In this hazy, in-between stretch of betwixtmas, when days blur and indulgence feels justified - today’s newsletter is a guide to making proper hot chocolate: the Parisian café–inspired kind that arrives almost too thick to pour, feeling more like a dessert than a drink. Here, you will find my foolproof base recipe: wonderfully rich, beautifully simple, and satisfyingly thick. And then, we consider creative diversions: flavor pairings that range from the classic to the unexpected — think macaron-inspired almond and vanilla, Earl Grey with burnt orange, or pistachio kissed with rose.
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I’m back in England after a stretch in California, which — naturally — means I’m absolutely freezing. My British family keep insisting it’s “mild for December,” but my husband and I are teeth-chattering wrecks. I remember moving to California ten years ago and laughing, rather smugly, at the locals who whimpered when the temperature dipped below 60°F. And now, of course, I’ve become one of them.
So yes, I’m cold. But more than that, after the madness of Christmas I’m in the mood for comfort — and for me, nothing conjures winter festive coziness quite like hot chocolate.
Ordinarily, the first hint of frost is enough to stir a longing. But right now, it feels less like a craving and more like a requirement — a necessary act of self-preservation. There are rituals of winter I hold sacred, and at the very top of that list sits hot chocolate. Not the dusty instant kind whisked into water (perish the thought), but a slow, velvety creation: thick, dark, and unapologetically indulgent.
For me, the measure of a truly proper hot chocolate is this — if it’s thick enough to briefly support a spoon before it sighs and sinks slowly to the rim of the cup, then you’re exactly where you need to be.
The foundation
Every proper hot chocolate begins with milk — not skimmed but whole, organic, delicious and golden. Its fat content brings more than just richness; it gives the drink that essential voluptuousness associated with the kind of texture that lingers luxuriously on the tongue whilst seeming to amplify the flavor of the chocolate itself.
I gently warm the milk , just until it sends up the softest curl of steam. No bubbling, no boiling, only the quiet promise of what’s to come. For the full technique, skip to my base recipe below.
Type of chocolate
Because there are so few ingredients in a truly good hot chocolate, quality matters enormously. The chocolate should be dark — properly dark, 70% cocoa solids — not only for depth and richness, but because its lower sugar and higher cocoa butter content give the drink its essential body, that luxurious viscosity that clings, just slightly, to the spoon. That said, I’ve also made hot chocolate with a 50/50 blend of dark and milk chocolate — and it was, I must admit, utterly wonderful. Softer, rounder, less intense perhaps, but no less indulgent for all that.
Technique
This is not a moment for impatience. The whisking is not simply a means to an end, but part of the process — and the pleasure. You whisk with intention, not frenzy, watching as the chocolate slowly thickens into something rich and glossy, dense with promise. It’s this stage — the transformation from milk and chocolate into something resembling satin — that most rewards your attention.
It is also, inevitably, the moment when the scent begins to spread — that deep, warm aroma winding its way throughout the house, drawing others in before it’s remotely ready. But there’s no rushing it. The longer you whisk, the thicker, more luxurious it becomes.
Salt
A pinch of flaky sea salt is transformative. The addition doesn’t make the hot chocolate salty — that’s not the point — but it adds a lively, clarifying contrast. Salt sharpens the sweetness, deepens the chocolate, and somehow makes each sip feel more balanced, more grown-up. Think of it as sweet seasoning — the kind that lingers, gently, in the background.
I use fleur de sel — the delicate, hand-harvested salt from the surface of salt pans — or a good flaky sea salt like Maldon. Fleur de sel has a gentle salinity, almost mineral and faintly floral, without the harshness of regular table salt. It’s fine crystals dissolve cleanly and evenly, allowing you to season with control. What you want here is not saltiness, but balance — just enough to heighten the chocolate’s darker, more bitter edges, and to give the sweetness a kind of clarity it doesn’t have on its own.
Citrus
Adding a little citrus zest — especially from clementines or tangerines — does something quietly wonderful to hot chocolate, lifting its richness with a bright, perfumed edge. Citrus is at its best right now, in season from late autumn through winter, when the fruit is sweetest and most generous. From now until early spring, a fine scrape of zest is the easiest way to make hot chocolate feel fresher, deeper, and just a little more considered.
Vanilla
Then, the vanilla — subtle, but essential. I prefer vanilla paste for its intensity and complexity; it contains both the extract and the crushed seeds, which means you get that deep, almost smoky floral note. It’s fuller, more dimensional than extract alone. Though when I’m feeling especially indulgent, I’ll split a whole pod and let the seeds slip into the warm milk where they release their perfume.
Chantilly cream
Ever since my first visit, as a child, to Angelina’s cafe in Paris, where the hot chocolate arrives together with a silver bowl of softly whipped cream, I have never been able to have mine any other way. For me, the ritual isn’t complete without a generous spoonful of vanilla-scented Chantilly on top: cool against the heat, soft against the richness, a cloud meeting a wave.
The Extras
I confess: I’m something of a purist when it comes to hot chocolate. If your chocolate is good, sugar isn’t essential. But that’s not to say it’s unwelcome. A spoonful of soft brown sugar, a drizzle of maple syrup, even a thread of honey — each adds a little warmth, a little roundness.
Below you’ll find my best hot chocolate recipe — rich, properly thick, and better than anything you’ll get from a café — plus a guide to seasonal, creative flavor pairings, so you can tailor each cup to your mood and the moment.
