On Friday morning I went with Lola and Bruno’s parents on a mission to find the source of some supposedly fabulous organic, unwaxed oranges that have assumed near-mythic status in these here parts lately. Bruno’s parents ate them for dessert at a friend’s place; they were so fantastic that they vowed to hunt them down and secure themselves a supply.
So, on Friday, a freezing, rainy and bitterly grey morning if there ever was one, we bundled into the car and headed off to seek out these mythical oranges. A couple of suburbs later, down a tiny backstreet, into an old, unassuming house, up the back stairs and into a tiny office we went. Secrecy and furtiveness seemed the order of the day – we were given a form to fill out (oranges available in 9kg lots, but only one per person unless specially ordered beforehand), asked to hand over the cash upfront, then pointed in the direction of a storage room deep in the bowels of the house, where we FINALLY received a tray of glowing, crisp, round orange beauties. Oh, the smell! Amazing. I could hardly wait to get home and slice one open. And when I finally did, it was a kind of revelation. To my surprise, the oranges were almost crisp. I mean, when I sliced it open it had a crisp freshness that I’ve never seen in a store-bought orange. You know the difference between cutting a fresh cucumber and an old, wilted one? Like that. And the flavour – it was so strong, so essentially orangey, so fragrant, not watery and simply sweet like so many oranges. Beautiful. I fell in love with those oranges, I think.
Now they are almost finished *sniff*. I shall have to return to furtively buy more. Actually, despite all the secrecy, the place was packed, with many people carting off 5 or 6 trays (they obviously had pre-ordered). Word gets around quickly, here.