Not-quite-chocolate-pudding fruit: why black sapote is 'utterly unexpected and delightful'

Creamy and very pleasing, black sapote is a treat on its own – and makes a very successful fruit loaf too

I read a bittersweet autobiography by the outrageously talented Jeanette Winterson while living in the UK in the early 2000s. It was marvellously titled Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit. Without getting into it, you immediately get the gist. I think back to that title as much as to the story itself.

Living through a few winters in the northern hemisphere, I started to understand how you may only see one or two different fruits (albeit many varieties of them) during the lean winter months.

As a native to the southern hemisphere, with a climate that is varied enough to grow almost anything, I saw a great variety of fruit in my upbringing in Australia.

It helped that I grew up in a restaurant household. Throughout the year we’d store many varieties of ripening mangoes, persimmons, stone fruits, pears, bananas, citrus and more – under the cool of the stairs or warmth of kitchen counter – depending on the stage of ripeness.

So oranges are indeed not the only fruit.

Especially if you happen to live in a “neither here nor there” microclimate like the NSW Northern Rivers.

“Neither here nor there” can be, liberatingly, the exact location to try your hand at growing anything. There have been so many well intentioned folks who have warned me off from growing this or that, claiming that it won’t do well here. Their advice is always welcomed but not necessarily heeded. I have a rebellious streak that leads to spectacular failure at times, like thinking I could get the basil to keep going through the entire winter in the poly-tunnel … not so! Daylight hours change no matter the climate, it turns out.

A locally renowned fruit grower has become a close mentor of ours, and luckily he lives next door. It’s very handy, especially as he’s the first to point out my mistakes. John and Lyndall Picone are true homesteaders in every sense, the kindest and most generous people you’re ever likely to encounter. John is a curious student of botany, a home producer of commercial fruits, spices and cured small goods.

He has succeeded where others have given up, especially when it comes to his unlikely orchard, with prickly pear growing amicably next to apples, grapes, vanilla and cacao. Lyndall is charged with the capers – it’s a fiddly job that takes an age.

The first time I was invited into their garden of Eden nine years ago, I was pleased to note that my solid immigrant, restaurant-industry upbringing put me in good stead to recognise most of what he grew there.

But in John’s orchard, one fruit stumped me: the black sapote, which also goes by chocolate pudding fruit.

I have a problem with that name, mainly because it is misleading. The texture is not like pudding – being neither custardy, nor of a boiled-pudding consistency.

As for tasting like chocolate – you’d be very confused if that’s what you’re expecting. However, if you approach black sapote with an open mind, it is utterly unexpected and delightful, with honey, caramel, date and mineral tones.

The fruit is best consumed when the exterior looks like it is completely past its prime, with a somewhat bruised appearance. This unfortunately makes it an unappealing supermarket fruit. The texture of a perfectly ripened sapote is akin to soaked dates or very ripe papaya. It is creamy and very pleasing, if like me you like that mushy texture.

I like eating it by itself with some citrus squeezed over – like most sweet, fully-ripened soft fruits. In much the same way your hands get stained by mulberries when you pick them, after polishing off a black sapote, your whole face will be smeared like a child’s. One that has no self-control around a bowl of chocolate pudding. The fact that it is varying shades of brown, depending on ripeness, is probably where the name comes from.

To me, black sapote tastes similar to a Hachiya persimmon, and like the Hachiya it must be completely soft to the touch to be ready to eat, otherwise the astringency will make your mouth pucker, and cause your tongue to recoil in horror.

The clue for when to eat it is in its other name: sapote is the Spanish word for soft fruit. Black sapote’s similarity to persimmon is no coincidence – it is in the same Ebenaceae family. The trees also look somewhat similar, having a glorious, full canopy. However, unlike the persimmon which can withstand the cold, the black sapote is very much a tropical zone tree, native to Mexico, Central America and Colombia.

I guess it was named “sapote” for lack of a better description. Many plants from the forests and jungles of South America got named the same thing, the differentiating factor being another identifier of colour or shape. It’s the same way many native fruits in other colonised countries were given the names of fruits commonly eaten by their conquerors. How else did we end up with so many “apple” this and “apple” thats – none of them related to the Malus species?

Likely accidentally and mindlessly. And now the language is hard to change, commercially it gets called whatever the general consensus confirms.

So there are black and white sapotes (no relation), mamey and chiku sapotes (same family). Black sapotes are not the only sapotes – but I reckon Jeannette Winterson would heartily agree there should be a place for one in your fruit bowl.

Black sapote bread

Black sapote can be used very successfully in place of bananas when baking. It can also be turned into a non-baked dessert like ice-cream or even a sorbet – it emulsifies beautifully.

Here is an easy recipe that can be cooked either in a cake pan or loaf tin, the texture on the outside will be lovely and crumbly while the inside will be like a steamed pudding. You could ice it with a sour cream frosting too, which would go very nicely. However, left as it is, it makes a lovely breakfast or even afternoon tea. Use best quality organic ingredients where possible.

1kg fully ripened black sapote, mashed by hand
1 cup coconut flour
1 cup buckwheat flour
½ cup tapioca flour
¾ cup full-cream milk
1 cup greek yoghurt
¾ cup chopped organic dates
1 tbsp ground cinnamon
1 scraped vanilla pod (put the scraped pod in the sugar jar after)
4 eggs, beaten
1 cup melted cultured butter
¾ cup toasted chopped pecans (optional)
1 tsp sea salt
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
2 tbsp granulated brown sugar (to sprinkle on top)

Mix all wet ingredients, combine sifted dry ingredients together and fold in gently, being careful not to over mix.

Let the mixture rest in fridge for 30 minutes. Pour into a lined loaf tin. Sprinkle granulated brown sugar and some salt.

Bake 170C for one hour. Insert a skewer in the middle of the cake, and if it comes out clean then it is ready.

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