Ah, tis the time of year when we all make merry, imbibing with mirth and merriment for the holidays ahead. My folks loved Christmas and imbued our home with a sense of wonder. There were strict adherences, such as the tree going up in the last few days before Christmas so the needles of the fir were fresh and still scented. Each day another net of oranges and clementines was added to bowls and baskets already brimming with fruit, and Mum would be found in the kitchen rolling pastry for pies or icing a cake.
And golly it was cold. Being brought up on the east coast of Scotland, just outside Dundee but still within sight of the great estuary of the river Tay as it flows out to the North Sea, we were inured to the cold, and Dad found as much use as he did humour in leaving wine to chill outside the kitchen door. The sight of him pulling a gold-foiled neck from a frozen bucket full of bottles of wine became something of a tradition; he wrapped up warm and dashed outside on Christmas morning to bring in a bottle left chilling through the night of a freezing cold Christmas Eve. There was never room to host a bottle of fizz inside, the fridge being packed to the gunwales with a great turkey at its centre.
As errant teenagers, it was deemed appropriate for us to have a drink, too. Instead of champagne which, it was true, we may not have appreciated, a sparkling wine would appear, a cremant from the Loire or from Burgundy. I enjoy them still, very much. The wine was poured on to freshly squeezed orange juice and we toasted the day with Buck’s Fizz, the drink “de nos jours” back then — once served at many a gathering, but rarely seen now.
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Perhaps it is more respectful to imbibe a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, with blood oranges even better, and enjoy a good champagne unadulterated unless in a cocktail, which is altogether another story, and one better told of an evening. Or even, in Gascon tradition, a Pousse Rapière, which delights in champagne and armagnac.
I remember once being offered a glass of kir royale in Dijon and being amazed at the deep indigo-coloured glass proffered. A kir in Blighty had but a subtle blush; this had the colour of imperial velvet and quite perturbed the gathered assembly before dinner. I happily scooped up a few that were politely declined.
My Dad pulling a gold-foiled bottle from a frozen bucket full of wine became something of a tradition
Over the years, my preference for simplicity grew with cooking as well as imbibing. A glass of perfectly chilled champagne requires no embellishment — or as Madame Arcati says to Charles Condomine in Noël Coward’s delightful play, Blithe Spirit: “If it’s a dry martini, yes, if it’s a concoction, no. Experience has taught me to be very wary of concoctions.”
There is always a thrill in seeing a white napkin tied around the foiled neck of a dark bottle in a shiny bucket brimming with ice. An elegant removing of the foil and the gentlest agitating of the cork pulled with just the merest sigh escaping adds such a sense of occasion to any gathering and celebration.
I have a fond memory of a vintage champagne, an old bottle of Bollinger that had a neck so slender the cork, when pulled, made no noise at all — it was a thimble in comparison to the more familiar-sized bung. The wine was exceptional and the colour glowed in candlelight as a delicate mousse rose in tiny bubbles to the surface of each glass, a rare treat indeed.
A young Jeremy with his mother
Jeremy Lee
A recipe to warm the soul
A great early Christmas treat was elevenses at St John, with a slice of madeira cake accompanying a glass of madeira wine. One time, I asked if there were any Eccles cakes ready and if such were the case, might I have one with a slice of Lancashire to accompany the glass? This made for a joyous trinity, rather fitting for Christmas.
Fergus Henderson would then suggest — as noon was approaching, and as a foil for the sweetness enjoyed — a glass of champagne before lunch. Who could refuse such a lovely thought? A very good lunch was concluded with a Dr Henderson; glasses of the curious iced brew of crème de menthe and Fernet Branca were duly despatched. The restorative powers of this drink created by Fergus’s father are miraculous. Just beware, lest the cure become the cause.
I recalled the teenager I once was, desperate to be grown-up and sophisticated, asking for a crème de menthe frappé when a very dear friend who hosted our family one New Year’s Eve enquired what would I like to drink. I found myself marvelling as ice was ground in a natty little device then spooned into a pretty glass into which was poured the jewel-bright liqueur. Ah, I will never forget the laugh he gave on passing me this sparkling glass. Such fun. Little did I think then I would be enjoying the same drink years later with such a prescribed augmentation.
Such thoughts and memories hover close by and often prompt a smile. A good glass of something delicious warms and nourishes the soul and most certainly encourages tucking in at the table, whether it be a plate of cheese or a great feast celebrating a gathering of friends and family. Merry Christmas one and all.