On the Art of Eating a Mango

If Jordan can do it, so can I! This is my AP Lang musing. It is rough, be forewarned.
Enjoy.

I like to consider myself a simple-minded person, a person who takes pleasure in seemingly trivial acts or ideas or tangible objects. It is perhaps a skewed view of myself, but no matter how much I see its flaws, I continue to hold on to it. The reason is because there is something so intensely satisfying about finding a small pleasure and making it a big deal.

Mangoes have been such an intrinsic part of my growing up that I quite nearly take them for granted. Some people have places—like houses, or log cabins—that they recall when their memories of summertime are jogged. For me, it isn’t so much the house I spent my summers in but instead the people I spent it with. Moreover, I’ve always felt that there is no better bridge between people than food. Every culture has its own food, its own customs and rituals along with the food. This isn’t a musing about culture, it’s about mangoes.

In New Delhi one can come across every single variety of mango available. Since I have grown I’ve witnessed the introduction of GM foods, and fruits were no exception. Injected with sucrose, chemicals to increase their size, and bred with other types, the mangoes of today no longer uphold the principle that good things can come in small packages. Now it’s all about size, shape, color—the appearance of the fruit, rather than the fruit itself.

Most people in the United States have not had the opportunity (or haven’t taken advantage of their grocery stores) to eat one of these delectable fruits. It’s a shame, really, that so many people write off the mango as “exotic” or “foreign” and are afraid to dive into its sugary, juicy goodness. Some claim the excuse of never knowing when to find them, but it’s a summer fruit, and it’s in the local grocery store. That’s where I get mine—when I’m not in India, anyway.

The most effective method of eating a mango is waiting until it is just ripe before cutting into it. Hastiness leads to what we say in Hindi is “kaccha”, or raw/unripe. Waiting too long leads unfortunately to a mushy, pulpy, mess—not always a bad thing, but never as sweet or firm as the most perfect mango can be. My mango of choice is Alfonso. The apus mango is my favorite because it is a rounder taste, there is more of the mango readily available, and it is the best to attack on a hot summer’s day. The best Alfonso mangoes are imported from Bombay, and all Bombayites know where to find the best selection. When they are perfect for the devouring, they are a rich yellow color on the outside, but be cautious: the green is an indicator that the mango has time yet before it should be eaten.

Let the mango sit in the fridge to avoid it ripening too quickly. That’s just plain disappointing—having too many mangoes and not enough mouths to slurp them into. A few hours prior to consumption—actually, in my family, it’s when the rotis start getting made and the table is set—take the mangoes out, wash them thoroughly, and set them on a stainless steel plate with a sharp knife. After they have sufficiently thawed and softened, the mango must be cut like so:

First, the knifeman must cut it into three parts: the gutli, and on both sides of it, each about 1/3 thick.

The subsequent two side pieces must be sliced in half to create quarter pieces just the right size to fit into a mouth.

The skin remaining on the outside of the gutli can either be simply peeled off, or can be cut with enough mango remaining on it to be another, smaller, “quarter” piece.

After the meal, after plates are cleared and the sweet teeth make their presence known, the mangoes must be placed on that same plate in the center of the table. Each sticky-fingered hand reaches in to grab their choice slice. The elders, trying to cut back on their sugar intake, settle for a quarter piece. The children, no stranger to juicy messes, grab the delicious quarter pieces (only natural as they are, undoubtedly, the best part of the mango), but the daring ones reach for the gutli.

The quarter pieces are eaten thusly: the consumer places one end of the piece at least an inch into his mouth—enough that about half of the piece can be eaten in one go. Teeth clamped down, the hand must guide the other, in-tact end of the mango piece out, out, out of the mouth until there is nothing left but a rut of zealous teeth marks. Turn to the other side. Repeat. Should there be any middle-mango remaining, the consumer must immediately place the piece, sideways, into his mouth and proceed to create a vacuum—a delicious, glorious vacuum—for the mango to simply lift off the peel and into the mouth.

Gutlis are a different way altogether. They are not for the timid, for the weak, and for the tidy. They must be attacked with full force, working from the bottom to the top, where the stem may remain. First on the sides (where much of the mango may already be cut off), and then the actual “middle part” remaining on the two flat sides must be mercilessly scraped off also. It may sound barbaric, but any true mango fanatic understands the necessity of eating every single edible part of the mango. It’s not about wasting, but, instead, of taking advantage of a sweet, wonderful opportunity.

My grandfather once taught all nine of the grandchildren how to eat the mango quarter pieces with a spoon. “When you are in company,” he said, “it is rude to slurp it all over the place.” I have never, not once, put this into action. I am quite nearly appalled at people who religiously eat mangoes like this. It’s a violent crime to the nature of the mango. To me, a mango must be enjoyed with the juice dripping and leaving a sticky layer on the chin, the peels so flattened from the force of teeth looking to be put to good use, and a satisfaction that one simply cannot get from any other fruit. To eat a mango with a spoon is like eating dinner and someone’s house, calling it a fantastic meal, and then passing half off to the dog.

Perhaps I hold mangoes dearly to my heart not only because they are scrumptious, but because they symbolize a greater part of my life. The part when I can unwind, completely free of inhibitions, and sink into a world where sticky chins are acceptable, and formality has no place. It is the simplicity, maybe the barbarity, that draws me to mangoes. Something so fantasmical, so enjoyable, and so devoid of any worry: when I’m eating a mango, I don’t need to worry about the next election cycle or if the Amazon rain forest is still intact; I am too busy taking pleasure from this, the most wonderful of all fruits.

There is a level of satisfaction, satiation, that one can only get with eating a mango after a good Indian meal. One of the most primal instincts fulfilled so completely. Simple pleasure though it may be, eating a mango is truly an art.