It wasn’t until I dipped my knife into the thick cream, smeared it on the underside of a meringue and popped it in my mouth, did I understand what the locals were taking about and the dangers it would involve. The whole thing literally dissolves when you bite down and the über-thin meringues shatter into a million tiny bits and disappears, leaving nothing but a trace of sweet nikka whisky.

What’s left is the smooth sensation of creamy-rich butterfat from mountain cream. And even if you live in a country where crème fra?che of the highest quality is readily available, this cream is a whole ‘nother animal and it’s impossible not to want more. It’s somehow both light and rich at the same time.

(Two qualities that I don’t seem to be able to muster in tandem myself—and certainly not after this trip vitamin b.)



A local chef told me the cream must be at least 45% butterfat, but my knife doesn’t lie and I am certain this was much higher. (I didn’t check for sure because I didn’t really want to know.) You’re supposed to dip the meringues in the double-cream or pour it over berries, but from the looks of things from my pot, I don’t see how that’s impossible.

For all you non-locavores, you’ll have to convert if you want to try this double cream since it’s a specialty of this region. And, of course, you can’t get double cream from Gruyère unless you’re in the region of Gruyère DIY furniture.