What the heck is that? Thomcord grapes

Shouldn’t hybrid fruit have the best attributes of their parents?

That was my thought when I tried Thomcord table grapes, a hybrid developed in the 1980s by California grape breeders (and reportedly tinkered with over the next two decades).

This exotic hybrid is the offspring of two extremely common grapes. Thompson grapes are the world’s most popular snacking and raisin variety. Concord grapes, gorgeously purple, are the mainstay of PB&J grape jam, grape juice, cut-with-a-scissors cut-with-scissors sweet kosher wine, and “grape” in whatever candies and soda that choose natural alternatives to blue dye and synthetic flavorings.

Obviously missing on Concord’s honor roll: eating out of hand raw, aka snacking. Concord grapes are not only strikingly attractive, they’re fabulously fragrant and very flavorful. But Concords also have thick skins and pits. I’ve eaten them at farmer’s markets and in the backyards of New Yorkers who are lucky of them to have them growing “wild” (or more likely, planted by the person who lived in their house before them). They’re fragile and usually susceptible to blight and consequently expensive. 

The obvious goal: make the gorgeous but temperamental Concord as practical and saleable as the Thompson. Here's one account of the Thomcord's origin story:

What are Thomcords? The tastiest grapes you’ve never heard of. Like Concord grapes, they’re juicier and more intensely grape-flavored than the red or green grapes you can buy year-round. But Concords have small, crunchy seeds, which may explain why they often end up as grape juice or jelly. Enter USDA’s grape-breeding scientists. In 1983, they crossed Thompson (seedless green) grapes with Concords…then spent nearly two decades fine-tuning the hybrid. The result: the seedless sweetness of a green grape with the plump, grapey flesh of a Concord.

 The Thomcord were certainly gorgeous - as plump and grapey-fleshed as promised.

And they were indeed seedless as well. And their skin was not as tough as the Concord's. 

But -- and perhaps this could explain the nearly two decades of tinkering, though not its termination -- Thomcord grapes tasted terrible! 

It was as if flavor somehow got dropped from the breeder's checklist. 

The heady, winy complexity of the Concord grape - the attribute that caused my friend Jen to declare that "Concord grapes make your taste buds sing" - was flattened out, leaving only a random grape with a weird aftertaste. 

What a disappointment! This practical, shippable, saleable, affordable grape didn't even measure up to the simple, sweet joys of its other parent, the Thompson.

I had no reason to snack on the carton of Thomson grapes, so I sought redemption via my go-to method of bringing out the best in substandard fruit: roasting.

These Thomcord grapes might have been the best-looking fruit I have ever subjected to heat therapy: candidates for caramelization typically include the withered and blemished. But these guys needed something drastic to make eating them worthwhile.

Out came the pan.

But as it turns out, while roasting can smooth out a mealy texture and coax out sweetness from underripe specimens, even this miracle worker can't take away a developed, unprepossessing flavor.

Roasting gave me sticky, sweeter Thomcord grapes that were still saddled with a charmless aftertaste.

Performers who decide not to tamper with their quirky looks are sometimes derided as superstitious, but perhaps they are on to something: smoothing out inconvenient, non-conforming or unconventional traits doesn't always lead to success. 

Maybe we just need to appreciate the Concord in all its prima donna glory.

Summer at the Union Square Greenmarket

It's nearly 90 degrees outside, but Labor Day has come and gone, school is back in session, and the summer fruit has turned from cherries to Italian prune plums.

Summer is in the rear view mirror. I'd like to say a fond farewell via some photos from the Union Square Greenmarket.

Appreciating Fennel

Years ago my sister won a scholarship to study in Florence. Being a good sister, I made the oh-so-difficult decision to visit her in springtime. One of my many fond memories of the trip was smelling anise when walking around. "Oh, that's the 'finocchio,' wild fennel," my sister said. I loved the scent, but neither my sister nor I developed any particular enthusiasm for fennel itself.

My indifference has basically continued to this day. When I see the fronds from afar, I think "Dill!" and get disappointed when I see my mistake. This is not to say I never eat fennel. Once in a while, especially when I see a nice bunch in the Union Square Greenmarket, I'll buy some and eat it raw, thinly sliced with a generous sprinkle of salt.

But this member of the carrot family fennel does have many enthusiasts -- like my friend Hiroko. I'll let her take it over from here.

I like to use the whole fennel, including the fronds - they have a nice green color - in salads, but sometimes markets in the US sell them with the fronds removed. I guess they are too bulky and take too much space on the store shelf. So it was a nice surprise when I found a fennel with whole fronds attached in a Tokyo supermarket.

It was so gloriously tall and bushy - look how it was compared to
a 5ft tall kid!

In the summer, I like to eat fennel raw in a salad. It's super easy to prepare! Just remove the tough core and outer part, then slice the fennel think with a mandoline. 

I like fennel with orange (quite refreshing) - it tastes like celery with a bit of anise flavor, so it goes well with the sweetness of orange.

Or with thinly sliced zucchini and a mustard vinaigrette.

When we're in Switzerland [Hiroko's husband is Swiss], we often eat fennel with roast meat. [Editor's note: Avert your eyes! This is a vegetarian blog.] 

On my recent trip to Munich, I obviously enjoyed the city too much, with copious amount of sausage and beer, so I was eating roasted fennel for breakfast and drank fennel tea. They help digestion.

It really worked (so I went out to eat more) !

Now who couldn't appreciate that?

What the heck is that? Quince

The fruit vendor's sign read: "Warning! These are quince, not apples. Ask us about the difference." 

I could only guess the sign was prompted by the ire of customers who had bought some of the fragrant, pear-resembling fruit and nearly lost teeth biting through the thick peel and almost impenetrable flesh, only to be rewarded by the astringent taste of raw quince. Such are the rewards of mistaking quince for apples or pears, fellow members of the botanical Rosaceae family. 

Then there are people like me, who recognize quince as a delight of its own. 

I was ready to roll up my sleeves, grab a peeler and a sharp knife and dust off my father-in-law's recipe for candied quince. (He hails from the area of Vynohradiv in Eastern Europe, an apple/pear/quince  stronghold.)

When I first learned of quince, my first discovery was their enticing scent. The second thing I learned was to never eat them raw. Like hachiya persimmons, quinces are sufficiently astringent to feel as if they are ripping out the inside of your cheeks when you nibble on them.


I recently learned a new word that is used in connection with astringent fruit like quince and hachiya persimmons: bletting. Bletting is a process of decay or frost that renders intensely tart fruit softer and sweeter. I've let hachiyas soften (now I'll use this great new word) but I haven't bletted any quince. Yet.

Instead, I've cooked them. In Europe, the pectin-rich quince has a long and glorious history of being used for jams and preserves; in fact, the word "marmalade" stems from the Portugese word for quince jam, marmalda. From the Wikipedia entry on Marmalade: 

The Romans learned from the Greeks that quinces slowly cooked with honey would "set" when cool (though they did not know about fruit pectin). Greek μελίμηλον (melimēlon, "honey fruit") transformed into Portuguese "marmelo"— from the Greek μῆλον (mēlon, "apple") stood for all globular fruits, and most quinces are too astringent to be used without honey. A Roman cookbook attributed to Apicius gives a recipe for preserving whole quinces, stems and leaves attached, in a bath of honey diluted with defrutum—Roman marmalade. Preserves of quince and lemon appear—along with rose, apple, plum and pear—in the Book of ceremonies of the Byzantine Emperor Constantine VII Porphyrogennetos, "a book that is not only a treatise on the etiquette of imperial banquetting in the ninth century, but a catalogue of the foods available and dishes made from them."

Medieval quince preserves, which went by the French name cotignac, produced in a clear version and a fruit pulp version, began to lose their medieval seasoning of spices in the 16th century. In the 17th century, La Varenne provided recipes for both thick and clear cotignac.

In 1524, Henry VIII received a "box of marmalade" from Mr Hull of Exeter. As it was in a box, this was probably marmelada, a solid quince paste from Portugal, still made and sold in southern Europe. Its Portuguese origins can be detected in the remarks in letters to Lord Lisle, from William Grett, 12 May 1534, "I have sent to your lordship a box of marmaladoo, and another unto my good lady your wife" and from Richard Lee, 14 December 1536, "He most heartily thanketh her Ladyship for her marmalado."

If you're used to cooking with apples or pears, you should be prepared: quince is a tough customer. No scooping out the seed pod with a demistasse spoon: you'll need a sharp paring knife to cut and yank the seeds out. But the results are worth it.


Candied Quince Compote

8 cups quince, peeled, cored and sliced lengthwise into 1/2" slices
4 cups water
1 1/2 cup sugar
1/2 lemon, sliced thinly
12 cloves
2 sticks cinnamon, optional

Combine all ingredients into a 4 quart stockpot. Bring to a boil then reduce to a simmer. Cook until the fruit is fork tender and rosy in color, about 30 minutes. 

Once cooked, the tough quince slices become silken. I also enjoy the syrupy lemon slices. And the fragrance the quince emits while cooking is a pleasure of its own. A dish of candied quince compote is well worth the hassle.

So you'll be glad to get acquainted with quince -- despite its occasional identity confusion.

Late Springtime at the Union Square Greenmarket

It's hard not to fall in love with New York, with Union Square, with the Union Square Greenmarket this time of year. Flowers, produce and flowering produce all abound.

Greetings from Cuba!

My friend Bethanne recently took a week-long trip to Cuba. In the past, travel from the US to Cuba required considerable planning and justification for the trip, but the normalization of relations in 2015 has made the impulse of regular tourism - tourism for the curious, not just the credentialed or blood-related - possible.

Being a good friend and Produce Savant guest blogger superstar, she took note of the produce markets.

"Everything looked fresh and good," she said. The picture above, with sensible cabbage, peppers, onions and carrots, two kinds of starchy tubers and actually ripe pineapple. reminded me of the fruit stands in El Barrio, aka Spanish Harlem. 

A wide range of bananas.

Bethanne noted, "I learned that Cubans are on ration books and fresh produce isn't covered by the ration books, which makes the fresh stuff a bit of a luxury."

Political issues always touch produce, even if we don't always discuss it. Trade policies, agricultural policies, environmental policies, labor policies, and so on. What's grown? What's sold? At what price? Who's selling? Who's buying? What isn't sold? What's exported? I'm curious about it all. 

Given the historically fraught relations between theUS and Cuba, the political implications of produce seem more central. But perhaps I'll explore these topics more fully in future posts. But for now, I'll just promise to write about the mysterious fruits in the photo. Look forward to "What the heck is that? Mamey sapote" in the near future.