It’s weird, it’s hard, it’s knobbly – it’s bloody delicious

“It’s something like a pear…well, sort of…oh whatever, no one really knows what quince is anyway. But it’s nice. Just try it.” Thus spake a father trying to explain ‘quince’ to his 10-year-old son over the beginnings of their four-course Sunday lunch. I’d listed it as one of the flavours of homemade cordial on offer at the bougie restaurant at which I work part-time.

Well, kudos to him for even making the effort. Most parents are disappointingly unadventurous — often much more so than their children — and discourage their offspring from even trying anything they haven’t had before. ‘Oh no, little Cydonia won’t eat/drink/like that.’ That soapbox aside, what I’m interested in here is this father’s inability, despite his obvious foodie credentials, to explain ‘quince’. In fact, it’s simple: quinces are in the same family as apples and pears — they’re all pome fruits — and they’re distinguished by their hardness and astringency when unprocessed as well as their heady floral aroma.

No, Cydonia isn’t this year’s hottest hipster baby name fad. It’s the Latin genus of which the quince, Cydonia oblonga, is the sole member. The word ‘quince’, a variant of the genus name via Old French and other languages, ultimately harks back to the Ancient Cretan city of Kydonia, which sits on the site of present-day Chania. The Ancient Greeks associated the fruit with Crete (which, according to a classicist friend, they generally considered to be a bit of a Garden of Eden). They also consecrated the quince to their love goddess, Aphrodite, as a fertility-enhancing aphrodisiac — make of that what you will.

You can see the appeal. Although most quinces may look like nothing more than oddly knobbly, rock-hard yellow pears, they exude a heavenly fragrance: a cocktail of apple-y rose and other exotic, flowery-fruity aromas, almost like a guava in overdrive. They also grow on decoratively compact trees with delicate cup-shaped blossoms, and they change their colour to a lovely rose-pink when cooked (such as the Romans would, with honey and spiced wine reduction) — very seductive. So why do many people these days never even encounter a quince?

Quinces were once prolific. Native to the Persian mountains, they were spread around Europe and Asia by Ancient trade routes. The quince may have come from afar (its Arab name, safarjal, can be translated as ‘journey from afar’), but it grew just fine as far north as Scotland. They were very popular in medieval Europe, back when foraging prickly hedgerows was commonplace and the rich had servants to process their pesky medlars. Your fruit smells divine but falls from the tree like an impenetrable stone? No problem! And let’s not forget that the consumption of raw fruit was viewed with heavy suspicion in pre-Enlightenment times (thanks Galen and Hippocrates) — a non-issue if you were cooking your quinces to a pulp.

Elite medieval English cuisine looked to the Arab world for inspiration, and the rich showed off their status by adding ungodly amounts of imported spices, sugar and expensive wine to their food and having it sieved to oblivion. The quince suited this idiom perfectly, as demonstrated by the many medieval English and French recipes for perfectly smooth quince pastes with almond milk, spices, lard and egg yolk (to give just one example). Persian-inspired meat stews in the vein of the still-popular lamb with quinces were also eaten. I myself have made several delicious medieval quince recipes, including quinces stuffed with dried fruit and bone marrow and cooked in wine (somewhat like an autumnal baked apple today). There’s even a modern French expression, bourré comme un coing, or ‘stuffed as a quince’ — although this is more to do with being off your face than baked desserts!

Although the quince’s popularity has now waned greatly in the West, many traditional British orchards still contain a quince tree or two. The fruits are extremely high in pectin, so they have become pretty much synonymous with jelly, or else the Spanish cheese board staple membrillo. This is not a new association: the Portuguese word for quince, marmelo, which is related to ‘membrillo’, gave us ‘marmalade’.

Your average cookery or gardening website will tell you quinces can’t be eaten raw, but this is untrue: in many places around the world, from the Balkans to Mexico, quinces are enjoyed in thin slices with salt, lemon and/or chilli. That the quince has lost its widespread appeal in Britain and is only occasionally available in specialty shops is likely down to everything that leads us to expect supermarkets to provide a bounty of ready-to-bite-into fruit, like a banana or a little plastic packet of diced mango, whenever we happen to stroll in. The seasonal delights of a fruit such as quince, which feels exotic but slots easily into our cooler orchards, are ignored. 

Moreover, it doesn’t take much digging to discover plausible reasons why you don’t see many British quince drinks, either: quinces struggle to ripen fully in some parts of the UK and need to mature in storage for up to two months after harvest; they seem to be unsuited to machine harvesting; and they are not commonly planted and therefore expensive to procure post-harvest. What’s more, until the UK government’s August 2023 alcohol duty reforms, ciders made with quince — or hops, or elderflower, or anything else other than apples or pears — were taxed as ‘made wine’ in the UK and therefore subject to higher duty than cider or perry. Hogan’s explain it well here; of course, this applied only to producers above the (low) duty threshold.

Finally, to the cider maker who has just spent quite some time scrubbing them of all their pesky peach-fluff, quinces don’t even yield much juice! Of course, this fact is not insurmountable: James Fergusson of Cornwall’s Vagrant Cider told me that ‘[quince is] incredibly dry and yields very little juice directly, so I tend to macerate it with apples or pears.’ So, quinces don’t yield much juice — but working with perry pears is no walk in the park either, as covered extensively on this site. Indeed, the four British and American cider makers on a 2021 CiderCon panel titled ‘Fermenting with Quince’ agreed that quince, which yields an unusually clear juice and ferments like nobody’s business, is really an ideal fruit to work with — once you’ve got enough of them lined up for the press.

The panel also suggested that consumers used to macro cider were unlikely to be ready for the full-blown astringency of a pure quince wine. Fair enough — but is that really the market? I want to appeal to ye lovers of fine cyders and perryes reading this site who may not have tried a fine quince libation thus far. If the excellent real cider and perry being made up and down the UK hasn’t yet made it into the mainstream, there’s scant hope for something as niche as quince wine — but that’s what the internet is for.

I grew up in Germany, where quinces weren’t exactly an everyday food, but I definitely knew they existed. My quince experience amounted to a few trees scattered across the typically Hessian Streuobstwiesen (meadow orchards), some quince jams sold at weekend markets, an awareness that quince was somewhat like the sorbs often added to the local Apfelwein in needing processing before consuming, and membrillo. To see if this is reflected in other parts of Germany, I turn to Cider Review’s esteemed editor and Irishman abroad in Baden-Württemberg, Barry Masterson of Kertelreiter cider & perry.

Q: It seems to me that quince drinks aren’t made by British fine cider makers as often as they are on the continent. Perhaps this is due to the climate: I have read that quinces here can be quite fickle in their harvests — loads one year, nothing the next. Is this borne out by your experience as a cider maker, fruit forager and orchardist in Germany?

A: In southern Germany, quinces are quite literally everywhere, hidden in gardens usually. From my relatively limited experience, only using them since 2018, they seem to be fairly consistent here, perhaps because of the continental climate, and I’ve seen huge crops weighing down trees. 2018 was particularly good, and 2020 and 2022 too. 2023 we didn’t get any, however. The summer was a bit cooler, and anecdotally, just a few days ago actually, someone mentioned that theirs ripened much later than usual. But generally, I’d say they do very well here. There’s a quince garden with a ‘Lehrpfad’ hiking trail through it at a former abbey in Astheim, about an hour northwest of us, and in Sulzheim near Mannheim, there is a quince project planting dozens of varieties. But around here, it’s old people with a couple of trees in their gardens. And us!

Q: I know of several cider makers who make quince drinks as and when people gift them quinces. Do you seek out quinces? Or is it all about random people dropping off the fruit they don’t know what to do with? In general, do you find people in your area know their way around a Quitte?

A: This is very much true here. Most of the quinces I have gotten were brought be elderly ladies who were just really happy that someone could use their excess fruit. There’s only so much quince jelly one can eat, it seems! A man around the corner gave me access to his tree in 2022, and it was absolutely laden with amazing quince. A few years ago I travelled to another village and got sackloads from a single tree. One year we processed 450 kg of quince, all gifted by people with excess fruit. So I don’t go looking any more, they just come to me. One lady left four sacks with us, and I gave her a bottle of cider as a thank you. The next day I found a box of chocolates on the doorstep as a thank you for the cider! They just hate seeing the fruit not used. While most in this region use their quince to make Quittengelee (quince jelly), many people I know use theirs to make a mash for distilling quince schnapps, and I’ve done the same too. I think I encountered quince as a schnapps long before I ever laid eyes on the actual fruit.

Q: At Kertelreiter, you’ve made various full-quince wines over the years and try to make an apple-quince co-ferment every year, like the Goldener Reiter 2022 that was just released. How do you decide whether to showcase the quince on its own or blend it with apples? Finally, have you tried making a quince perry?

A: Goldener Reiter started my quince journey off really, in 2018. It was actually an apple-quince co-ferment that failed to keeve, so wild fermented and really interesting. I’ve tried to make it every year since, though not always wild. I’ve tried on and off to make pure quince wines, but it’s a bit hit and miss. Sometimes they are so intense, so perfumed, so rich in acids, that they are a bit overwhelming. In those cases, I recommend using them to make a spritzer/Schorle to open them up. But they were often just random mixes of quince. If they don’t work now, I keep them for distilling. In 2022 I made a single-tree quince wine and it was just right for a pure quince wine, I thought. Not too acidic, just nice on the tongue, but of course with that ‘classic quince’ intensity of aroma. I hope to use that same tree again! I have not done perry pear with quince, but I have done an even three-way split of pear, apple and quince — but to be honest I felt it was less than the sum of the parts. But maybe I’ll try it again with different fruit. And now you’ve planted the idea of a pear-quince co-ferment!

Thanks for the insights, Barry!

Alcoholic quince drinks are made around the world, but you’ll have to seek them out. To take some of the UK’s purveyors of fine cider as examples: at the time of writing, The Cat in the Glass has five products containing quince in stock, Aeble is selling three, and Fine Cider Company lists just one (it’s sold out). Only one of all these is a pure quince wine, and only four makers are represented: Pilton (perhaps the first to really go for quince co-ferments in the UK), Little Pomona, the Swiss makers Oswald & Ruch and Cidrerie du Vulcain, and Denmark’s Aeblerov.

I procured my selection from Cat in the Glass, and I will be tasting them in an order that takes me progressively further from 100% quince. Thus, I’m starting with Pilton’s Queen of the Brue, a keeved pure quince wine that I’ve tasted before and loved. I like the fact that it’s available in the 375 ml size I’m trying today: share this with another lucky drinker, and at 5.4% ABV, you’re ingesting just one unit of alcohol each (very civilised) and not breaking the proverbial bank in the process.

Pilton Queen of the Brue 2018 – review

How I served: Just out of the fridge — I’m thirsty!

Appearance: Warm, golden yellow, with the tiniest haze.

On the nose: Quince, pure and simple. It’s no more or less complex than the real thing — but that has plenty going on. I’m getting the intensely floral-fruity sweetness of membrillo, and the exotic rose note that makes quince the Gewürztraminer of pome fruits.

In the mouth: More of the nose, but restrained. A persistent tiny prickle on the tongue is very gentle, as is the lightly vegetal greenness of the finish. There is some acidity, there is a bit of tannin, but both are very rounded — very elegant. It’s the opposite of the lip-smacking chewiness of a traditional cider apple, say, but the bone-dry delicacy is just as good at leaving you wanting more. The flavour of quince is very difficult to describe in non-circular terms (I have the same issue with truffle), but the characteristic rose notes and waxiness are certainly here. It’s interesting that this is a keeved drink with no discernible residual sugar: apparently, quince ferments so vigorously that even a chapeau brun is unlikely to leave you with sweetness.

In a nutshell: If I didn’t know anything about quinces or pomes, I might mistake this for a white wine, both in texture and notes. But if you know your quince, you know this is an unmistakable and lovely rendition of it. I quite agree with the bottle’s assertion that ‘quince’s rose-like floral aroma and unique tartness make a truly distinctive, full flavoured drink,’ although I wouldn’t necessarily say this has a ‘long and fruity finish’ — instead, I perceived a brisk, slightly bitter finish that only invited the next sip.

Pilton Pomme Pomme 2021 – review

How I served: Had been sitting out of the fridge for a few minutes.

Appearance: Perfect clear orange-gold.

Nose: Starts off smelling like a sun-warmed cider apple, then the quince lurking becomes apparent. I’d say the apple is doing the talking, but the quince lends a honeyed note.

Palate: Well, this is very quaffable indeed. Big but gentle bubbles give a nice mousse; it’s very light and refreshing. Aromatic but fleeting quince is followed by juicy sweetness tinged with caramel and honey; then apple-peel tannins and a crisp, bubbly finish. The flavour dries and becomes a bit earthy, but the typical astringency of quince isn’t there.

In a nutshell: I can see this being the crowd pleaser of the lot (I note anecdotally that it was voted ‘The People’s Choice Cider of the Festival’ at Manchester Beer Festival in 2020). Between the two Piltons, the Queen of the Brue pips it for me (pun intended); it’s just so interesting and unusual. The pure quince would seem a little weird to some, but the Pomme Pomme is not weird, just lovely bubbliness full of golden, rounded apple notes.

Little Pomona Do It Puritan Quince 2020 – review

How I served: Again, it had been sitting out of the fridge for a few minutes.

Appearance: Sunny yellow; a tad more opaque than the Brue.

Nose: This is immediately very different from the others. It smells like a natural wine, albeit a delicate one. I’m guessing that’s the acetic acid. However, there’s also a tropical, rosy lusciousness that is definitely coming from the quince, although it reminds me more of ripe grapes here. Mango!

Palate: Herbaceous bitterness somewhere between perry pear and jasmine tea, green mango, mouth-puckering acid, nutty brine. Bizarrely, this doesn’t taste at all of the traditional cider apples that I believe form the apple component. The floral astringency of the quince is present, with emphasis on the astringency — pineapple vinegar? It’s just lifted by a fine, light mousse; there is zero sweetness. Aftertaste of olive juice with refreshing acidity and lingering jasmine.

In a nutshell: Very moreish, but in a completely different way from the others. I wouldn’t call it elegant so much as complex. While all three are wild-fermented, this is the only one in the line-up with any funk; this feels like natural wine full of aromatic fruit. I’m a sucker for funk and acid so would happily guzzle this lemony juice — ideally with a nice cheese on the side.

So now we’ve seen just a little of what quince can do: the botanical refinement of a pure quince wine, the juicy sweetness of a keeved cider with 10% quince, and the funky wine vibes of this im-Puritan multi-fruit Little Pomona creation. There’s truly something for everyone, and there’s so much more to be explored. I, for one, am extremely keen to try a quince drink from Oregon’s Art+Science, whom both Pilton’s Martin Berkeley and Little Pomona’ James Forbes have credited as their inspiration to start working with quince. I also know very little about quince varieties! What fun.

Given the constraints on making quince drinks widely available, especially in the UK, it seems unlikely that they are going to join the ranks of the average pub’s alcopop-like cider offering anytime soon. Regardless, I appeal to the modern fine cider lover to embrace the quince wherever possible. To quote James Forbes, as recorded by the CiderChat podcast during the panel mentioned above, “if you hold a quince in your hand and you don’t fall in love, and you’re probably dead inside.” I’d say the same for popping open a bottle of real quince cider or wine.