Fun piece in the Times about mango season in Mumbai. I do love mangoes.
Right now, mango frenzy is in full swing, not least in Mumbai, a city where people know better than anyone how to reincarnate a mango: street vendors across the city start squeezing mango juice for around 20 rupees (about 45 cents, at about 44 rupees to $1); fashionable bars mix mango martinis for around 20 times as much; and restaurants at five-star hotels launch mango minifestivals featuring expensive avant-garde mango curiosities.
Indians have become very fond indeed of a fruit that is absent for so much of the year. (Outside the season many must console themselves with their mothers’ homemade mango pickles.) The first mangoes of the year make newspaper headlines and herald the coming of summer. India has its own heavily processed answer to Coca-Cola in Frooty, a ubiquitous sugary mango-flavored drink (the Coca-Cola Company has retaliated with its own version called Maaza).
And, hey, here’s something positive about the Bush presidency (I *am* trying): removal of the barriers to imports of Indian mangoes:
The Indian wing of DHL even offers a courier service specifically for mangoes, although the United States has long been absent from its list of destinations because of its ban on Indian mangoes. But the ban should soon be lifted as part of a deal struck by President Bush on his March visit to the country, which will also give India easier access to nuclear technology. Quid pro quo, as far as many Indians are concerned. “The U.S. is looking forward to eating Indian mangoes,” he said at a press conference, cheering up a local press that he had earlier disappointed by not seeming too well-versed about cricket and Bollywood, two other Indian passions.
Hmm. Mangoes for nukes.
Unfortunately, it looks like Indian mangoes won’t be available here until next year. But if this description of how to eat a mango is any indication of how good they are, it’ll be worth the wait:
Inside knowledge always helps, so this reporter called upon Deepanjana Pal, a wine critic in Mumbai who is just as enthusiastic about mangoes. The most important lesson: How to eat a mango, presented in a three-part mime. She first holds out a cupped hand, in which sits the imaginary glistening orange oval of a whole peeled mango; she then deftly flicks her hand at the wrist to propel the phantom mango against her mouth, which gets busy sucking the flesh down to the seed; finally, outrageously, she deploys the full length of her tongue to lick her arm, elbow to wrist, to recapture an inevitable trickle of invisible mango juice.
“That,” she says after a long moment’s rapture with a fruit that’s not even there, “is the best bit.” She goes on to speculate that there is something alchemical in the mingling of sweetest mango juice with a salty sheen of sweat.
(Later, a local driver reacted with horror to the mime. “So you don’t eat them like that?” I ask. “Well yes, at home, of course,” he says. “But not in the streets! People will think that’s where you live.”)