How to make the perfect Mont Blanc – recipe

Mont Blanc, or Monte Bianco, depending on which side you’re admiring it from, is the highest peak in western Europe, straddling the Franco-Italian border like some magnificent, icing sugar-dusted dessert. With the mountain losing 2.2 metres in height in the past three years, however, the locals take a very dim view of anyone having a go with a spoon, so if you want a taste of a dish that Nigella Lawson describes as “my favourite pudding of all time”, you’re better off making your own.

Happily, it’s one of those desserts that looks much more impressive than it actually is – a relatively simple confection of meringue, chantilly cream and the chestnuts that once sustained the local population and, to quote Jay Rayner, “all the good things, with a light gloss of the adult”. Simple, but guaranteed to delight anyone who scales its heights after dinner – though a bracing walk may be advisable the next morning.

The meringue

Not all Mont Blanc recipes involve meringue: Helen Goh and Yotam Ottolenghi’s book Sweet, for example, features a recipe for pastry-based Mont Blanc tarts; Taste France magazine anchors it on a shortbread biscuit; and I’m reliably informed that the Japanese prefer to build their mountains on a light sponge.

But meringue is the most common choice. Rayner decries these “catch-all” Mont Blancs, with their “biscuit bases, and chocolate coverings and pastry cases and basically a load of things that I regard as entirely superfluous”. The recipe in his latest book, Nights Out at Home, which comes courtesy of chef Henry Harris of Bouchon Racine, involves two large meringues, to be divided between two people. Anne Willan’s version in her excellent 1981 collection, French Regional Cooking, makes one large, flat example, which she pipes on to a baking sheet in a spiral, a bit like the base of a pavlova. The Angelina chain, renowned for its Mont Blancs from Wuhan to New York, makes individual 6cm meringues, while maître pâtissier Christophe Michalak prefers large boules, so to speak.

Dinky little Mont Blancs may look lovely in the glass display cases of those chi-chi palaces of Parisian pleasure, but I prefer the generosity and drama of one large dessert, placed in the middle of the table to share. This endeavour requires a base that is both sturdy enough to support the weight of the mountain on top of it, and tall enough to give it some heft. Lawson, who uses ready-made meringue, elevates the whole thing on an upturned cereal bowl. From a height point of view, this is a brilliant idea, but I can’t help feeling a little disappointed by the idea of slicing my spoon through a huge pile of goodness only to hit solid, inedible china.

The solution seems to be to make one large meringue in a vaguely mountainous shape, and then bake it long enough to dry it out thoroughly. According to the Angelina recipe, as published in Marie Claire Cuisine et Vins de France, it is preferable to under- rather than overcook the meringue. But in this case, a soft, marshmallowy interior proves too similar in texture to the rest of the ingredients, so I’ve aimed for a more solid sort, much like the kind you can buy in packets. (Indeed, if you prefer, you can buy a box of those and pile them up higgledy piggledy, thus neatly cutting out most of the work.)

The chestnuts

It’s puzzling to me that most recipes call for the chestnut layer to feature uppermost; indeed, in the case of the Angelina example, it forms a brown, noodley carapace that looks more like a wicker pétanque ball than a mountain (in their picture, anyway; my take on it ended up looking more like a bathmat). Only Willan and Lawson understand that the Mont Blanc ought to be capped with snowy cream; muddy-coloured, pureed chestnuts feel like a depressing emblem of climate breakdown.

No one, to my relief, demands fresh chestnuts, which are not only an endangered species on London streets, but an absolute pig to peel. The most labour-intensive take comes from Lawson, whose recipe in 1998’s How to be a Domestic Goddess perhaps pre-dates the wide availability of the pureed variety, because it calls for the peeled and cooked kind to be simmered in milk, rum and vanilla for 20 minutes, and then passed through a food mill. It’s far easier these days just to buy sachets of the ready-made stuff and flavour it yourself. This is also preferable to investing in the pricier crème de marrons recommended by Michalak and Angelina, which is, after all, nothing more than a delicious, sweetened chestnut puree that’s far better saved for dolloping on top of yoghurt.

As well as sugar, I love the cognac in the Rayner/Harris recipe, and the rum used by both Lawson and Michalak. A hint of booze is not only warming, but reminiscent of the digestifs plonked on the table in Alpine restaurants with little concern for the fact that most patrons are about to strap on a pair of skis and hurtle down a mountain. I’ve also added a pinch of mixed spice, in a nod to both the Christmas season and the fact that the real-life Mont Blanc is absolutely overrun by Brits. Like the alcohol, however, this is entirely optional.

The problem I struggle with is that many of the chestnut pastes I try prove difficult to pipe smoothly – the Angelina recipe calls for solid sheets of the stuff, but mine, even after refrigeration, refuses to stay together, and even in simpler versions shows a tendency to break up. The solution, I find, is to beat in a little butter and sugar, as Michalak suggests (though Willan’s sugar syrup also improves matters).

If you can find only whole cooked chestnuts, you can puree them yourself, as Willan and Lawson do. But make sure you’re thorough, or any bits will clog up your piping bag or potato ricer – piped strands of vermicelli are traditional, but a potato ricer will also do a satisfactory, if more blizzard-like job. Also, as Rayner points out: “you can just dollop it on” if you have neither equipment nor patience.

The cream

Chantilly – that is, cream whipped with sugar and vanilla – is the classic choice here. Both French bakeries add extra fat to help stabilise it while it sits looking pretty in the window: Angelina in the form of powdered milk and Michalak with mascarpone, which I prefer for its rich flavour. But if you’re serving this straight away, which I strongly recommend, there’s really no need. Also, note that you can make all the elements of this well in advance (store the meringue in a dry, airtight box) and simply assemble it before serving.

Should you prefer a lighter, moussier result, however, fold in Willan’s whisked egg white, or use the whipping cream recommended by Angelina. Most French cream will have a fat content more akin to this than our own double cream, which can be almost 50% fat, but whipping cream (36%) can for some reason be hard to come by these days.

The extras

The Michalak bakery decorates its diminutive desserts with marrons glacés, or candied chestnuts, which take several days to make and are, consequently, extremely expensive. If you have some squirrelled away from last year’s hamper, by all means use them. I think it’s lovely to have a few lumps of actual chestnut in the dessert, not least because they add a welcome, fudgy texture to the crunchy meringue, the creamy chantilly and the slightly mealy chestnut, but I’ve suggested a quicker substitute below.

Lawson and Willan decorate their mountains with grated chocolate, which works well flavourwise, so long as you restrict it to the lower slopes; otherwise, it makes the cream look more like that grimy snow that piles up by the side of the road than the pristine drifts on the higher slopes. I prefer to evoke fresh powder with a light dusting of icing sugar.

Perfect Mont Blanc

Prep 45 min
Cook 4 hr
Cool 1 hr+
Serves 4-6

For the meringue
2 egg whites (30-38g)
60-76g caster sugar
⅛ tsp cream of tartar, or neutral vinegar

For the candied chestnuts (optional; or use a few marrons glacés)
100g white or golden sugar
100g whole cooked chestnuts

For the chestnut topping
20g softened butter
200g chestnut puree
25g caster sugar
¼ tsp mixed spice (optional)
1 tbsp brandy, or dark or golden rum (optional)
A little icing sugar, to finish (optional)

For the cream
200ml double cream, or whipping cream
15g caster sugar
¼-½ tsp vanilla extract, to taste

If you are making the meringue yourself, heat the oven to 140C (120C fan)/275F/gas 1 and put a shelf in the middle with nothing above it. Line a baking tray with greaseproof paper and use a pencil to draw a circle the size of a small bowl (about 13cm).

Weigh the egg whites, then measure out twice the weight of caster sugar. If you are using a stand mixer (I find this small amount easier with handheld beaters), put the sugar on a sheet of baking paper that you can later use as a funnel.

Put the egg whites in a large bowl, or the bowl of an electric mixer, then whisk on high speed until they form a dense, white foam. Add the cream of tartar and beat again until the mix begins to hold soft peaks.

Turn down the speed to medium, then very slowly pour in the sugar, still beating all the while. Once it’s all absorbed and the mixture feels smooth, rather than gritty between your fingers, turn up the speed and keep beating until the meringue turns thick and glossy and holds its shape. Spoon into the circle on the paper, building up the meringue into a peak in the middle.

Put the tray in the oven, immediately turn down the heat down to 130C (110C fan)/265F/gas ½, and bake for about four hours, until the meringue feels dry and hollow when you gently tap its base. Leave it in the oven with the door slightly ajar until completely cool.

Meanwhile, if you’re making the candied chestnuts, put the sugar and 100ml water in a small, deep pan and bring to a simmer. Add the chestnuts, turn down the heat and simmer very gently, turning occasionally, for about 90 minutes.

Lift out and leave to dry on a second lined tray (the remaining chestnut syrup is great in cocktails, or can be used, to taste, instead of sugar in the chestnut puree below).

Put the softened butter in the cleaned mixer or bowl and beat briefly, then gradually add the chestnut puree, scraping down the sides of the bowl as you go, until the two are well combined and no chunks of butter remain.

Add the sugar and beat until very smooth and creamy. Add the spice and alcohol, if using, and beat again to a smooth paste. Taste for sweetness and adjust if necessary.

Once the meringue is cool and you’re ready to serve, whip the cream until it begins to thicken, then beat in the sugar and vanilla until the mix is softly whipped but holds its shape (if you prefer a slightly less snowy peak on your Mont Blanc, you could get away with reducing the quantities to 100ml cream, 10g caster sugar and a quarter-teaspoon of vanilla extract).

Put the meringue on a serving plate. You now have three options, depending on your equipment: the first is to pass the chestnut puree through a potato ricer to pile up mounds of puree worms on top of the meringue in a vaguely mountainous shape. The second is to use use a piping bag to do the same: if you have a nozzle with one large hole, you might like to cover the meringue with concentric circles of puree; if you have smaller vermicelli holes, then go more freeform. Third, if a spoon is all you have, just spoon the puree on top.

Spoon the cream on top of the peak so the whole thing resembles a snowy sort of scene, then stud all over with candied chestnuts, if using, and dust the lower slopes with icing sugar for maximum snowy wonder.

•​ Mont Blanc: the height of pleasure, or an Eton mess with notions? Which other desserts would you recommend to add drama to the festive table, and what would you suggest doing with any leftover chestnuts?