There’s a particular fruit stall that I frequent on Thevera Road. Its wares almost literally spill out onto the street, with filled bins overflowing the boundaries of the shop interior, fruit stacked high on shelves going up the ceiling on both walls of the narrow space. The back of the shop has a few tables where people can purchase fruit drinks, but I think the majority of their sales are of the fruit themselves.
There always seems to be something new, depending on the season (or week within the season). One day I entered to find a table overflowing with small, reddish purple plums. I’d never seen what I would call “stone fruit” in India before, so I excitedly pulled out one of my cloth bags and started picking through the pile for the ripest looking specimens. When I see plums it reminds me of living in Europe—where I used the multiple varieties in my version of the classic Tarte Tatin. Before living in Paris I actually had no idea there were so many types of plums, but as summer progressed new varieties would arrive at the Marché, each with more melodic names than the last: Reine Claude, Mirabelle, Belle de Louvain… and with each addition I would remake the tarte, and the family would pronounce that each one was the “perfect” plum for the recipe, eaten of course with a spoon of crème fraîche and the guilty expression of one caught licking the plate upon completion.
Here in India I brought the bag of plums home Continue reading