"It's a Raclette dinner," trilled the hostess over the hors d'oeuvres. She pronounced it "rucklit", stumbling over the word a little breathlessly. "I got it on my last trip to Geneva." The guests nodded politely. Rucklit? Of course. What a splendid idea!

On the table sat a mystifying machine holding eight little saucepans, bubbling with slabs of melting raclette cheese. Around it were the "accoutrements" -- crusty French bread, sauted baby potatoes and broccoli fleurettes -- professionally arranged on silver platters.

Everyone was handed a little wooden spatula and instructed to tip the runny cheese onto their plates. "All purely vegetarian," beamed the herbivorous Malabar Hill memsahib, blissfully unaware that her piece de resistance was made from the insides of a suckling lamb. "My neighbour upstairs makes the most divine blue cheese sauce. And I simply adore these French cheeses. Last week we went for a fondue party."

Mon dieu. Time was when blue cheese was the stuff that came out of a blue Amul tin, bunged between slices of buttered bread. "Today cheese has become a barometer of social mobility," says Jehangir Lawyer of the Mumbai-based Fortune Foods, which markets exotic Italian varieties like Kwark, smoked Scamorza and Mascarpone to clients who know their Edam from their Ementhal. Not exactly peanuts at Rs 320 for a 250 gm pack, but even in the middle of a recession business is brisk. The upshot? All over urban India, trendy young Gujarati and Punjabi hausfraus have thrown themselves into the fondue party circuit, and every new art show or boutique opens with a wine-and-cheese soiree. "A couple of years ago, if you put a sharp cheddar on the table, no one would touch it," says caterer Alwyn Fernandes. "Now people are either self-styled connoisseurs or curious amateurs. No one wants to be left out."

In Delhi, cheese platters are the new namkeen and domestic chefs are experimenting with Camembert souffle . "It's becoming fashionable to stick a cheese knife into a ripe Gouda and put it on your coffee table," grins Kuldip Shenker who owns the popular Steak House delicatessen in Delhi. He sources most of his stuff from dairies across the country -- Pune, Kodaikanal, even Sikkim and Hissar -- and does readymade platters "for those who can't put one together". But true blue varieties are all imported. And priced at Rs 1,500 a kilo. Average turnover on weekends: Rs 28,000 from cheese alone.

The trend is fast spreading to smaller metros. In Pune, the Swiss Cheese Garden, a charming little chalet restaurant in fashionable Koregaon Park, offers "Rosti" -- farmers goulash with authentic blue cheese sauce -- to adventurous locals who have never been abroad. And in Bangalore, a trendy little eatery called Sunny's, run by theatre personality Arjun Sajnani, consumes 30 kilos of mozzarella, ricotta and parmesan every day for a menu packed with pasta, lasagna and tiramisu. But the dish that has virtually spawned the revolution is the humble Italian pizza, in its many Indian avatars. After all, even a Jain pizza can do with a dollop of melting mozzarella.

What's more, people are discovering natural cheeses which are organically cultured in dairies, says Pune-based Sohrab Chinoy. He churns out 6,000 kilos every day, making over 50 varieties (including rockeforte, stilton, gorgonzola and brie) at his sprawling ABC Farms. While many natural cheeses are made from an animal enzyme called renate, Chinoy was the first to experiment with plant renates in a largely vegetarian country.

Last year he organised a Cheese Festival -- and got over 1,000 people to sample his gourmet repertoire, free of charge. "Most of them were housewives and college students who had never ventured beyond Kraft slices," says the pioneering gentleman who markets his products all over the country. "But they left with packets of mozzarella and boursin in their shopping bags. Now I want Pune to be the cheese capital of India."

Meanwhile, as demand grows, so does the competition. In Delhi, production at Flanders Dairy Products zoomed from a mere 250 kg a day in 1996 to almost 750 kg within the year. It makes low fat parmesan, mellow romano, stringy mozzarella and thin creamy kwark, among others. "Cheese is a lifestyle product with an acquired taste," says Vice-President Neelu Jaggi. As more and more Indians travel abroad, they -- well -- acquire it.

There are other, less known "fromageries" at remoter addresses. In Kalimpong, Daniel Yonzan makes over 1,000 kg of Ementhal and Gruyere -- chief ingredients in the classic fondue -- every single day for the Bangalore market. And at Dentam village in Sikkim, an Indo-Swiss joint venture has recently set up a plant that will manufacture three tons of pure Gouda cheese every month for the Delhi market.

While the elite graze on exotic organic varieties, there is a revolution taking place in the mass market. Good old Amul, which commands a 60 per cent marketshare, has trashed its amorphous blue-tinned formula and is concentrating on swankier slices and spreads. "The demand for processed cheese is growing at 25 per cent every year," says Pavan Malik, senior vice-president of Britannia Industries, which plunged into the dairy business in 1997. Indeed, Indians are expected to consume cheese worth Rs 200 crore this year. That figure could double in two years. No wonder the Bangalore-based boulangers have diversified from sliced bread to sliced cheese, tinned cheddar and flavoured spreads.

Other companies have also recognised this cash cow. Last year, French cheese manufacturer Bongrain tied up with Dabur to market its famed Le Bon range of processed cheese. Its USP: healthy, wholesome, 100 per cent vegetarian cheese with an authentic French flavour, an anachronism that would probably make the average Gaul gag on his Camembert.

Smaller manufacturers are not to be left behind. "We have to mould ourselves to the market," says Harish Sabhani of the Saurashtra Shuddha Ghee Syndicate, a Mumbai-based family enterprise that switched to making flavoured slices after three generations of churning out desi ghee. Cheesy perhaps. But no one's complaining.

-- Farah Baria