Mangoes.

The best ones fit snugly into the palm of an average adult hand, as if evolution has shaped them precisely to meet their end as comfortably as possible. They are all the shades of the colour of the sun through the course of a summer day, tinged at one end in green and flecked with vermillion streaks. They excite the taste buds into lip-smacking anticipation by exuding the most exotic aroma. Seasoned eaters judge which to buy by first smelling prospective candidates, never buying one if it doesn’t have the aroma. The tastiest ones come from Pakistan or Afghanistan in my opinion. And let me quickly dismiss all the geographical pretenders to the crown for this king of fruits which hail from Mexico, Israel, Brazil and other countries which have the climate but not the pedigree to offer a serious challenge.

My indelible memory of eating an Alphonso mango goes back into childhood, and a mango is still the only food I’ve ever eaten where nature has beaten the taste of my mother’s cooking. Mangoes were impossible to get hold of in the Midlands in the late sixties, apart from a wonderful and eagerly awaited month or so in late summer, when the asian shops would get boxes of them from India and Pakistan. The asian population would be driven into a buying and feeding frenzy, whole families divided into regiments of mango seekers and dispersed into as many asian shops as they could cover in order to snap up a box or two of the prized fruit. The shopkeepers were a canny bunch and favours for preferred loyal customers would be awarded come mango time.

Alphonso mangoes have only one correct way to be eaten and it goes thus: select your chosen one, let that amazing, summer-defining colour soak your gaze and inhale the aroma right into your lungs, so they can enjoy the mango as much as your lips, tongue and belly. Slowly work your fingers over the waxy skin as if you are softening a lump of hard cold plasticine - adults should be able to do this with one hand, children with two.

The tricky thing is to know when the golden flesh inside is pulped to just the right consistency and to stop at that stage. By then, one’s anticipation is at bursting point because there is only one more task left before the big moment. That is to then very quickly cut the pointed end off with a sharp knife, immediately open your mouth and let that golden, indescribably delicious pulp ooze steadily into it. One’s eyes should be wide open with obvious pleasure at the taste trickling into every nook and cranny and being gulped down to spread the joy. Mango juice should be allowed to run freely down the sides of your mouth , arms and drip off your elbows; the Alphonso is not a fruit for the personality who cherishes strict control and moderation in their life. But it’s uncannily good at releasing the inner, carefree child in us all.

© Sunil Angris. All rights reserved.