Slow-Melting Resilience
Switzerland’s story, like its mountains, is jagged and layered. Its history is not a straight march to effortless prosperity, but a careful, often tense, negotiation between cantons, classes, languages, and cultures. This fragile unity, this constant balancing act, is the nation's true genius. And through it all, food has been the quiet companion, whether its for herders in the heights of the Alps, or precision workers in the bustling urban cities.
Few dishes embody this national character better than raclette. A wheel of cheese, patiently melted by a fire’s heat and scraped onto a plate of boiled potatoes, bread, or tart pickles. It demands that you wait, that you take your portion not all at once, but layer by layer. And in 1937, as Geneva’s metalworkers faced down wage cuts and exploitation in the shadow of a darkening continent, raclette became more than a simple meal. It became a metaphor for their struggle.
Raclette’s roots stretch back over 700 years to the French-speaking Valais shepherds of the Swiss Alps. The canton of Valais, with its impossibly steep slopes and high, cold valleys, required a hearty, portable cuisine. During the long summers, when herders drove their cattle to high alpine pastures, they relied on food that was dense, durable, and could be easily transformed into a hot, filling meal. They carried wheels of semi-hard cheese, the ancestor of modern raclette, along with preserved meats and dried bread.
By night, when the mountain cold descended, the herders would halve a cheese wheel and place the cut side directly beside the open fire. They didn't aim to cook the cheese through; they sought only to gently soften the surface. Once a molten layer, creamy, fragrant, and slightly browned, was achieved, they would use a blunt knife or wooden paddle to scrape the melted portion directly onto their bread or boiled potatoes.
The earliest records from the 13th century in convent texts refer to the dish as a melted cheese meal. In German-speaking regions, it was known simply as Bratchäs (“roasted cheese”). It was the food of necessity, the food of the working mountain folk. For centuries, it remained largely a regional secret of Valais. It was only in the 19th century that it began to gain broader recognition, celebrated at regional fairs and festivals. By the mid-20th century, particularly after being promoted at the 1964 Swiss National Exhibition in Lausanne, raclette was transformed from a regional curiosity into a powerful national symbol of Switzerland. At its core, raclette is about sharing, a single wheel of cheese feeding many, a collective food source.
The 1930s were an unkind decade for Europe. The Great Depression lingered, fascism was consolidating its power in Switzerland’s neighbors, Italy and Germany, and Switzerland’s crucial export-driven industries felt the intense economic squeeze. Geneva, a sophisticated hub of watchmaking, precision metalwork, and nascent international diplomacy, was especially hard hit. To offset falling profits, employers sought to unilaterally cut wages, extend working hours, and impose speed-up measures on highly skilled artisans.
Early in 1937, Geneva’s metalworkers, many of them affiliated with the influential Fédération suisse des ouvriers sur métaux et horlogers (FOMH), reached a breaking point. They did not only demand fair wages; they demanded something more foundational: recognition of their unions as legitimate negotiating partners. The employers refused, viewing the union as an affront to their management prerogative.
The workers' response was decisive. Around 12,000 workers walked out, paralyzing Geneva’s factories. This was not a riot; it was an organized, disciplined stoppage. Workers held peaceful marches, established solidarity kitchens to feed striking families, and gathered for nightly assemblies to maintain morale and discuss strategy. It is crucial to place this strike in its historical context: across the continent, strikes often ended in bloodshed and repression, as seen in France’s Popular Front strikes or the violent suppression of the "Little Steel" strike in the U.S. In Geneva, however, the workers' insisted on peaceful negotiation and unity. The strike lasted weeks, severely testing the patience and reserves of both the employers and the workers. But the workers held firm, their unity unbroken.
In French-speaking Geneva, the local cafés and restaurants, often inspired by nearby Valais, became gathering points for the striking workers. There, away from the picket lines, workers shared the slow-melting warmth of raclette. The ritual of the meal began to echo their own steady resolve.
On May 15, 1937, after weeks of paralysis that threatened to cripple the city, the strike ended with the landmark "Paix du Travail" (Labor Peace) Agreement. This was a monumental victory not just for the workers, but for the Swiss nation. Employers recognized unions as legitimate negotiating partners for the first time. Strikes and lockouts were banned, not by law, but by mutual agreement in favor of a new, mandatory system of arbitration. Workers secured wage protections and regulated hours.
This "Paix du Travail" became the model for Swiss industrial relations, a social contract that shaped the nation's labor peace and stability for decades. Where other nations descended into class warfare, Switzerland forged compromise. And when the strike was won, workers celebrated not with imported champagne or grand feasts, but with the humble food of their struggle: raclette. Scraped onto potatoes in jubilant huddles, the warm, salty taste of melted cheese carried the unmistakable flavor of collective victory.
While it is now the dish of bourgeois Alpine chalets, it was once a meal of communal struggle.
You can find a raclette plate relatively cheap, and can find raclette cheese at the supermarket. Swiss cheese is also an option!
Raclette
Servings: 4
Prep Time: 10 minutes
Cook Time: 20 minutes
Total Time: 30 minutes
Ingredients
800 g raclette cheese, sliced or a raclette wheel (~1.75 lb)
1 kg small waxy potatoes (e.g., Charlotte or fingerling) (~2.2 lb)
200 g cornichons (small pickles) (~1 cup)
200 g pickled pearl onions (~1 cup)
200 g cured meats (e.g., prosciutto, salami, or Bündnerfleisch) (~7 oz)
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Optional: 1 tsp paprika or dried herbs for seasoning
Instructions
Boil potatoes in salted water for 15–20 minutes until tender. Drain and keep warm.
If using a raclette grill, place cheese slices in small pans under the grill to melt. If using a raclette wheel, heat and scrape melted cheese.
Serve melted cheese over warm potatoes on individual plates.
Accompany with cornichons, pickled onions, and cured meats.
Season with black pepper and optional paprika or herbs.
Tips
If no raclette grill is available, melt cheese under an oven broiler at 200°C (400°F) for 2–3 minutes or heat a raclette plate over candles or an oven burner.
Offer a variety of pickles for flavor contrast.
Notes
Ensure potatoes remain warm to complement the melted cheese.
Polenta Ticinese (W/Chestnut Ragu): Stirred Spirit
Polenta in the canton of Ticino, the Italian-speaking heart of Switzerland, is not merely a dish; it is a cultural anchor, a symbol of endurance, and an edible history of the region’s economic and political evolution.
The tradition of making thick porridges is ancient in the Alps. Long before the discovery of the Americas, Alpine communities sustained themselves through the harsh, isolating winters on thick, boiled gruels made from local grains such as millet, barley, and buckwheat. These were the original polenta, a term derived from the Latin word for "crushed grain" (puls).
The culinary landscape was permanently altered in the 16th century when maize (corn) crossed the Atlantic and was introduced to Europe. Ticino, with its lower, sun-drenched valleys and milder climate compared to the rest of Switzerland, provided an ideal environment for the new crop. It was adopted with remarkable speed, and by the 17th century, cornmeal polenta had effectively supplanted the older grain porridges, becoming the daily bread of the canton. It was cheap, easy to store, and filling, cementing its role as the quintessential peasant dish.
The traditional method of preparation underscores the communal and spiritual significance of the dish. Polenta was cooked slowly in a large, copper cauldron (paiolo), stirred patiently for up to an hour with a long wooden stick. This long, steady stirring was not just a culinary necessity to prevent clumping and sticking; it was a daily ritual.
The finished polenta was rarely eaten alone. In times of plenty, it was enriched with butter, local cheese, or fresh milk. More often, however, it was a communal meal, poured out onto a wooden board where it would quickly set. Families gathered around the pot. In rustic eateries known as grottoes and during village festivals, polenta was, and still is, ladled out into communal bowls, embodying a spirit of sharing.
To enrich the basic polenta, another ancient staple of Ticino was brought to the table: the chestnut (castagna). Cultivated in the canton since the Middle Ages, chestnut trees thrived on the dry, sunny hillsides where grain cultivation was more difficult. The chestnut was affectionately known as the “bread of the poor,” providing critical nutrients for mountain families. Chestnuts were dried, milled into flour, or stewed into hearty, ragù-like sauces.
The pairing of polenta with a chestnut ragù (a slow-simmered savory sauce, often with vegetables, herbs, and a splash of wine) thus represented al fusion of two major survival staples. It was a dish born of necessity, representing the hard-won endurance and distinct culinary identity of the Ticinese people.
This culinary tradition was thrust into the spotlight during an important moment of social and political unrest: the 1946 Ticino teachers' strike. While Switzerland remained neutral during World War II, the postwar era brought an economic upheaval of inflation, shortages, and uneven recovery. Peripheral cantons like Ticino, already facing disadvantages due to linguistic, geographic, and economic distance from the country's German and French industrial centers, felt the strain acutely.
Teachers, organized under the Associazione Magistrale Ticinese (AMT), launched one of Switzerland’s most striking postwar labor actions. Their demands were fundamental: wage increases to match the rising cost of living and, more importantly, professional parity with other civil servants. Their salaries lagged behind, their classrooms were underfunded, and the canton’s youth, many from rural or working-class backgrounds, were being shortchanged by an undervalued education system.
The strike was a bold, unprecedented act in Swiss society. Schools closed, and demonstrations filled the streets of Bellinzona and Lugano. This action wasn't isolated; it resonated with broader European and global unrest in 1945–46, a period when workers and professionals across the continent demanded welfare reforms, social investment, and a redefinition of their rights in the post-war world. Ticino’s teachers joined a global wave of educators asserting that intellectual labor deserved dignity and fair compensation.
During the weeks of the strike, the humble polenta Ticinese became a potent symbol of solidarity and a source of communal fuel. At rallies, meetings, and in village squares, supporters brought massive pots of polenta, often paired with the traditional chestnut ragù, which was then ladled into communal bowls and shared amongst the strikers and their allies.
The 1946 strike did not result in an immediate, total victory, but it successfully cracked open the door to change. It forced the cantonal government to recognize the teachers’ grievances, resulting in partial salary adjustments and a new seriousness in negotiations. More importantly, the action set a crucial precedent for teachers' activism in Switzerland, linking Ticino's regional struggles to the broader, national redefinition of social rights and public investment in the post-war era. It underscored Ticino's role not just as a geographically beautiful region, but as a politically active canton.
The parallel between the culinary and political stories is striking. Just as polenta evolved from a scorned "poor man’s porridge" into a celebrated, sophisticated regional specialty, the strike helped elevate teaching from an undervalued, underpaid form of labor into a respected profession with growing societal recognition. Both narratives speak to the core of Ticino’s resilience: the ability to transform scarcity into strength and tradition into progress.
If your polenta is “Too soupy”, keep stirring. It will get there eventually.
Polenta Ticinèse with Porcini & Chestnut Ragù
Servings: 4
Prep Time: 15 minutes
Cook Time: 40 minutes
Total Time: 55 minutes
Ingredients
Polenta
200 g coarse polenta (cornmeal) (~1 cup)
1 L water or milk (or a mix) (~4 cups)
5 g salt (~1 tsp)
50 g butter (~3 tbsp)
100 g Parmesan or Sbrinz cheese, grated (~1 cup)
Porcini & Chestnut Ragù
30 g dried porcini mushrooms (~1 oz)
30 ml olive oil (~2 tbsp)
1 onion, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
100 g pre-cooked chestnuts, roughly chopped (~3/4 cup)
15 g tomato paste (~1 tbsp)
150 ml Ticino Merlot (or other red wine) (~2/3 cup)
300 ml vegetable stock (~1.25 cups)
250 ml reserved porcini soaking liquid (~1 cup)
1 tsp fresh thyme (or 0.5 tsp dried)
1 tsp fresh rosemary, minced (or 0.5 tsp dried)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
Optional: grated Sbrinz or Parmesan cheese for garnish
Instructions
Polenta
Bring water (or milk) and salt to a boil in a large, heavy-bottomed pot.
Gradually whisk in polenta to prevent lumps. Reduce heat to low.
Stir frequently and cook for 30–40 minutes until thick and creamy (or follow quick-cook polenta package instructions for 5–10 minutes).
Stir in butter and half the cheese until melted.
Keep warm until ready to serve.
Porcini & Chestnut Ragù
Soak porcini mushrooms in 250 ml warm water for 20 minutes. Strain, reserving liquid (avoid grit). Roughly chop mushrooms.
Heat olive oil in a pan over medium heat. Sauté onion until soft and golden, about 6–8 minutes. Add garlic and cook for 1 minute.
Add chopped porcini and chestnuts. Cook for 2 minutes.
Stir in tomato paste and cook for 1 minute. Add wine and simmer until reduced by half, about 3 minutes.
Add vegetable stock, reserved porcini liquid, thyme, and rosemary. Simmer uncovered for 15–20 minutes until thickened.
Season with salt and pepper.
To Serve
7. Spoon polenta onto plates, top with ragù, and sprinkle with remaining cheese or optional Sbrinz/Parmesan garnish.
Tips
Use a heavy-bottomed pot for polenta to prevent sticking.
For richer polenta, replace some water with milk or add a splash of cream.
Notes
Stir polenta frequently to ensure a smooth texture.
The ragù can be made ahead and reheated before serving.
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