The way to tamarillo

IN their home regions — Peru, Chile, Ecuador — they are known as tomate

de arbol, or tomato of the tree, and so they were known as tree tomatoes when first introduced to New Zealand.

This happened in the late 1800s, when they were yellow or purple. The more familiar red version was developed by an Auckland nurseryman in the 1920s.

Their commercial production was minimal until World War II, when imported bananas and other exotic fruit became scarce and a fruit high in vitamin C that could be grown at home increased in attraction.

However, anyone biting into a tree tomato thinking it was just another variety of tomato was in for a rude surprise — the skin is bitter and is never knowingly eaten and the flesh has a kick unlike any tomato’s.

In 1959, the name Chinese gooseberry was not serving the fruit well in the US market as the Cold War raged, and produce company Turners and Growers announced that henceforth they would call it kiwifruit.

Chinese gooseberry seeds were first bought to New Zealand in 1904, by the principal of my old school, Wanganui Girls College. And in 1967, the tree tomato also got a name change.

Mr W. Thompson of the tree tomato promotions council, took “tama” from the Maori language, implying leadership. No one is quite sure where he got the “rillo” from. Perhaps it just sounded right.

There is another South American import, the feijoa, which like the kiwi and the tamarillo, can be eaten by cutting in half and scooping the flesh out with a teaspoon.

And, all three have been mistaken for New Zealand natives, an easy mistake given that that certainly is the place where they are most cultivated and familiar.

Tamarillos are no take-it-or-leave-it fruit. You either love or loathe the acidic, assertive flavour.

Because they have such oomph they cut through fatty food — duck l’tamarillo anyone? Also some cream will soften the flavour.

They are a good match to mollify the sweetness of pavlova; not served in raw slices so much as poached and chopped and stirred through the cream.

Like tomatoes, they are easily peeled by nicking the tips and plunging them in boiled water for a few seconds. Or they can be poached whole and then the skin easily slips off when they cool.

In The Cook’s Companion Stephanie Alexander remarks that tamarillos are “noticeably absent from many standard reference works”.

And indeed they do not appear in my go-to fruit recipe books Jane Grigson’s

Fruit Book) and Nigel Slater’s Tender II. Stephanie has a recipe for tamarillos poached with that other intensely flavoured fruit, blackcurrants. Very complementary flavours she says.

But certainly when I enter tamarillos in www.eatyourbooks.com (the indexing service that tells you what you have in your own recipe collection) the 19 results that come up are mostly from New Zealand cooks.

One of the Cook’s Companion recipes for tamarillo hollandaise sauce is credited to New Zealander Annabelle Langbein.

Peter Gordon likes them poached in red wine with star anise, cinnamon and sugar. Jo Seagar has them in a brown sugar pie teamed with coconut.

Alexa Johnston says almost every old community cookbook includes a recipe for tree tomato chutney “and the recipe always seems to be the same”.

Ruth Pretty’s tamarillo chutney however seems the version most cited on the internet. She serves it with roast suckling pig and pork pies.

Not in my collection, but also from New Zealand is Jan Bilton’s Tamarillo with 100 recipes.

Tamarillos are very useful in that they are a winter fruit. July and August are their peak season, but in parts of the country they still can be around until November.

I am in the camp that loves tamarillos. When I spent last August in Wanganui I was able to buy nets full of large tamarillos for $3 at the farmers or super market.

They are grown commercially in Australia but I’ve never seen them in a supermarket. I do see (and seize on) them at Cygnet Garden Larder, where they have been supplied from a home garden.

However, they are small and at about $1 each, I do not go in for making chutney, or even pies. I do like them simply scooped out, chopped up and stirred through that other star of winter, porridge.