My grandmother made mulled wine in a kitchen in Grand-Bornand, in a copper saucepan that dated back to her wedding in 1948. She never wrote it down, because to her it wasn't a recipe. It was a handful of gestures you learned by watching, in February, standing next to the sink, with a belt she would tie around your waist if your Sunday dress was a little short.
It took me thirty years to dare write it down. Here, for the first time, are her exact proportions — in the version I make every winter evening at the chalet.
Mulled wine — for 8 stemmed glasses.
- 1 bottleA red wine you already love. Not a grand cru. Not a bad one either. Savoie, Côtes du Rhône, Languedoc.
- 3Cinnamon sticks, whole, not ground.
- 4Cloves, pressed into the orange peel.
- 1Star anise, whole.
- 1Organic orange. The whole zest taken off with a vegetable peeler, the juice squeezed.
- 2 tbspFir honey from Les Avanchers. No sugar. Never white sugar.
- 1Pinch of black pepper. Optional, but my grandmother always added it.
The methodFour steps, and not one more.
Pour the wine into a heavy-bottomed saucepan — I swear by cast iron, copper works too, thin stainless steel gives a metallic taste. Set it over medium-low heat. While it warms up, prepare the orange: take off the whole zest, crush it lightly between your hands to release the oils, and press the cloves into it, the way you would stud a candy apple.
Add to the wine: the clove-studded zest, the cinnamon, the star anise, the squeezed orange juice. Cover. Let it heat very gently until the surface starts to quiver, without ever boiling. At the first quiver, turn off the heat, add the honey, stir.
Mulled wine that boils is mulled wine you've ruined. The alcohol evaporates, the spices go wild. What's left is a sweet juice nobody cares about. — My grandmother, around 1993
Leave it to steep, covered and off the heat, for thirty minutes. This is the step nobody takes, and it changes everything. During those thirty minutes, the tannins soften, the spices blend, the honey dissolves completely. Don't be tempted to serve it right away. Mulled wine is not a coffee.
Reheat gently before serving. Strain through a fine-mesh sieve. Serve very hot in stemmed glasses — never mugs, never cups. The curve of the glass carries the aroma.
What we serve with itEverything, or nothing.
At the chalet, the rule is simple. Mulled wine is served either with nothing (it stands on its own), or with a single accompaniment, chosen from three:
- A piece of tomme des Bauges on a bit of bread from Thomas, our baker neighbor. The bitterness of the tomme balances the sweetness of the wine. My grandmother's pairing, never questioned.
- A slice of orange spice bread, lightly toasted in the oven. A deliberate double dose of orange, which turns the glass into dessert.
- Nothing. Just the glass, your hands wrapped around it, the fireplace behind you, wool socks. That's the version I prefer.
Two mistakes to avoidThe ones you see everywhere.
Using a ready-made “mulled wine” mix.
Those Christmas-market sachets usually contain ground cinnamon, ground cloves, brown sugar and orange flavoring. It all floats in the wine in a cloudy haze, never infuses properly, and leaves that acrid bitterness that stings the palate the next day. Whole spices are not a whim. They infuse while staying whole.
Adding rum.
It's the temptation of boozy weekends. Dark rum, schnapps, fir liqueur: people add some “because it tastes better.” It doesn't taste better. It's just stronger. And mulled wine has never been a cocktail. It should rise slowly, in the throat and in the head — not hit you. If you want more alcohol, pour in a little white port at the end. Never more than two centiliters per glass.
The last secretThe one I tell no one.
In her mulled wine on frosty nights, my grandmother added a fresh bay leaf. Just one. She never explained it. I never saw her teach it to anyone but me. She used to say: “This will be your own trick, Louise.”
So I'm giving it to you. One bay leaf, added with the other spices. It brings a green, slightly camphor-like aftertaste that you don't recognize right away. People taste, frown, taste a second time, smile. They always ask “what did you put in it?” I used to answer “family secret,” just like her.
It's not a secret anymore. Now you know. And perhaps one winter evening, in your own kitchen or in ours, you'll try the bay leaf. If a guest asks what you put in it, you're allowed to answer “family secret.” It has become a little bit yours now.
