On the trail of the best apricot - includes recipes and related article on the Blenheim variety

Sunset, June, 1997 by Christine Weber Hale

For spectacular flavor, search out the Blenheim variety in farmers' markets and orchards. Or bring out the flavor of other apricots in memorable recipes

The more you learn about apricots, the more you admire growers like Stephen Brenkwitz, whose family has nurtured this prima donna fruit for almost 150 years. The fruit is so fragile that, even in these days of high-tech mechanization, it must be harvested tediously and expensively by hand.

Then, even if all goes well, the best-eating varieties are rarely available fresh.

These realities bombard me as I sit in the small packing plant office at Eden Garden in Tracy, California. So I ask, half-jokingly, why the family persists in this masochistic effort.

"Because he did," Brenkwitz says proudly, as he points to an aged black-and-white photograph of a serious-looking man in suit and tie. It's his grandfather. But the family's association with apricots goes back much further - to Brenkwitz's great-great-grandfather, who came from Germany in 1850 to farm in Hayward, California.

By 1920, fruit farming was big business in Northern California, particularly south of Hayward, in the Santa Clara Valley - the basin at the southern tip of San Francisco Bay. So many apricots, peaches, plums, and cherries were grown there that it was called the Valley of Heart's Delight.

After World War II, with encroaching housing developments and the birth of the computer industry, the northwestern part of the basin acquired yet another name - Silicon Valley. Land prices soared, squeezing agriculture out. And the apricot growers migrated eastward, across the hills into the San Joaquin Valley, where most of California's 400-plus apricot growers are today. California produces 95 percent of this country's apricots.

Driving through the Diablo Range into 'this valley in June, you'd never guess you were in apricot country. The parched, golden brown fields look hardly able to support the cattle lumbering over them - and certainly not water-thirsty fruit trees. But barely a mile off the highway, you're suddenly surrounded by apricot trees, their branches bent by the weight of ripening fruit. And here, Brenkwitz leads me through his 200-acre orchard, which has close to 30 apricot varieties. As the truck zooms and lurches over irrigation ruts and dirt paths at breathtaking speeds, I hang on, abandoning the slightest hope of taking notes. Mental ones will have to do.

First, we visit the apricot that Brenkwitz and many other growers consider king, the Blenheim. One bite, and I know why he goes to the effort of growing them. Warmed by sunshine, the fruit has a velvety texture that melts on the tongue. The flavor is heady and sweet-tart. We stand in silence as the juice drips down our chins and over our hands. This is how apricots are supposed to taste.

But they certainly aren't what I've come to know as apricots. Why do markets ignore this winner?

Looks and long shelf life - the criteria for supermarkets and produce wholesalers - are the antithesis of quality for apricots. Blenheims and other flavorful varieties are shunned because they aren't rugged and picture-perfect. What most of us see are less tasty varieties - Patterson, which accounts for about half the crop, and Castlebrite.

Both are big, shapely, and well colored, and survive in produce bins for a week or more. In their defense, they do cook well - heat intensifies their flavor and softens their texture.

Brenkwitz grudgingly grows Pattersons to make a living. But he refuses to call them apricots. He refers to them wryly as "apricot-like products."

And he hasn't given up on flavor as the measure of a good apricot. Like many growers, he's developing and testing a number of varieties, searching for fruit that will please both consumers and marketers.

One of them is Mary Anne, "named after my wife," he says enthusiastically. It's a large apricot with a beautiful crimson blush splashed over its golden skin. The texture is firmer and crisper than the Blenheim's, but the flavor is sweet and strong.

Orchard tour at an end, Brenkwitz sets me down to a warm, gargantuan piece of his wife's apricot kugen. After sampling so much fruit, I worry I won't be able to do the dessert justice. But those juicy, sweet ripe apricot halves nestling in buttery shortcake with a thick sour cream topping just seem to disappear.

I can't resist asking Stephen Brenkwitz if he ever tires of apricots. "Never!" he says firmly. "In season, I probably eat 10 to 20 or more a day. You have to truly love something to put this much work into it."

Apricot Kugen

Prep and cook time: About 1 hour and 50 minutes, plus at least 30 minutes to cool

Notes: Mary Anne Brenkwitz got this recipe from her husband's grandmother.

Makes: 8 to 10 servings

1/2 cup (1/4 lb.) butter or margarine

2 cups sugar

8 large eggs

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

9 cups halved, pitted firm-ripe apricots

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

2 tablespoons lemon juice

1/4 cup cornstarch

1 1/4 cups sour cream

1 teaspoon vanilla

1. With a mixer, beat butter and 1/2 cup sugar until fluffy. Add 4 eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Stir in flour.