Figs, green walnuts, and pêches de vigne

France's fall fruits are my seasonal favorites, but this year they are particularly perfect. For all the awful weather Europe is suffering, the fruits have emerged bursting with sugary juices and bouquets of complex perfumes and flavors. The succulent bounty of it all has me in a crisis of sensual ecstasy of sorts. Faced with such an embarrassment of riches, I can scarcely decide what dessert or fruit preserve to make next.

Or simply, which fruit to pop into my mouth at the moment. For it is easy to forget, especially if you are faced with nothing but bland industrial fruits, that the carefully nurtured, proudly grown fruit of noble lineage is a dessert in its own pure, unadorned state. And that is what we are lucky to have in France. The primeurs proudly proclaim the provenance of their produce, which in some cases merits an AOC (appellation d'origine controlée), just like wines and cheeses. The AOC is your assurance that you're buying the real thing, and not some cheap "imitation" grown in a less-than-perfect region.

The variety of fall fruits reminds me of the proverbial cornucopia (corne d'abondance, in French). First, figs. I adore figs. I find biting into a perfectly ripened fig a nearly erotic experience. See the photo? That's on my fifth floor terrace. I have ripe figs! They're very good, but I admit they can't rival those that have the luck to ripen in the intense sun of the south of France. The choicest figs are displayed carefully nestled in their crates in a single layer, their plump, curvaceous bottoms facing fetchingly upward. This is so that they can show off the little cross-shaped crack in their centers--proof that the fig is at the perfection of ripeness, literally bursting with sugar, it's interior a cave of honeyed sweetness.

If you attempt to discuss the quality of a good primeur's figs, he will gesture at these significant cracks and look at you sternly, daring you to call into question this irrefutable and universally accepted proof of his figs' aristocratic status. Woe to you if you innocently interpret this crack as meaning the fruit is damaged and perhaps should be marked down! Fortunately, I was never that innocent.

A couple of days ago, I was walking in the Marais, just a bit lost, in a lovely quiet street. Looking down at the sidewalk, I saw to my amazement it was full of squashed figs. I looked around to see that the whole street was lined with mature fig trees, dripping with fruit. Most people seemed to ignore this treasure. Not me. I couldn't resist plucking one and biting into it. Then I saw the name of the street...rue des Figuiers. It was one of those perfect Paris moments.

Fall plums in France means not only the lowly blue or prune plum, referred to here by it's German/Alsatian name of quetsche, but the more exquisite Mirabelles and Reine Claudes. Mirabelles are small golden plums, ideally speckled with red, about the size of a giant cherry. They are a specialty of Alsace, although they grow perfectly well just about anywhere. They are sugary and flavorful, with a firm skin. One makes just a mouthful. A Mirabelle tart is one of my favorite desserts. And in Alsace, they are distilled down to their perfumey essence as eau de vie Mirabelle.

Reine Claudes deserve their royal name. They are for me truly the queen of plums. Known by the less lyrical name of green gage in English (of which Reine Claude is one variety), the Reine Claude is larger than a Mirabelle. It is a beautiful lettuce green in color, sometimes touched with gold at full ripeness. Its thin skin makes it fragile when ripe, and bursts in your mouth to release a flood of sugary perfume. I consider this the world's best plum for fresh eating, and homemade preserves are the next best thing. You can also make a sorbet of Reine Claudes that carries the full perfume of the fresh fruit.

Early fall is also when the exquisite Chasselas de Moissac (AOC) grapes are in season. Americans used to large and uniquely seedless grapes at first have a hard time figuring out why all the fuss over this one. But just forget about grapes needing to be seedless for a minute--long enough to pop one of these small, pearlescent grapes in your mouth. It's thin skin bursts between your teeth and a delicate, sweet aroma saturates your tastebuds.

Relax about the seeds. You can spit or swallow--as you like. Real grapes have seeds, including the muscats and all the great table grapes of Italy. Take out the seeds, and unfortunately most of the flavor follows. The Chasselas de Moissac grows in slender, graceful clusters that look as if they just stepped out of a 17th century still life. The grapes are so thin-skinned that they are translucent; you can see the seeds inside them if you hold a cluster against the sun. Their color when perfectly ripe is a pale gold--similar to the honeyed tones of some of the great Jura wines.

Finally, late summer and early fall is the peak of the green nut season. Green nuts?! Yes, well, green as in "fresh" and not yet dry, the state in which most of us in the U.S. know nuts. Green nuts are a delicacy that is awaited with impatience in France. The first arrival of any variety is much celebrated and always very expensive. The degustation of green nuts begins in June with green almonds, which arrive in their delicate green, slightly fuzzy husks. Their kernels are milky and purists claim that you must slip them out of their skins--which have not yet turned brown--before eating.

Sometime in August, green hazelnuts begin to appear. Clustered in frills of delicate green husks, the pubescent nuts just peak out from their lacy collars. Their milky, slightly green taste arouses in me a near frenzy of delight. If no one's watching, I'm liable to eat the first pound of the season entirely on my own, in one sitting.

At the beginning of September, the venerated green walnuts make their first appearance. The first of these can bring as much as 20 euros a kilo, as apparently people are so looking forward to this treat that they're willing to pay the price. Green walnuts are treated like jewels by the primeurs, who handle them with as much care and respect as the fragile fall cêpes (king boletes or porcini mushrooms). They mist the sticky shells regularly to keep them moist and worth their premium value. A green walnut is more difficult to crack than a dry one, as their is no empty space between the kernel, still swollen with sappy moisture, and the shell. The flavor is milky and green, with no hint of the oiliness we associate with a dry walnut. (Check out our authentic Perigord walnut cracker under Accoutrements-Table on the Shop Online page!)

Last but not least, for a brief period in early fall, we are graced with the availability of pêches de vigne--literally peaches of the grapevine. This ancient variety of peach has traditionally been planted among the grapevines as an indicator plant. As peaches are even more susceptible than grapes to the same diseases, the appearance of disease on the peach signals the immediate need to treat the grapevines before disease spreads.

In spite of its humble position as a sort of sacrificial lamb to the noble grape, the pêche de vigne is the most glorious peach on earth. Its deep, raspberry rose skin is heavily furred with fuzz. Dip it in boiling water for a few seconds, and slip of the skins to reveal the voluptuous flesh beneath. Pêche de vigne is basically a white peach, but its flesh is stained a deep red almost all the way to the pit. (Wear gloves when slicing as the rich juice also stains your hands.) This heirloom peach is so richly perfumed and of such intense sweetness that to do anything more than slice it, add a squirt of lemon juice, and a sprinkling of sugar is gilding the lily. Or worse: somehow I don't think its delicate flavor could stand up to cooking. However, a generous splash of rich, natural cream is the perfect complement.

If you're lucky enough to visit France during the early fall, sieze the opportunity to visit a market and buy a basketful of these earthly delights. Some fruit, green walnuts, a hunk of cheese, a baguette, and a bottle of wine tucked uder your arm, and you're ready to head off to the nearest park for a resplendent autumn pique-nique. Bon appetit!

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