I’d never heard of Summer Pudding until some time back in the 80s when I was taken to lunch at the renowned Adelaide Hills restaurant, The Uraidla Aristologist. Run by Michael Symons and Jennifer Hillier, it became the quintessential place to go for Sunday lunch in the Hills, justly celebrated for its delicious, innovative food and tranquil ambience. The menu was based on a combination of French and Italian classic cuisine and dishes inspired by fresh seasonal and local produce. As such, the Uraidla Aristologist was at the vanguard of what was to become a culinary revolution in sustainable dining, sometimes known as farm to table or paddock to plate. I’m sure it was here also that I first discovered the delights of zucchini flowers.

Lunch that day proved a memorable occasion, not only for the taste revelation of summer pudding but because halfway through the lunchtime rush, the kitchen lost all power. I remember the staff appeared to cope admirably. If panic was erupting behind the scenes (as I’m sure it was) all remained calm in the dining room.

The Aristologist’s novel approach (at the time) to basing menus on the freshest of seasonal and local produce meant the search for ingredients often went no further than their own back garden, where they grew herbs, vegetables, fruit and of course raspberries, the inspiration for the summer pudding.

That cuisine based on fresh local and seasonal produce was an innovation unique to The Aristologist helps to explain why the offerings at most other Adelaide restaurants of the 80s paled in comparison. 

The other explanation for summer pudding’s rarity is that it’s traditionally seen as a British dessert (Britain’s answer to the pavlova if you like). Although, according to the website “British Food: A History”, its provenance is not straightforward. Like many so-called traditional dishes, very early versions bear little resemblance to today’s. British Food claims the earliest mention of something vaguely similar was in an 1875 American publication. A bread-based pudding called of all things “hydropathic pudding” was commonly served at English health resorts in the nineteenth century, being considered a healthier alternative to heavier puddings. Gourmet Traveller Magazine (whose photo I adapted for the feature image above) reports that the name “summer pudding” first appeared in a 1904 cookbook written by a missionary in India. 

Summer Pudding is a very simple dish to make, being composed of bread soaked in berry juices (to which sometimes a liqueur is added) and macerated berries. If this reminds you of Bread and Butter Pudding (“the poor man’s pudding”) and brings back unpleasant memories of stodge, it’s nothing like that. The combination of bread with syrupy fruit juice, fresh berries and the fact that it’s uncooked and served chilled mean the end result is very light, fresh and melt in the mouth delicious. About as far from soggy or stodgy as you can get. 

Gourmet Traveller Magazine notes that the word “pudding” is something of a misnomer in this case, suggesting as it does a warming, rich dessert, typically served in winter, such as sticky date, chocolate or plum pudding.

As an alternative to the traditional Christmas pudding, Summer Pudding is ideal for an Australian Christmas. I usually make one at Christmas when we eat with friends who don’t like plum pudding. Its colours too are very festive, in keeping with the season!

It can be a very economical dish if you have leftover or stale bread or even cake and mid-season berries can often be cheaper if they’re starting to get a bit overripe. The berries you use for garnish after the pudding’s tipped out, should of course be fresh. If, like us, you’re lucky enough to have berries growing at home, this is the perfect way to use them up. We have a couple of prolifically fruiting mulberry trees which provide the bulk of the berries I use. 

As with many recipes, there are purists who insist you must use only certain types of berries (never strawberries for some reason) in specific  proportions and only bread of a particular kind and texture. I’ve never bothered about adhering to these edicts, especially in terms of the berries, as mulberries are rarely featured in typical recipes and they’ve never detracted from mine. Raspberries are especially good to use as they impart a slight tartness. As far as the bread goes, many variations are possible. Brioche is a good alternative to bread and I used this one year with great results. Pound or Madeira cake is another one. Recently I found a recipe on taste.com that uses Italian Panettone instead of bread, which would be more flavoursome than plain bread and I’m thinking of trying it this year. This recipe also calls for it to be accompanied by eggnog custard (a great idea provided you’ve adopted the feast now, diet later Christmas philosophy like me.) 

The only real caveat is that brown or wholegrain bread is considered anathema to the principle of the dish, and if whatever dough ingredient you use is very soft it may break up when dipped in the berry juice.

An article published in The Guardian by Ravneet Gill describes a great sounding Italian Summer Pudding variation using mascarpone and marsala. This could be just the touch of oomph needed to revitalize roast turkey dulled taste buds at the Christmas feast.

Ravneet Gill describes it as “a more subtle version of a British summer pudding, with contrasting textures inside …. sharp, slightly sweet berries, soft, soaked brioche and creamy mascarpone to cut through it all.” My taste buds are telling me I should give this one a go. In this case it would be best to forego the eggnog custard I think.

There are probably as many versions of the pudding as there are varieties of berries to put in it. This one, called “Perfect Panettone Summer Pudding” by Richard Cornish and published on the website bite.com, is designed to use up left over panettone and/or berries so it’s an ideal way of dealing with the post-Christmas glut. It’s somewhat of a departure from the classic dish in that it’s baked in the oven, however it sounds scrumptious.

Another version is proposed in Skye Gyngell’s Summer Pudding, where instead of using bread or whatever, you make a sponge from scratch. For me, this seems a step too far, but it would certainly be delicious.

While I’ve claimed the dish is easy to make, there are of course traps for the unwary where instead of a dish that says summer you end up with one that says fiasco. An article published in the Irish Examiner called “How to make the perfect summer pudding and the common mistakes to avoid” lists several caveats, such as:

Use the best ingredients, i.e. fresh berries, not frozen; take care lining the pudding basin so there are no gaps in the bread or whatever you’re using; don’t throw away the leftover fruit juice, use it to cover any white patches and for spooning over the pudding when serving; be sure to put a weight (can of something) on top of the pudding as it sets in the fridge to press it down; and don’t try and make it at the last minute as it will need at least 24 hours in the fridge.

A helpful illustrated step by step guide is available on the Tesco website (as below).

In terms of adding something alcoholic to the fruit if you’re so inclined (and I always am), the classic liqueur to go with berries is Crème de cassis, but again you can pretty much substitute whatever you like. Other options include Limoncello, Chambord, Frangelico, Grand Marnier, and as mentioned above, Marsala.

Then again, you may be so over the festive preparation by then (why does the lion’s share always fall to women?) that you forgo the pudding and down a few glasses of the liqueur instead.

Like Proust’s madeleines, Summer Pudding inevitably evokes for me memories of when I first tasted it – a genteel Sunday lunch where the afternoon sun shone softly on linen tablecloths, bubbles fizzed gently in crystal glasses, and, apart from the discreet clinking of silver cutlery, blessed quietness prevailed. No hissing coffee machine, conversation killing music, impossibly young waitresses tripping over their false eyelashes and not a barista in sight.