The Exchange: David Wondrich on Punch

David Wondrich, mixologist, historian, and author of the James Beard Award-winning “Imbibe!,” has a delightful new book out called “Punch: The Delights (and Dangers) of the Holiday Bowl.” It’s getting to be that point in the holiday season when one’s liver seems to recoil at the mere mention of the next cocktail party, and yet this book might be just the thing to keep us all in the mood for merriment. Wondrich offers this argument in favor of punch over other poisons you might be likely to consume:

The Cocktail is an unforgiving drink, with a very narrow margin of safety. Two Martinis and you’re fine; three and you’re boarding the red-eye to Drunkistan. The little glasses of Punch—the traditional serving is about a sherry glass full; just a couple of ounces—mount up, to be sure, but it’s easy to pull back before you’ve gone too far. Whatever their octane, though, there’s something particularly exhilarating to drinks based on distilled spirits, and Punch will always share that.

[#image: /photos/590953ab019dfc3494e9e479]I should clarify, also, that the punch Wondrich is talking about is not what you’re remembering from college: not, as he writes, “the stuff sluiced around at fraternity mixers—several 1.75-liter handles of whatever hooch is the cheapest, diluted with a random array of sodas and ersatz juices and ladled elegantly forth from a plastic trash can.” Rather, this is a book filled with recipes from punch’s heyday—back when sailors worried about scurvy, when alcohol content was calculated by weight (not by volume, as it is today), and when English spelling was not yet standardized (making the recipes a joy to read). Wondrich offers a lively, fascinating history of punch, as well as detailed advice for those who might want to bring the “flowing bowl” into their repertoire of party drinks. He even reveals his favorite proportions (“One of sour, one of sweet, / Four of strong and six of weak”) and an explanation of how to prepare the intimidating “oleo-saccharum”—that fragrant mixture of citrus oil and sugar that gives punch its “ambrosial essence.”

Wondrich is a tremendously witty writer (his description of a sleepless night induced by a highly caffeinated bowl of tea punch had me laughing aloud) and it’s clear that he’s spent a lot of time thinking about drinks, people, and how they interact at parties. Reading the book, I found myself eager to try my hand at making punch, and thought to e-mail Wondrich for some pointers. An edited version of our exchange appears below.

Punch predates the cocktail by a good bit, and you warn against thinking of punch as simply a “bowl-sized cocktail.” Can you elaborate on that idea? How can we banish the cocktail from our twenty-first century minds?

We expect a cocktail to be big and bold and concentrated in flavor. If you make a punch with the same intensity, it gets pretty cloying over time. The whole idea with punch is that it should be a little—well, not bland, but definitely subtle. You want your guests to be able to drink it to the bottom of the bowl. The best way to banish that cocktail expectation, I find, is to give people a real bowl of classic punch and let them work their way through it.

Can you say a little bit more about the relationship between punch and class? Do you think it has some kind of inherently democratic appeal (because everyone is drinking from the same bowl)?

Punch began as a sailors’ drink, where everyone onboard—officers and ordinary seamen alike—would partake together. It didn’t always exercise that equalizing force, but it’s inherent in the format. A bowl of punch is a group effort, and people who choose not to partake find themselves at odds with the community. Most will put aside their standoffish ways and join in, but if they can’t or won’t, the nice thing is that nobody cares: all the more punch for us.

I was excited to see Charles Dickens’s punch recipe (this is a books blog, after all), though the prospect of lighting all of that sugar on fire makes me nervous. If I try it, am I likely to burn down my (very small) apartment? Did you come across any other authors’ recipes?

If you put a trivet under your bowl and remove all overhanging seasonal tinsel or Havishamesque cobwebs, you should be fine. I did come across Tennyson’s formula for Scotch whisky and claret punch. Not good. Not good at all.

You didn’t include wassails or egg nogs in the book, but are there any punch recipes that seem particularly appropriate for Christmastime?

Admiral Russell’s punch was first served on Christmas Day, 1694, and is delicious, although you might want to make less than the original 1200 gallons, unless you’re expecting a lot of people. Punschglÿhbowl, another flaming one, this time from Germany, is a good one, too. In fact, I make it every year. There’s something about fire when it’s cold and dark out that’s very appealing. Or maybe that’s just me. Blackwood’s Hot Whisky punch is also mighty appealing.

Which of the historical recipes would be easiest for a beginner to try? Anything we might feel reasonably confident about making for guests?

I tried to include a number of simpler ones among the exotica. Ruby Punch, with port wine and arrack, is simple and delightful if you can get the arrack. Glasgow Punch (based, oddly enough, on rum, not whisky) is not only delightful, but cheap as well. But most of the punches are actually pretty simple to make, once you assemble the ingredients. Even those are far easier to scrape together than the kind of things you’re seeing used in cocktail bars these days. And as for confidence, since you’re making the punch before anyone shows up the stress level is far lower than making cocktails for your guests.

I like the way you write about the ritual of punch—and the image of everyone huddled around the bowl as the center of conversation. I’d also never thought of the fact that a bowl of punch weakens over time—and what a lucky thing that is. For these reasons alone, punch seems like the ideal party drink. Is there even a close second?

Well, champagne. Although champagne parties are, if anything, more lethal than punch ones. But champagne has that same combination of festivity and drinkability, although without that salutary weakening and with added hangover-intensifiers.

You write about punch’s sometimes sneakily intoxicating effect. ’Tis the season for boozy merriment, but we don’t like to embarrass ourselves. Any strategies for realizing when it’s time to step away from the punch bowl?

I wish! Seriously, though, since punch is weaker than cocktails you generally get a little bit of time in which to determinedly ignore the warning signs before you find yourself befuddled.

For more recommendations in booze-related reading, consult our Holiday Gift Guide.