Food - Bee Wilson on the charms of a pretty blusher savoured too soon
There are scholars who now believe that the forbidden fruit Eve offered Adam was not an apple but an apricot. These worthy academic toilers support their theory with the evidence that apricots were far more abundant than apples in the Holy Land (they still are - one food expert refers to the "great apricot belt" running from Turkey to Turkestan) and that the glowing colour of these fruit led people to call them "golden apples". This apricot school of thought proposes that the luscious shape and aroma of an apricot would make it a more likely tool of seduction for Eve than an unyielding apple. The theory may or may not be true (though the question of factual truth might seem a touch irrelevant when applied to the Garden of Eden) but, to modern British ears, it sounds most implausible. An apricot could hardly have tempted Adam enough to lose his first natural innocence, because apricots are such unreliable fruit, so often woolly, tough and sour.
When you offer someone an apricot, I have noticed, they often wince slightly, in anticipation of that unsatisfactory first bite. They hold them nervously and delay the moment of truth. Experience has taught us that a pretty, blushing exterior is no guarantee of anything. We nibble at them gingerly and, when our fears are confirmed, we decide to make the rest into a compote, if we are compote-making types, which will still be no good because you can't make a good compote without good fruit.
The trouble with apricots is that they come on the market too early, before the best kinds are ready. The yellow-pink apricots from Spain and America, which arrive in May and early June, look lovely but taste abysmal. This is enough to put us off the second wave of deeper orange apricots that arrive, mainly from France, in late June and July. Once bitten (and spat out), twice shy. It is a pity, because really good Greek or French apricots are scrumptious. A bowl of ripe orange apricots, served at room temperature, tickly with bloom on the outside yet rich and juicy inside, is a pleasing surprise.
It is sometimes said that the problem with eating apricots in Britain is that they just don't travel as well as other fruit (the name apricot, after all, comes from the Greek "abros", meaning delicate). Some say you should eat fresh apricots only in the Levant, straight off the tree, or else stick to dried ones. I haven't found this to be so, but if you want fresh apricots in this country, you must shop for them. This may mean Marks & Spencer, whose French apricots are excellent. Until the end of July, M&S is selling Bergeron apricots from Provence, a juicy variety with a delicate perfume. They are expensive, yes, but it's better than wasting money on duff fruit that you'll only throw away when you get home. If you buy apricots from a greengrocer, you must be prepared to interrogate the seller. A redoutable fruit-seller in the market told me the other day that her Spanish apricots, despite being on special offer, were "not very nice". This is exactly what you want to hear.
But do persist in the search for good apricots, because they are probably the best of all summer fruits for cooking. Whereas strawberries and raspberries often lose their point in tarts and pies, apricots acquire a new succulence as they cook, becoming concentrated and pumpkin-coloured, fusing with the flavour of vanilla or lemon and tasting almost candied when they catch with hot sugar in the oven. Apricots are easy on the cook, too, because they don't need to be peeled and their small black stones are easy to remove (keep them and extract the kernel for flavouring macaroons). Apricots go well with almonds (as in apricot frangipane tarts), with butter (as in a cake or puff pastry) and also, surprisingly, with rice. The French, who love the apricot more than we do, sometimes serve syrup-poached apricots with a dish of cold, sweetened rice. When the rice is mixed with whipped cream, this dish is grandly called abricots a l'imperatrice. Apricots are also a natural partner to custard - think of all those custardy variations on apricot patisserie.
Here is a lovely apricot cream tart, adapted from a Provencal recipe, from Saffron and Sunshine by Elisabeth Luard (Bantam Press, £20). Arrange 500g of apricots, cut in half, cut side down, in a 20cm (8 in) tart tin, lined with a blind-baked sweet pastry shell. Pour around them a custard made by whisking 150ml double cream, 2 eggs and 2 tablespoons of caster sugar. Bake at 180oC for 30-40 minutes or until the custard is set. When it is cool, glaze the golden tart with melted, sieved apricot jam.
Just make sure your apricots are good ones. If you can't get good ones, abandon the tart idea and eat some apricot jam instead. If you can't get good apricot jam, you really are unlucky.
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