A Smaller Room, A Longer Evening: The December Supper Worth Booking Quietly

December is a month with a volume problem. The office parties start at five and finish sometime after the last train; the big bookings fill the room with tinsel and noise. All of that has its place. But there is another December evening, quieter and, to my mind, more memorable: the small table, the five-course menu, the glass of sherry that begins the whole thing and the tawny that brings it gently to a close.

At Vine, the December tasting menu is built backwards. We start with the last glass—a ten-year-old tawny port—and ask what kind of pudding deserves it. The answer this year is a slice of pear and almond tart, warm, with a spoonful of bay leaf cream. From there we work back through the savoury courses, and finally to the first glass: a dry manzanilla, cold and saline, with a small dish of salted almonds and olives. The menu is not a procession of showpieces. It is a conversation that starts quietly and ends with a slice.

The Last Glass Comes First

Choosing the tawny first is not a gimmick. It sets the tone. A ten-year tawny has walnut, orange peel, a little caramel and a dry finish that keeps it from cloying. It is a December wine because it tastes of the pantry rather than the sweet shop. With the pear tart, it picks up the almond and the butter in the pastry. The bay leaf cream adds a herbal note that makes the whole thing feel less like dessert and more like the last good thing you eat before the lights go out.

Once the tawny is in place, the rest of the menu has a destination. We know we are not finishing with a heavy red or a sweet white. We are finishing with a glass that tastes of autumn and woodsmoke. That changes the middle of the meal. It keeps everything lighter than it might otherwise be.

The First Glass Sets the Pace

The opening sherry is a manzanilla, served properly cold. It is bone dry, a little briny, with the faint bitterness of almond skin. With the first course—chilled crab, brown butter and lemon—it does what a good aperitif should do: it makes you hungry rather than filling you up. The salt in the sherry meets the sweetness of the crab; the lemon cuts through the butter. It is a small glass, and it should be. The point is not to get ahead of yourself. The point is to arrive at the table.

December rewards this kind of start. A big festive meal often begins with prosecco and canapés and a sense that the evening is already running away from you. A small table with one cold glass of sherry has the opposite effect. It slows the pulse.

A White Wine With Somewhere to Go

The second course is roast celeriac, hazelnut and sage. It is earthy and sweet, with a crisp edge from the nuts. We pour a dry Chenin Blanc from the Loire—something with a little texture and a savoury finish. Chenin can be waxy and broad, but the right bottle has enough acidity to keep the celeriac from tasting like a Sunday lunch. It also has a nutty quality that echoes the hazelnuts. This is the course where the menu stops being a set of small plates and starts being a meal.

The Middle Course Needs a Little Luxury

Next comes pumpkin agnolotti with brown butter and sage. It is the richest savoury course, and it needs a wine with weight but not too much oak. A white Burgundy—something from the Côte Chalonnaise, perhaps—does the job. Chardonnay with a little age has hazelnut and butter of its own, and the acidity keeps the pumpkin from turning to purée in the mouth. This is the point in the evening where a big festive blowout would bring out another round of something sparkling. A slower table takes its time. The pasta is small. The glass is small. The conversation has settled.

One Red, and It Does Not Shout

The fourth course is guinea fowl with savoy cabbage and a madeira jus. It is the only red-wine course, and the wine is a light Pinot Noir—not a blockbuster, not a Barossa Shiraz, just something with red cherries, a little earth and enough grip to handle the bird. Guinea fowl is not chicken. It has a gamey edge, and Pinot Noir loves that edge. The cabbage and the jus add sweetness and depth. By this point in the meal, you should be aware that you are not at a party. You are at dinner.

That is the quiet argument for the smaller table. December is full of events that are designed to be impressive. A five-course menu designed backwards from a single sherry and a tawny port is designed to be remembered. It asks you to sit still for two hours. It asks you to talk to the person opposite. It does not ask you to shout over a DJ.

The Slice, and the Last Word

The pear and almond tart arrives warm, with a slice that is generous but not enormous. The tawny is poured at the table, and the first sip is always the best: walnut, orange, a little salt. The second sip is better. The cream has bay leaf in it, which sounds like a flourish but is really just a way of keeping the dessert from being too sweet. The tawny has the last word, and it is a good word.

This is the December supper I would book if I wanted to remember December. Not because the big party is wrong—it has its place—but because the small table is where the month makes sense. It is where the lights are low, the room is full but not loud, and the last table of the year feels less like an ending and more like a pause.

If you are booking a table this December, consider the quieter evening. Bring one person you like. Start with the sherry. End with the slice. Let the tawny do the rest.