A Soft Spot for Persimmons

Contrary to its sunny image, the countryside of central Italy in late fall is chilly, even bitterly cold when the wind blows. The sky is pale blue and the landscape is dominated by shades of beige.

Driving through Umbria one late November afternoon, I found this dreary picture brightened only by the occasional roadside tree, naked of leaves but so studded with a deep orange, almost golden, fruit that it looked as if it were sprouting hundreds of tiny golden suns. Unfortunately, my taxi driver was racing past so quickly I couldn’t make out what the fruit was. When I asked him, he just said, “Kaki.” Whatever that meant, I knew it was beyond my limited Italian, so I just nodded and let it pass.

A day later in Florence, I saw a similar tree, again at a distance. Again I asked, and again I got the answer: “Kaki.” The same thing happened in Pisa. I was beginning to become obsessed.

A week later, during breakfast at a small inn outside Alba, I found a rough wooden bowl in the center of the table filled with persimmons. “Oh, great, you have persimmons,” I said to the hostess, choosing a nice soft one and putting it on my plate.

“No,” she replied, “kaki.” She then informed me in no uncertain terms that these were fruit fit for decoration only and were entirely inedible. She watched in horror as I slit the skin, carefully spooned out the pulp and ate it, smiling all the while. (Not everyone in Italy, however, shares my hostess’ opinion because persimmons, though largely considered ornamental, are consumed there.)

Kaki (in Italy, it’s also spelled cachi) is actually the Japanese word for persimmon. The fruit has been grown in Japan for centuries and it is native to central and northern China.

There is an American persimmon (Diospyros virginiana), though it is not native to the West. Here, we too get the Japanese persimmon (Diospyros kaki), and at this time of year we get two types in plenitude. The Hachiya is a deep orange, heart-shaped fruit that must be completely ripe before eating, otherwise it is full of mouth-drying tannins. The Fuyu is the same color but flatter in shape and can be eaten any time. Its flesh is apple-crisp, though the flavor is not as pronounced.

Despite the wait, the Hachiya is my favorite. Let it ripen until it is smushy-soft (maybe with some black spots on the skin) and feels as if it has liquid inside, and you’ve got something special. It has the musky flavor of a ripe peach, accented by hints of clove and vanilla, and the texture of a very soft mango. In fact, when spooned from the skin, it is almost a puree in itself.

This recipe takes advantage of that luscious texture and intense flavor. In fact, it’s hardly a recipe at all. You’ll be surprised, though, at how complete this dish tastes. When you start with the sun, how could you want more?

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food stylist: Donna Deane; Limoges plate and glass coupe from Geary’s, Beverly Hills

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PERSIMMON PARFAIT (Makes 4 servings)

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1 cup walnut pieces

4 Hachiya persimmons

1/2 cup whipping cream

1 tablespoon sugar

2 teaspoons whiskey or bourbon

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Toast walnut pieces in dry skillet over medium heat until just fragrant. Chop coarsely.

Set persimmons on tops, with pointed end up. Cut in 4 or 6 sections without cutting completely through, leaving persimmons attached at bottom. Place each persimmon in bowl.

Whip cream to soft peaks. Add sugar and beat until bit of cream rubbed between fingers no longer feels gritty. Beat in whiskey or bourbon.

Open persimmon sections like flower. Spoon dollop of whipped cream in center. Sprinkle chopped walnuts on top.