Our Christmas Cookbook - 3. Fire Punch

Fire Punch

by Aditus

Jim leaned down to check himself in the mirror over the sink and tested his smile. He grimaced. “Nah, too tentative.” Maybe he could manage a little more enthusiasm and eagerness? The next attempt was even more cringe worthy. “Fuck!” He sighed, flipped the collar of his white dress shirt up, and began to tie the silken stripe hanging around his neck into an artful bow tie. “There. Thanks, Dad.”

Behind him, Lee entered the bathroom, already in his pajamas, and gazed up and down Jim’s body, stopping at his face. “You look perfect, love.” He kissed him on his left cheek.

Jim pressed himself against his boyfriend for a short moment. “Thank you. I should probably feel honored for being the cherry—”

Lee snorted. Jim rolled his eyes at his boyfriend’s antics. “—on top of the boss’s cake.”

“You probably should, especially as you are to present your famous fire punch performance in the sacred halls of his exclusive gentlemen club.”

Jim’s phone buzzed. “That’s my Uber.” He went to their bedroom, slipped into his suit jacket, and grabbed his heavy winter coat. “I wish I could stay home with you.”

The car stopped at the back entrance of an impressive mansion. Jim thanked the driver, pushed open the door, and ran towards the former servants’ entrance through the thickly falling snow and knocked. Immediately a tall, thin man wearing a black suit yanked the door wide open. “Mr. Wagner, perfect timing; we are about to serve the first course. Please follow me to the kitchen, if you would.”

“Of course.” Jim had to run to not lose sight of the guy.

“Chef is not happy about your presence in his kitchen. We prepared a quiet spot for you, as far out of his way as possible.”

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

They had reached the entrance of ordered chaos. A man wearing a chef’s hat glared at Jim before he dressed down a poor guy for incinerating the scallops. To Jim’s eyes, they looked perfect, but what did he know about ‘cuisine’. He sidestepped around a guy carrying a huge pot, only to slip on something slimy. Immediately someone rushed over to mop up the mess and helped him clean his shoe. Finally, they found a single burner with an enameled pot that looked like a wizard’s kettle far away from chef. On a trolley close by were the ingredients he needed for his fire punch. Just as he realized wearing a white shirt in a busy kitchen wasn’t exactly smart, someone passed him an apron. Jim checked the sugar cones and the alcohol percentage of the brown rum first. It looked as if everything was according to his specifications. Then he grabbed the oranges and lemons and washed them in a nearby sink. Next, he cut part of them into slices, before he squeezed the juice out of the rest. After pouring the red wine into the pot, he added the juice, fruit, and spices, meticulously following a list on a crumpled piece of paper his mom had given him years ago. In the background, he heard occasional loud laughter coming from the large dining room. Turning on the heat, he stirred the mixture carefully. As it slowly warmed, the scent of ginger, cloves, cinnamon, and vanilla began to rise.

About thirty minutes later, Jim placed the pot on a cart. He got one of the kitchen helpers to show him the way to the smokers’ lounge. Scattered about the cozy room were several deep red leather two-seaters and matching armchairs with low tables by their sides. In its center was a round table with a lit warmer already waiting for the kettle. Arranged around it sat plates with thinly sliced stollen* and fruitcake.

Jim uncapped the rum bottle and sniffed it, as Mr. Stockton came through the door leading his guests from the huge dining room. “Gentlemen, some of you may know Jim Wagner, from our legal department. I asked him to show us how to make real fire punch according to an old family recipe!” He waved at Jim. “Wagner, we await your presentation!”

Jim mounted the tongs holding one of the sugar loafs on the edge of the pot so it was placed over the center of the liquid. The men surrounded the table curiously. When one of them looked at the rum, he promptly sang the first words of that damn pirate song, ‘We pillage, we plunder, we rifle, and loot, drink up, me 'earties, yo ho.”

Jim tried not to roll his eyes. Sometimes he hated ‘The Curse of the Black Pearl’. Using a long-handled ladle, Jim soaked the cone with rum. Then he warmed some of it by dipping the bowl into the wine. Then he carefully lit the alcohol. When a blue flame flickered, the men ah-ed, and oh-ed, some actually clapped their hands when Jim poured the burning liquid over the cone and the fire danced over the sugar, immediately melting it so it dripped into the kettle. Little by little, he added more rum to the sugar cone as he answered a barrage of questions.

“Can you say the name in German?”

“Sure, Feuerzangenbowle.”

“fire-zan-gen-bowl?”

“Close.” Jim smiled.

“Do you have German ancestors?”

“My grandfather is German.”

“Is it really a family recipe?”

Jim showed them the crumpled sheet of paper his mother gave him. “My mother wrote it down for me.”

Once the sugar loaf and rum had completely burned off, Jim gently stirred the concoction before he served the fire punch in heatproof glasses.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Mr. Stockton was happy with the result of the entertainment he’d provided for his most prestigious clients and important staff. Still, Jim hoped he would think of something else for next year. He hated to be the center of attention.

Milling around the room with a glass in their hands and nibbling on the baked goods, the men conversed animatedly. There was talk about investment opportunities, stock prices, upcoming vacations, the achievements of sons and daughters, everything one would expect from them. Then Mr. Stockton got up from his seat, lifted his punch glass, and hit it with a spoon three times. It took a while for the conversations to stop, and everyone looked at him again.

He pointed his glass at Jim. “First, let me thank Mr. Wagner here for letting us partake in his beautiful--” he took a sip of punch, “--and tasty family tradition.” He swallowed. “Speaking of tradition. Stockton’s has always been a family-owned business. My great-grandfather started it. It was he who first celebrated the annual Christmas party at this very club— his gentlemen’s club. My grandfather, father, and I followed his lead; it became a tradition.” He took a deep breath.

“As some of you might know, my son Robert and his wife, Marie, died in a plane crash roughly twenty years ago. I would have passed over Stockton’s reins years, if not decades, ago to him were Robert still alive. And maybe he would have broken with this tradition, and you would have this party at another location, a more modern or lively location, where your wives and girlfriends could have accompanied you as well your female colleagues, but I digress.” He took another sip of his punch.

“What you might not know is that they—” he closed his eyes for a moment “— that my son had a little boy.” Some of the guests gasped. “My grandson John grew up with his godfather according to his parents’ explicit wishes, as they deemed me too cold-hearted to raise their child, should ever something happen to them.” A murmur went through the men.

“And sadly, I have to agree with them. They did right by him. This was proven by my reaction when I first met the boy when he was seventeen. I deemed him flawed.” He turned around and made eye contact with several of his guests, a little longer with Jim. “Why? Because I was a bigoted, foolish fossil. There was a young man who could have been the light of my old days, who could have worked by my side and eventually become my successor, and I didn't acknowledge him.

“Then I saw Jim Wagner and his partner sitting in a café with a group of his friends, joking and laughing. And I finally came to my senses. He reminded me so much of my grandson. I realized who I rejected--not an abomination, but a young man who lived his life like any other. But as stubbornness is a family trait, John flatly turned me down. Over the years he had become the ideal successor-- had studied law and worked abroad with several prestigious firms, but he refused to come home.” Mr. Stockton turned and nodded at a man with fiery red hair standing beside a tall Asian man. “Until now. John?” He pulled him forward.

“Gentlemen, may I introduce to you my grandson John and his husband Oskar.” Then he smiled. “This old, lonely fool has finally learned his lesson. No secretiveness, no more hiding. Love is love.”

Later after the dust had settled, Jim was sitting in one of the two-seaters, a plate of stollen on his lap. He couldn’t believe what had just happened, and that he had been the cause of his boss’s change of mind. Some of the guests were top clients, the upper echelon of the firm’s employees... Jim felt out of place among them, after all, he was there to provide the entertainment.

Meanwhile, the alcohol started to have an effect on the guests. The laughter had become raucous and the jokes inappropriate. Pictures from vacations were shown around. The older man sitting beside him suddenly rammed his elbow into Jim’s ribs, grinned salaciously, and showed him pictures from his last cruise on his phone. Instead of sights, white beaches, or palm trees and the endless blue sky though, it was an endless row of boobs and females in tiny bikinis. Jim wished he could go home. Again and again a server topped off Jim’s glass until he couldn’t stand the cloying sweetness anymore. He had to leave. Finally, he found Mr. Stockton and his grandson to say goodbye.

“Next year Wagner, you’ll bring your young man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Then Jim made a beeline to the mixed cheese platter and grabbed a large chunk of cheddar for the way home.

An hour later, Jim stumbled out of the car, his gaze firmly fixed on their strangely swaying blue front door. When he reached it, he rummaged around in the pocket of his coat until he secured his keys. It was so difficult to stand upright, as if the ground was sloping. “I haff to talk with Lee about this...” He couldn’t fit the damned cheese...key into the damned lock. He cursed to himself, eying the doormat. Maybe he could sit a little...Suddenly the door opened, and he fell inside, caught by strong arms. “Hmm... warm—smell so good....”

“Contrary to you, my love. You stink of, cigars, punch, and cheese.” To confirm Lee’s words, their Norwegian Forest cat, Jane, took a sniff, sneezed delicately, and stalked away, tail high, showcasing her utter disdain.

*A fruit bread of nuts, spices, and dried or candied fruit, coated with powdered sugar or icing sugar.

~Recipe~

Ingredients:

8 1⁄2 cups dry red wine (2 liters)
2 oranges
2 lemons
1 stick cinnamon
5 cloves
1 dash ginger, ground
sugar loaves
2 cups brown rum (at least 54% alcohol)

Preparation:

• Wash oranges and lemons thoroughly, pat dry and cut into slices or wedges.
• In a large pot combine red wine, oranges and lemons, cinnamon, cloves and ginger. Heat slowly making sure it does not come to a boil. Remove pot from heat and place on a heat source (such as from a Fondue set).
• Place sugar cone into metal holder (“Feuerzange”). A metal rack or mesh strainer will do, as long as it doesn’t sink into the wine – don’t use aluminum.
• Soak sugar cone with rum and carefully light it. The sugar will melt and drip into the wine.
• Little by little start adding more rum to the sugar cone using a long-handled ladle.
• Once the sugar cone and rum have completely burned off, gently stir the drink and serve in mugs or heatproof glasses.

Note: Extreme caution must be taken when handling alcohol and open flame, particularly with high alcohol content ingredients. Use long wooden matches or extended candle lighters to ignite the sugar.

Thank you for reading. There is more to come. We always serve some cookies with  fire punch. Maybe this year we'll try Cole's fruit cake .