September 1, 2004
OISSAC, France
WHEN I was a child an ancient, solitary tree stood near the driveway of my family's home on Long Island. It was hard to tell that it was a plum tree, because it rarely fruited, but when it did, the small, greenish orbs filled the air with perfume. I would pluck as many as I could, and their syrupy sweetness inspired a rapture that has haunted me ever since, though the tree died long ago.
Decades later I learned that this fruit was a greengage, universally acclaimed by experts as the finest of plums. Over many years roaming the globe searching for flavorful fruit, I have often been asked which one was my favorite. That tiny green plum I first tasted in my yard, I've decided, is the best fruit in the world.
And so, early last month, I made a pilgrimage here, 40 miles northwest of Toulouse, to see how the French manage to grow this defiantly anticommercial fruit. Renowned for its Romanesque sculptures, Moissac is a main commercial center (along with the nearby town of Montauban) for growers of the Midi, who tend 4,700 acres of greengages and related varieties, yielding three-quarters of France's crop. At the convergence of Mediterranean and Atlantic climatic zones, this district enjoys summers with plenty of hot sun to sweeten the greengages, but also cool nights that help them hang on the trees to develop full flavor. Extensive apple orchards flourish in the flatlands of the Tarn and Garonne river valleys, but greengage cultivation centers on small family plantings in the rolling hills north of here, particularly on sunny south-facing slopes.
To prove the point, he offered a ripe fruit with greenish-yellow skin speckled with carmine dots and tender golden flesh packed with distinctive honeyed flavor. I squeezed a drop of juice on my refractometer, a device for measuring sweetness, and it registered 30.5, almost off the scale.
Mr Breil said he grew about seven acres of greengages, a relatively large planting, along with cherries and the region's celebrated Chasselas table grapes. He and his workers packed right in the orchard, making several passes over 10 days to harvest at optimal maturity.
His orchard seemed a corner of paradise, but Mr Breil recited a daunting litany of the greengage's commercial drawbacks: The trees take up to seven years to come into bearing, far longer than most plum varieties; they require fastidious care but crop erratically, with full harvests alternating with scanty ones; the small, delicate fruits are expensive to pick; and when it rains they crack and rot.
"The greengage is the most bizarre, capricious tree," Mr Breil said.
The original greengage, called Reine-Claude Dorée in French, is a natural hybrid of European plum, Prunus domestica, and P. insititia, a species that includes certain small-fruited plums like damsons and mirabelles. Brought to France during the reign of King Francis I (1515-1547), it was named in honor of his queen, Claude. Over the centuries dozens of new seedling varieties arose from the pits, many larger, more reliable and different in season from the original, but none superior in flavor.
Brought to England by the early 17th century, the original variety was named before 1724 for Sir William Gage of Suffolk, whose gardener imported a tree from Paris but lost the label. In England, the prototype is often called Green Gage, or Old Greengage, and its progeny, later hybrids, are known as gages, as in Cambridge Gage.
True greengage trees cannot pollinate themselves and need to grow near other European plum trees to bear fruit (whence my family tree's meager cropping). Walking through his orchard, Mr Breil pointed out three of those plum varieties — Stanley, Monsieur and Royale de Montauban — interspersed to ensure proper pollination of the greengages.
The next morning Mr Breil drove his van loaded with boxes of greengages to the wholesale plum market here, which started at 7 with the blast of a horn. Buyers walked by rows of vans with open back doors, inspected the fruit and proposed a price to the owners; if it was accepted, they shook hands. After 15 minutes the horn sounded the close, and many of the participants repaired to a nearby brasserie to drink café express and gossip about weather and prices.
At one table, Gerard Salord, the president of both the regional and national associations of fresh plum producers, held forth on a pet peeve, the confusion of the true greengage with other gage varieties at retail markets. "The half-sisters are sold for the original," he fumed. "Consumers don't know what they're getting. It's reprehensible."
In the Unites States and England I had tasted other gages that approached the original, but none of the sister varieties I tried over 10 days in France came close. Both the large, creamy yellow Oullins Gage and the purple-skinned Count Althan's Gage were bland. I sampled many specimens of Transparent Gage, legendary among connoisseurs for its diaphanous skin and exquisite flavor, but even the ripest, with apricot-gold flesh, tasted insipid. The one "half-sister" respected and widely grown in France is the Reine-Claude de Bavay, a large, firm variety harvested in late August and early September. Clearly, the type of plum and its terroir make the difference.
The other crucial component is maturity. "In no fruit is supreme ripeness more necessary," wrote Edward Bunyard in his classic 1929 book, "The Anatomy of Dessert."
But producers often harvest too early, to avoid losing their crops to rain, and so that the plums ship and keep better. Underripe fruit softens and improves somewhat, but never realizes its potential flavor.
"Buyers for supermarket chains know nothing about fruit," said Franck Giusti, head of sales at Sofruitex, a shipper based in Montauban. "The best greengages go to wholesalers serving small shops with pickier customers."
One night lightning lit the skies and it rained three inches, a freakish downpour. The next morning when I met Mr Salord, 64, at his farm in Durfort-Lacapelette, north of here, he thrust out his hands in anguish. The rain had split 90 percent of his fruits, all the ripest ones, he said, and he had sent home his workers. The greengages could go to jam, a major use, but processors rarely paid enough to justify picking.
"For plums, as for men, it's always the best that die first," he said. "This is my worst harvest in 40 years. I'll lose 30,000 to 40,000 euros." His normally sparkling eyes darkened, and he added: "But in Algeria and the army I've seen much worse than this. I've lost much more than greengages."
We visited several of his neighbors who somehow still had enough to harvest. On our way through a countryside unfrequented by Americans, we saw brilliant fields of sunflowers; pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostela in Spain; and the medieval hilltop fortress town of Lauzerte, built of local white Quercy stone. Back at the farmhouse, Mr. Salord's wife, Josiane, served lunch, including tapenade, a stew of wild boar shot by her husband, and a splendid greengage tart she baked herself.
Mr Salord also grows Asian-type plums, the kind prevalent in the United States because they are larger, higher-yielding and quicker-bearing than European types. In recent years Asian plums from Spain have flooded European markets, and French farmers have tried to grow them too. But, Mr Salord said, pointing to a sickly orchard, the trees often succumb to a bacterial disease. Greengages, which do not get the disease, are the plum farmers' best option.
Fruit production in France is very political. While I visited Montauban, farmers dumped melons and peaches in the streets to protest low prices. With little direct competition, French greengage growers have fared better, but most customers are over 50 years old, and plantings have declined in recent decades. Trees live 40 years, so the reign of the Reine-Claude will not end soon, but it may gradually fade before the onslaught of more practical plums.
Meanwhile, French greengage growers have updated their techniques to increase production and remain competitive: They have selected high-performing clones of Reine-Claude Dorée; irrigated; even changed the shape of their trees, which they said hastens production. Since 1998 they have used a marketing program, Label Rouge, to promote greengages that meet high standards.
"The greengage's flavor is our only defense," Mr Salord said.
On the last day of my trip, near the end of the harvest, I visited Denise Vergnes, reputed to be one of the best greengage growers, in Montastruc, north of Montauban. The plums were burstingly ripe, with thin cracks encircling their tops and blushes on their sunward cheeks. The workers carefully picked by the stems to preserve the bloom, the natural waxy layer that seals moisture within, while the Vergnes family meticulously hand-sorted the fruits and packed them into small paperboard containers. For the last time I gorged on perfect greengages to my heart's content.
Alas, France does not export greengages to the United States. No one has applied for the necessary permit, and even if they did the subsequent study of problematic pests might take years. But each year, in late February, New Zealand exports to the United States small batches that fetch premium prices at fancy markets.
Gages were the standard of quality in the United States a century ago, and they could be grown again. Varieties like Jefferson, raised near Albany, and Washington, from New York City itself, testify to their adaptation to American conditions, but after a decade of searching, I have found fewer than 100 gage trees in commercial production in this country. Varieties have become confused, and most of the technical knowledge has been lost.
Yet in the last few years there has been a rekindling of interest. Joe Nicholson Jr. of Red Jacket Orchards in Geneva, New York, recently planted more than 500 trees, and a few fruits were available last year at Greenmarkets and stores in New York City. This year the crop failed because of bad weather, but he said he hopes he will learn how to grow the fickle queen of plums.
"I'm ready to take on the challenge," Mr Nicholson said.
Meanwhile, just last week I ordered three gage trees for my family's home on Long Island. It will take time, but the rapture may yet return.
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