Some of you will remember that melons were considered fancy in the 1970s. Slices of honeydew were served as a starter in steak houses and at weddings, though it was often so tasteless it had to be served with a dusting of sugar and some ground cinnamon. It could be difficult to prepare as the flesh near the skin was so firm; you needed a sharp knife and a steady hand. Despite being disappointing in flavour I liked the specialness of these wedges.
The melon continues to be abused. There are plenty of miserable ones, tasteless chunks of which are used to bulk out sad fruit salads. I’ve noticed you can now buy ‘melon-free’ tubs in some sandwich chains. How badly we can treat food. Melons are meant to be eaten from May to October – a warm sweet melon in October is a pleasure you want to linger over, but it will never be good on a grey January day.
A melon’s flesh isn’t firm and dense, which is why it’s so thirst-quenching. Watermelon flesh in particular looks as if it’s on the point of bursting. I didn’t see a watermelon till I was 18 and on holiday in Greece. We went to a restaurant where they were serving big smiling wedges of it on ice.
The juice that squirted out as you sank your teeth into it was so cold you wanted to tip the whole plateful – ice and all – over your head. When we bought a watermelon in the market I didn’t want to eat it, I just wanted to smash it on the ground so I could see the juice explode.
You need to be a determined shopper if you’re going to get good melons. The best will be heavy for their size – that indicates juiciness and a high sugar content – and perfumed (sniff the circle at one end, opposite where the stem was). You can press gently on this point as well: it should be slightly soft, but go easy when you’re testing for ripeness, you don’t want bruising.
The French Cavaillon melon, if you can find it, is king – perfumed orange flesh that tastes of honey – and I love Charentais, which is small and heavily scented, a feast for one. Cantaloupes are sweet and tender, though not up there with the Cavaillon. Galia (or Ogen) with its pale green flesh is a cross of cantaloupe and honeydew. It’s not as rich as other varieties but it’s better than the rock-hard honeydews of my childhood.
If you find good melons, you don’t need to do much with them. Melon and prosciutto – sweet cool flesh against fatty salty ham – is a combination I never tire of. I often order it when there are many other choices because I can’t resist.
Feta or a Provençal goat’s cheese work well with melon too, especially watermelon; it’s that salty-sweet thing again. Instead of the standard feta with watermelon salad I make one with more layers – griddled halloumi, watermelon, capers, quick-pickled red onions, mint leaves and crumbs toasted with chilli.
You have to go into training to become a good buyer of watermelon. A shiny skin indicates that the melon is underripe, but I have learnt that the important thing is to look at the colour of the ‘field spot’, the patch which has been lying on the ground. The more yellow this is, the more time it has spent ripening and becoming sweeter.
Melon sorbets and granitas are heaven. I often make granita in a heatwave and dip into it when I’m working late at night, going to the freezer both to stand in its coolness and to scrape up a spoonful of coral-coloured crystals. The thing is, you promise yourself you’ll have just one spoonful but eventually find yourself staring into an empty container, justifying it by claiming it’s so hot you ‘needed’ the water.
On doctor’s orders Diana Henry is taking a break from her column. We can’t wait to have her back on these pages, but in the meantime we hope you enjoy these previous favourites from her archive.
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