Little Malice wrote:

It was good, but I don't care for the taste of Cheez Whiz. I'm
thinking of subsituting real American cheese, but how much? Cheez
Whiz is measured by volume, but cheese is measured by weight. Any
suggestions? I don't want to overdo it.

I do not like the idea of Cheez Whiz in anything, but particularly not
in fondue. I'd make it the way the Swiss do. Here is a nice, foolproof
recipe I posted before. It is a good story, too. It is from _Cooking
with Pomiane_ by Edouard de Pomiane. If you cannot find potato flour,
try using cornstarch instead.

Victor

The real fondue is made in Switzerland. I saw it made in Geneva in my
early youth by a specialist well known to all the inhabitants of those
days. The called her La Mère Tant Pis. She died many years ago, may
God rest her soul. And may our gratitude be wafted up to her together
with the delicious smell of the fondue which I am about to make for you,
using:

14 ozs Gruyère of really good quality, 1/2 pint very dry white
wine, a liqueur glass Kirsch, 1/2 teaspoon potato flour, a
grating of nutmeg, freshly-ground white pepper.

To prepare the fondue I use a small earthenware dish with a handle,
measuring about six inches across. In Geneva this is called a câclon.
I shall prepare the fondue in the kitchen, beating it with a small
wire whisk. In the dining room I have already laid the table for four.
In the middle of it there is a hot-plate. In front of each guest is a
soup plate containing about 20 pieces of stale bread, each fairly thick,
but small enough to be eaten in one mouthful. Beside each plate, a fork
and a glass.
Now, back to the fondue. First I rub the inside of my câclon with a
clove of garlic to perfume it. Then I cut the cheese into tiny pieces.
(I never grate it. That would be a sacrilege, I gather.)
I put the câclon on a medium heat, pour in the white wine, turn the
pepper mill five times over it and add all the cheese. The wine boils
and I begin to beat the mixture. I whisk it for 8 to 10 minutes.
Gradually the cheese melts and the wine begins to turn milky, but the
result is not encouraging. The cheese forms a mass in the middle of the
câclon and the wine remains obstinately separate. This is the moment to
use the potato flour.
I lift the câclon from the fire, just long enough to mix the potato
flour with a little cold white wine to a milky consistency. I put the
câclon back on the fire and pour in the creamed flour little by little,
beating all the time. Gradually the mixture thickens and the wine mixes
with the cheese. Then I add all the Kirsch and continue to beat. The
fondue is reaching its final texture. I let it boil for a minute,
beating all the time. I taste it. The flavour of alcohol is too
strong. I beat it again and go on beating for 4 minutes more. I taste
it again - delicious.
The fondue is superb. It is smooth and smells wonderful. I carry it
into the dining room and set it on the hot-plate. I adjust the flame so
that the fondue is just bubbling.
My three guests and I sit down, each with our plate and a glass of
very cold white wine.
Each of us carries out the same ritual. I spear a piece of bread
with my fork and dip it into the câclon, turning it so that it is
covered with melted cheese. Does the cheese run? No, a good fondue
should never run.
I open my mouth and savour the first mouthful. It is hot. It is
delicious. I drink some white wine.
All four of us continue in the same rhythm. Suddenly, a catastrophe.
My neighbour has let his bread fall into the câclon. His fork emerges
empty. He must pay a penalty - the second bottle of wine! "Never
mind", as La Mère Tant Pis said. From that moment I can assure you that
we are all very careful.
The câclon is empty, all but a crust of fondue. I remove this crust
with the point of a knife. It is for the guest of honour.
Round the edges of the câclon there is some dry, crisp cheese. This
is called the dentelle, and it is my particular share. I have earned
this lacy crust since I have taught you how to make fondue like La Mère
Tant Pis.