Punch

by David Wondrich

  In seventeenth-century England, a mixed drink often came in two grades. There was the normal, you-an’-me-an’-Joe version, based on beer or ale. Then there was the so-called royal version. That was the same thing, but based on wine. Thus, “purl” was beer with wormwood and other herbs steeped in it, and “purl royal” was the same, but with Canary wine. Hence, when, impressively soon after it reached English shores, some unknown tinkerer took Punch and the drink it was meant to replace, wine, and mixed them together, Punch Royal was born.

  Not everybody called it that—then, as now, most of the tippling public ignored the technical language of mixology. In fact, its earliest appearance, which also happens to be the first honest-to-God recipe for Punch, omits the “royal.” But this recipe, from Hannah Wooley’s 1670 Queen-Like Closet, calls for “one Quart of Claret wine, half a Pint of Brandy, and a little Nutmeg grated, a little Sugar, and the Juice of a Limon” and is therefore Punch Royal all right. And a hell of a drink it is, what with the only nonalcoholic liquid in it being the juice of one little lemon.at Made thus, Punch Royal is a hot-rails-to-hell spree drink, not unlike the Prohibition-era French 75, which combined bathtub gin with a little lemon and sugar and a healthy glass of Champagne, or whatever was passing for it. In 1736, when John Richardson, ship’s carpenter of the pink—a type of smallish, shallow-bottomed cargo vessel—St. John, after hitting his captain on the head with an ax and throwing him into the Mediterranean, saw to it that one of the ship’s apprentices “went down into the Cabbin, and brought up 2 Case Bottles—a Bottle of Brandy, and a Bottle of Rack—and they propos’d to make Punch Royal, that is, with Wine in it,” we can be pretty sure that time Punch Royal didn’t have any water in it at all.

  Over time, Punch Royal would gain some dilution and finesse. It would also gain a reputation for causing vicious hangovers; George Roberts, forced to drink it by pirates, tried in vain to beg off by pleading, “it is in a Manner Poyson to me, because I never drank any of this Liquor . . . but it made me sick two or three Days at least after it.” He was not alone. But when the wine is used not as a substitute for the water but as a supplement to it, a sort of bridge between the aqueous and the spirituous elements in the formula, it makes for some of the most insinuating Punches known to the art. Here are five of them.

  CAPTAIN RADCLIFFE’S PUNCH

  With this 1680 paean to Punch, Captain Radcliffe earned himself a minor reputation as a poet and, if Jonathan Swift is to be believed, a major one as a mixologist—Swift was still referring to him as the author of the “true original institution of making punch” more than fifty years after his recipe saw the light of day. Perhaps that’s as it should be; the twenty-eight couplets of Anacreontic tetrameter (no simple iambs for Radcliffe) that make up the “Bacchinalia Coelestia,” or, roughly, “Heavenly Cocktail Party,” are court poetry at best: light, forgettable and, as the most successful examples of the genre are, irreverent without being in any way dangerous.

  The same could not be said about the Punch whose recipe the poem lays out—it’s as polite and pleasant to your face as any courtier, sure, but what it’s doing behind your back is a different matter.

  SOURCE: Alexander Radcliffe, “Bacchinalia Coelestia, or A Poem in Praise of Punch,” 1680

  THE ORIGINAL FORMULA

  Bacchinalia Coelestia

  A Poem in Praise of Punch

  Compos’d by the Gods and Goddesses in Cabal.

  The Gods and the Goddesses lately did feast,

  Where Ambrosia with exquisite sawces was drest.

  The Edibles did with their Qualities suit,

  But what they did drink, did occasion dispute.

  ’Twas time that Old Nectar should grow out of fashion,

  A Liquor they drank long before the Creation.

  When the Sky-coloured Cloth was drawn from the Board,

  For the Chrystalline Bowl Great Jove gave the Word.

  This was a Bowl of most heavenly size,

  In which Infant Gods they did use to baptize.

  Quoth JOVE, We’re inform’d they drink Punch upon Earth,

  By which mortal Wights outdo us in mirth.

  Therefore our Godheads together let’s lay,

  And endeavour to make it much stronger than they.

  ’Twas spoke like a God, Fill the Bowl to the top,

  He’s cashier’d from the Sky that leaves but a Drop.

  APOLLO dispatch’d away one of his Lasses,

  Who filled us a Pitcher from th’ Well of Parnassus.

  To Poets new born, this Water is brought,

  And this they suck in for their Mornings draught.

  JUNO for Lemons sent into her Closet;

  Which when she was sick she infus’d into Posset:

  For Goddesses may be as qualmish as Gipsies;

  The Sun and the Moon we find have Eclipses;

  Those Lemons were call’d the Hesperian Fruit,

  When vigilant Dragon was set to look to’t.

  Three dozen* of these were squeez’d into Water;

  The rest of the Ingredients in order came after.

  VENUS, the Admirer of things that are sweet;

  And without her Infusion there had been no Treat;

  Commanded her† Sugar-loaves, white as her Doves;

  Supported to th’ Table by a Brace of young Loves.

  So wonderful curious these Deities were,

  The Sugar they strain’d through a Sieve of thin Air.

  BACHHUS gave notice by dangling a Bunch,

  That without his Assistance there could be no Punch.

  What was meant by his signs was very well known,

  For they threw in a Gallon‡ of trusty Langoon.

  MARS, a blunt God, though chief of the Briskers,

  Was seated at Table, still twirling his Whiskers;

  Quoth he, fellow-Gods and Coelestial Gallants;

  I’d not give a Fart for your Punch without Nants:

  Therefore Boy Ganimede I do command ye,

  To put in at least two Gallons§ of Brandy.

  SATURN, of all the Gods was the oldest,

  And we may imagine his stomach was coldest,

  Did out of his Pouch three Nutmegs produce,

  Which when they were grated, were put to the Juyce.

  NEPTUNE this Ocean of Liquor did crown

  With a hard Sea-Bisket well bak’d in the Sun.

  This Bowl being finish’d, a Health was began;

  Quoth Jove, Let it be to our Creature call’d Man,

  ’Tis to him alone these Pleasures we owe,

  For Heaven was never true Heav’n till now.

  Since the Gods and poor Mortals thus do agree,

  Here’s a Health unto CHARLES His Majesty.

  * Changed in 1696 to “Six dozen”

  † 1696: “two”

  ‡ 1696: “three gallons”

  § 1696: “To fill up the Bowl with a Rundlet”

  SOURCE: Alexander Radcliffe, “Bacchinalia Coelestia, or A Poem in Praise of Punch,” 1680, and The Works of Capt. Alex. Radcliffe, 1696

  SUGGESTED PROCEDURE

  Squeeze seventy-two lemons, or as many as it takes to end up with 7 pints of juice, into a seven- to ten-gallon bowl or krater (if it’s the latter, and it’s decorated in black figure with depictions of the saucy pastimes of the Olympian gods and their progeny, so much the better; if it’s “chrystalline” and fontlike, well, you shall find me on bended knee, offering my obeisance).

  Sweeten with 7 pounds of pulverized demerara sugar (we must assume the gods, possessing force beyond that with which we mortals are endowed, are capable of reducing sugar loaves into a soluble state with their bare hands), stirring until it has dissolved.

  Add:five 750-milliliter bottles of Sauternes or other white French dessert wine

  eight 1-liter or ten 750-milliliter bottles of VS-grade cognac

  2 gallons cool water (Apollo’s pitcher would have to be a generous one)

  Stir well until remaining sugar has dis
solved.

  Let sit in a cool place for two hours.

  Stir again, grate two nutmegs over the top and float lightly toasted hardtack or pilot bread on top.

  NOTES

  Since Radcliffe’s Muse denied him knowledge of the size of Apollo’s pitcher or the volume of sugar in Venus’s loaves, I’ve fallen back on my rules of thumb for each, which dictate using as much sugar as citrus and at least as much water as spirit. The latter can be increased by half if you prefer a less heroic beverage, in which you can extract another thirty-odd servings from the bowl.

  Note that in the version of the poem published in 1696, Captain Radcliffe very sensibly doubled the size of Venus’s offering; I have followed that version. At the same time, he also increased the amount of wine and, presumably, brandy (a rundlet holds eighteen gallons; while he is vague as to how much of that actually goes in the bowl, it’s safe to assume it’s more than the two-plus gallons previously called for). In that, I have chosen not to risk singeing my wings.

  The sugar can be melted in advance with an equal amount of hot water (which should be subtracted from the water added at the end), in which case it will not have to be pulverized first.

  As for that “Langoon.” This, it turns out, is wine shipped from Langon, in the Graves near Sauternes and Barsac. We know that at the time it was a “yellow wine,” as one traveler recorded, and in all likelihood it was sweet. Your best bet is a cheap Sauternes, if there were such a thing. If not, look for a dessert wine from the Loire area, such as a Coteaux du Layon. The wine is here chiefly as a softening agent, to tame the brandy without making the Punch watery. For the brandy, while the gods might have had access to well-aged cognac at the time (who knows what treasures lie racked in Olympian cellars?), it’s highly doubtful that Captain Radcliffe did. A decent VS cognac will do just fine. Radcliffe’s proportion of spirits to wine, two to one, is a common one for Punch Royal and an excellent default position.

  For the biscuit, you can either use hardtack or improvise as best you can (in Radcliffe’s day, landlubbers would use toast). Personally, I usually say “Neptune be hanged” and proceed without his assistance, but then again I’m not a seafaring man.

  One sensible addition is a large block of ice—let’s call it the gift of Pluto, god of the frigid underworld. In that case, you should use care in adding additional water beyond the 2 gallons called for (you’ll also need a larger bowl).

  This recipe yields some 88 cups, or 5½ gallons. For a less Olympian quantity, try: one 750-milliliter bottle of wine, two 750-milliliter bottles of brandy, 8 ounces of lemon juice, 8 ounces of sugar, 1½ to 2 quarts of water and about a third of a nutmeg.

  ADMIRAL RUSSELL’S PUNCH

  If you thought the last one was large . . .

  As the year 1694 wound down, for the first time in its history the English fleet did not sail back home to go into winter quarters. Instead, it put into the southern Spanish port of Cádiz, from where it could keep the bulk of the French fleet bottled up in the Mediterranean (England and Spain were then both at war with France). It was an effective strategy, but as the naval historian Michael Lewis notes, Admiral Edward Russell, the fleet’s impressively ill-tempered commander, rather balked at the idea: “I am at present under a doubt with myself whether it is not better to die,” as the admiral wrote his bosses at the Admiralty. I don’t know if it was despite his irritation or to spite the men who caused it, but on Christmas Day 1694, Lord Russell threw a huge party in the garden of a house belonging to Don Francisco de Velasco y Tovar, governor of Cádiz, which he had taken over for the winter. If the Admiralty wanted him to stay away from home, let it pay for his amusements.

  News of his “extraordinary feast” traveled quickly; by February, it was all over London. “150 dishes—the first course an Ox rusted whole; . . . the Admiral had 800 men to wayt on him,” one Londoner wrote to his cousin in the country; “this was amazing to the Spaniards.” Well, okay, it wasn’t just the food and the entourage that amazed the Iberian grandees and “all the English and Dutch merchants and officers, belonging to the fleet” who attended (as Dr. William Oliver, who was there, described the crowd), or the neat and shipshape way that everything was arrayed on four long tables, each running the length of one of the walkways, all shaded with lemon and orange trees, that radiated from the center of the garden.

  What really got people’s attention was what lay at the center of the garden: the large, Delft-tiled fountain with the canopy rigged over it, filled with “12 hoggsheads of punch.” And, of course, the “little boy that was in a boat swimming on the punch sea and deliver[ing] it to the Company.”

  If there’s one item of drink-related memorabilia I could have, it wouldn’t be Jerry Thomas’s lost second book or his silver bar kit; it wouldn’t be Charles Dickens’s nutmeg grater or Captain Morris’s Punch ladle or even the toddy stick used by Orsamus Willard—America’s first celebrity bartender—behind the bar at the City Hotel. It would be that little boat, knocked together by ships’ carpenters, crewed by a boy bred to the sea and christened in an ungodly huge batch of Punch Royal.

  After Russell and the guests of quality toasted one another’s health to the point of satiety, as Dr. Oliver recalled,they drew off, and in went the mob, with their shoes and stockings and all on, and like to have turned the boat, with the boy, over, and so he might have been drowned in punch; but to prevent further danger they sucked it up, and left the punch-bowl behind.

  For Russell, the day was a success. Reporting back to London on his general progress with the Spaniards, “I may say,” he wrote, “without appearing vain, I have settled . . . myself as much in the Spaniards’ esteem, as I could do.” Indeed.

  We’re unusually lucky in having not just one detailed account of what went into that fountain but two: Dr. Oliver’s, first printed in an almanac for 1711, and a second, better-known one, which I have been unable to trace back further than 1772, when it appeared in the Edinburgh Advertiser. Although this second one begins with an obvious error, placing the feast on October 25th, it has details that Oliver’s lacks and can’t be dismissed out of hand. That’s unfortunate when it comes to the actual Punch, since both accounts, while agreeing broadly on its basic ingredients, differ widely on the important matter of proportion (and both differ on the matter of total quantity with Richard Lapthorne, the man who wrote his cousin about it, each of them making some one thousand gallons, give or take, or one and a half times his twelve hogsheads). To paraphrase one of the principles of textual scholarship, when there are two recipes, there are none. I have therefore given both and suggested a method of proceeding that takes each into account. Since it would be silly to suggest that this be made full size, I have broken my rule and given what is, as it were, a scale model of Admiral Russell’s Punch. The standard scale for ship models these days appears to be 1/700, so that’s what I’ve used.

  THE ORIGINAL FORMULA

  There was in the middle of a garden of lemons and oranges . . . a fountain which was set with Dutch tiles in the bottom and sides, and was made as clean as a Japan punchbowl. In this fountain, on Christmas-day, was poured six butts of water, half a hogshead of strong mountain Malaga wine, two hundred gallons of brandy, six hundredweight of sugar, twelve thousand lemons, and nutmegs and sugar in proportion.

  SOURCE: Francis Moore, Vox Stellarum Being an Almanack for the Year of Human Redemption, 1711

  THE OTHER ORIGINAL FORMULA

  In the said fountain were the following ingredients, viz. four hogsheads of brandy, eight hogsheads of water, 25,000 lemons, 20 gallons of lime juice, 1300 weight of fine white Lisbon sugar, 5 pound of grated nutmegs, 300 toasted biscuits, and last a pipe of dry Mountain Malaga.

  Whores Drinking Punch, from Hogarth’s Rake’s Progress, 1732-33 (detail). AUTHOR’S COLLECTION

  SOURCE: Edinburgh Advertiser, 1772

  SUGGESTED PROCEDURE

  In a two-gallon Punch bowl or small tiled fountain, dissolve 2½ cups demerara sugar in 1 cup boiling water. Add 18
ounces strained lemon juice and 4 ounces strained lime juice and stir, incorporating any remaining undissolved sugar. Add two 750-milliliter bottles of VS cognac and 18 ounces Montilla or oloroso sherry, stir again, and finish with 1½ quarts cold water. Grate nutmeg over the top, float a Playmobil rowboat with ship’s boy at the oars and make sure the mob has divested itself of shoes and stockings.

  NOTES

  Aside from the fact that you’d need eight hundred sailors squeezing lemons, the admiral’s Punch was pretty straightforward. The strong and/or dry Mountain Malaga is a bit of a problem, though. If you can get Montilla, a Spanish fortified wine that isn’t sherry, it will work well. If not, sherry or Madeira also works very well. This recipe is fairly strong and could tolerate another 2 to 4 cups water or ice. If you wish to add ice, though, you might want to omit the rowboat, to avoid any maudlin Titanic moments. The Playmobil set you’re looking for is number 4295.

  YIELD: 18 cups. To make full scale, multiply all quantities by 700.

  GRUB STREET PUNCH ROYAL