There’s a decanter in my larder, fluted and fancy. It glows golden amber with quince ratafia, liquid paradise. Ratafia? A fancy name for a pretty basic tincture. Rather 18th century. Old school. Very old school. My dependable (old school) Chambers Dictionary says the etymology of the word is ‘doubtful’ but possibly French. Its history is certainly confused and confusing. Chambers says it’s a flavouring essence made with essential oil of almond; a cordial or liqueur flavoured with fruit-kernels; an almond biscuit or cake.’
On the other hand, according to the peerless Jane Grigson, ‘to the small wine growers of the Loire…there is only one fruit brandy deserving of the name ratafia. Inevitably it is made from that fruit of fruits ,the grape, when it's cold, sweet juice pours from the pressers in an opaque purple stream’ and she got on to detail the process, why’s and wherefores. She ends ‘Of all the ratafias it tastes the freshest and most invigorating’.
Well, that’s as may be. She goes on to list several different ‘ratafias’ – orange, red fruit and quince. For me the quince is tops, whatever the small wine growers of the Loire may say. As Ms Grigson observes, anything made with quinces is bound to be wonderful. I maintain you could cook an (Old School) telephone directory with quinces and you’d would it down with delight. After all, quinces were a favourite of Sir Isaac Newton and he even left us a recipe for Balked Quinces, that is very delicious.
But before we get to the eating or turning into ratafia, let’s spend a minute or so on the quince tree. Digging around for its history and botanical roots, I was surprised to learn that it belongs to the rose family. My quince tree is quite small, three or so metres tall, but bullheaded as fits my garden; handsome rather than beautiful; with large spade-like leaves, green grey in colour. It has a generous, gentle feel to it.
Each spring I wonder at the pale pink blossoms and later seek anxiously for a sight of the nub-like infant fruits tucked away among the leaves, and invariably come away apprehensive as there seem to be so few of them. And then, come October there they are, mighty golden globes glowing among the branches, so calm and beautiful, the epitome of Keats season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. You can easily believe they are indeed the Golden Apples of the Hesperides. After all, they originated not far away in the Caucasus.
There are several varieties of quinces to grow in your garden including the old standard Meech’s Prolific, Vranja, Siberian Gold and Rae’s Mammoth Quince. These are not to be mistaken for the decorative Japanese quince that produces small, apple shaped fruits that makes a decent jelly in their own right but are best for brightening up a garden wall in early spring.
While they’re so beautiful to look on, you’d be ill advised to eat them raw, unless you have a taste for chewing MDF. Quinces need cooking if you’re going to eat them. But cooked they have an almost unparalleled versatility. Bake them with sugar and butter in the Sir Isaac Newton manner, and douse them in cream, and you’ll have a seductive pudding; grate them and stew them with honey, and you can make splendid tart; stew them, sieve them and reduce the pup and you’ll have quince cheese (aka membrillo); cook them to a pulp, drain them through muslin and cooked the juice down further, and you’ll have a sparkling jelly.
But best of all, in my view, is the quince ratafia, to be sipped by the fire in deep winter, warm without and warm within, to remind yourself of the the golden days of autumn.
How to make quince ratafia
This inestimable elixir is the acme of simplicity to make and requires little other than patience. I make two versions, one with vodka and the other with brown rum. The vodka produces a cleaner, sharper drink. The flavour profile of the rum sits easier with the quince and produces a richer, more voluptuous tipple. You make them both the same way.
- 1 kg quinces (approximately three quinces)
- 300g caster sugar
- 150g whole, unblanched almonds in their skins
- 70cl Lambs Dark Navy Rum (or equivalent of vodka)
Wash the quinces. Do not peel. Grate the quinces (this is much easier if you have a grating attachment for your food processor, because quinces are dense and tough).
Mix the grated quince and the caster sugar together thoroughly. Put the almonds into a large glass jar. Put the grated quince and sugar on top. Pour in the rum or vodka. Put the top on the far and hide away in a cool, dark place for at least 3 months (up to 6 if you wait that long).
Decant the gold amber juice through a fine sieve into whatever glass container catches your fancy. Drink at your leisure.
N.B. You can always add spices such as cinnamon, ginger, mace and allspice if you want, but that comes between me and the purity of the quince flavouring in my view.
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