Mulled wine is synonymous with this time of year, but punch is a more festive tipple, argues Mr Richard Godwin.

Anyone who has attempted to eat his sister’s Body Shop products will tell you that some things smell a lot better than they taste. Peppermint foot lotion. Freshly cut grass. Petrol. And mulled wine. Yes, I’m afraid, we must place mulled wine, that ubiquitous lubricator of festive gatherings, in this company.

How tempted you are when your host approaches you, wreathed in wine fumes, sugar, cinnamon and orange. And how regrettable that first sip invariably is: over-sweet, over-spiced, made with £2.99 Château du Migraine and always accompanied by an instant hangover.

It is particularly disappointing that mulled wine is so popular in Britain given that it is a) continental in origin and b) we have hundreds and hundreds of superior alternatives expressly designed to compensate for our rain-lashed climate. Our 18th-century forbears couldn’t get enough purls (wormwood ales), dog’s noses (porter and stout), bishops (wine, oranges and sugar) and flips (rum, ale, eggs and sugar). But best of all is a good strong rum punch, which predates the oldest cocktail by a couple of centuries at least. It’s what Mary Poppins drinks. It also occasioned some of Mr Charles Dickens’ loveliest winter scenes. (From The Pickwick Papers: “Hot punch is a pleasant thing, gentlemen – an extremely pleasant thing under any circumstances – but in that snug old parlour, before the roaring fire, with the wind blowing outside till every timber in the old house creaked again, Tom Smart found it perfectly delightful”). And it tastes just as good as it smells.

To most people, “punch” simply means a random selection of low-grade alcohols in a washing-up bowl. But at the best 18th-century gatherings, the “flowing bowl” would have taken pride of place, usually served at room temperature or, better, warmed by a poker straight from the fire. Mr Jerry Thomas lists numerous punch recipes in his Bon Vivant’s Companion of 1862, including this for a flaming tea punch: half a pint of brandy, half a pint of rum, a quarter pound of sugar and the juice of a large lemon – set aflame and pour in a quart of finest green tea.

Punch originally comes from India and came to Europe via traders and then onto the West Indian sugar and rum plantations, hence planter’s punch. The word comes from the Hindi panch, which means five, and refers to the five elements: sourness, sweetness, alcohol, dilution and spice. Traditionally, the sourness would have come from lemons or limes and the sweetness from sugar, liqueurs and/or oleo saccharum, aka the delicious sherbet you get when you combine bitter citrus peel and sugar. The alcohol was originally arrack (made from distilled rice and pretty rough), but rum became more common, often with a little brandy for added finesse. The dilution came from water or tea, which adds a note of bitterness as well as a gentle caffeine kick. You can equally lengthen a punch with fruit juice, beer, cider or wine. As a finishing touch, you might add fresh nutmeg, cinnamon, star anise or vanilla. But balance is key. Neither the sour, sweet, alcohol, dilution nor spice should dominate. The old rhyme “one of sour, two of sweet, three of strong, four of weak” is a good guide if you’re in a tight spot.

Here is a classic recipe, which you can adapt to your heart’s content. Be warned: punch making is excessively fun and even rather addictive.

2 lemons 2 oranges 250g brown sugar 700ml dark rum, ideally Jamaican 250ml brandy, ideally cognac Cinammon, cardamon, star anise, nutmeg 1 litre freshly brewed black tea

Prepare some good-quality loose-leaf tea in a proper teapot and set aside, remembering to remove the tea leaves after three minutes or so. There’s nothing worse than stewed tea, except, perhaps, stewed punch.

Peel the oranges and lemons, taking care to avoid the white pith. Add the peel to the bottom of a cast-iron pan and pound together with the sugar until the citrus oil is absorbed. This is your oleo saccharum. (If you’re extra organized you might do this a few hours in advance.)

Add your spirits and spices and gently warm the pan on the hob before setting the whole thing on fire. The safest way to do this is to take a ladleful of alcohol out of the pan, set this on fire, then gently pour it back in. At this point you might want to parade the flaming elixir in front of your guests, who will be tremendously impressed.

After a couple of minutes, place a lid on top of the pan to extinguish the flame, otherwise too much alcohol will burn off.

Give it a bit of a stir so that all the sugar dissolves. Remove the citrus peel or it will become too bitter.

Gradually add the tea, tasting the mixture now and then to gauge its strength and balance. You probably won’t need all the tea.

Once it is nicely poised between sweetness, strength and quaffability, squeeze in the juice of one of the lemons. Don’t add too much! Punch should be rounded, like a good wine, rather than tart like lemonade. If it needs a little more “middle”, you might add the juice from an orange, too.

Transfer to an attractive punchbowl, if you wish, and garnish with a few additional lemon and orange slices and a grating of fresh nutmeg. Serve it in teacups or wine glasses.

Use this as a jumping-off point. Limes for lemons. Gin for rum. Or use multiple kinds of rum. You might sub a little of the sugar out for a warming liqueur (Cointreau, Grand Marnier, Benedictine, cherry brandy, King’s Ginger). You might prefer to use green tea in place of black or some sort of chai or herbal arrangement. Dry cider is particularly good, too. It’s fun to add fresh pineapple at the flaming stage, which caramelises beautifully. Lastly, Angostura bitters, and perhaps even the merest drop of absinthe, are rarely a bad idea.

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