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Created by Chef Thomas
A pan of red wine warmed slowly with honey, citrus and winter spices. The drink you make when the kitchen window fogs over and people are walking up the path in scarves.
There's a smell that belongs to the second half of December, and this is it. Red wine warming on the hob with orange peel, cloves and cinnamon, the kitchen window fogging over, something soft playing in another room. You don't need an occasion. You need the cold outside and a few people you like.
Mulled wine has a reputation it doesn't quite deserve. Too often it's made from whatever red was going cheap, boiled to within an inch of its life, and dosed with so much sugar it tastes of nothing but. That's not this. This is gentler, closer to a spiced warmth than a hot pudding. Use a wine you'd happily drink on its own. Nothing grand, just honest. And keep the heat low, always low. Boiling wine is a small act of vandalism.
The trick, if there is one, is to make a little syrup first. Peel and spice and honey cooked together in a splash of wine until they know each other, then the rest of the bottle added and warmed through. It takes five extra minutes and it's the difference between mulled wine and mulled wine.
I wrote it down in the notebook years ago and the note says: "First one of the year. Thursday. Everyone stayed longer than they meant to." That's about right. There are few better feelings than putting a warm glass in someone's hand when they've come in out of the rain.
Quantity
1 bottle (750ml)
something you'd happily drink on its own
Quantity
1
peel pared in strips, then juiced
Quantity
1
peel pared in strips
Quantity
3 tablespoons, plus more to taste
Quantity
2
Quantity
6
Quantity
3
Quantity
1
Quantity
a few gratings
Quantity
1 thumb
sliced
Quantity
50ml
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| medium-bodied red winesomething you'd happily drink on its own | 1 bottle (750ml) |
| unwaxed orangepeel pared in strips, then juiced | 1 |
| unwaxed lemonpeel pared in strips | 1 |
| runny honey | 3 tablespoons, plus more to taste |
| cinnamon sticks | 2 |
| whole cloves | 6 |
| star anise | 3 |
| bay leaf | 1 |
| fresh nutmeg | a few gratings |
| fresh gingersliced | 1 thumb |
| brandy or port (optional) | 50ml |
Pare the peel from the orange and lemon in wide strips, avoiding the bitter white pith underneath. Put the peels into a heavy-bottomed saucepan with the honey, the cinnamon sticks, cloves, star anise, bay leaf, ginger and a generous grating of nutmeg. Pour in just enough of the wine to cover everything, maybe a large glassful.
Bring the pan to a gentle simmer over a medium heat. Let it bubble quietly for about five minutes, until the honey has dissolved and the kitchen starts to smell like Christmas whether you're ready or not. Don't let it boil hard. You're not cooking it off, you're coaxing the spices open.
Pour in the remaining wine along with the juice of the orange. Keep the heat low. The goal is to warm it through, never to simmer it properly. You want a few thin wisps of movement at the surface and nothing more. Boiling red wine turns sour and tired and you can't bring it back.
Let the wine sit on the lowest possible heat for fifteen to twenty minutes, so the spices have time to give everything they've got. Taste it. If it needs more honey, add more. If it's too sweet, squeeze in a bit more lemon. This is where a recipe stops being a recipe and becomes whatever suits the people you're making it for.
If you're using brandy or port, stir it in right at the end, off the heat, so the alcohol stays honest. Ladle into heatproof glasses or small mugs, making sure each one gets a piece of peel or a star anise, for the look of the thing. Hand them round as people come in from the cold, preferably still in their coats.
1 serving (about 140g)
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