The Mamón Chino Wait

Original watercolor sketch by Author

When I first moved to Costa Rica, I discovered these little treasures called mamón chino. One taste and I was hooked.

Now I have a tree behind my house.

Every morning I conduct the same ridiculous ritual. The branches are heavy with green fruit, and I stand beneath them like some impatient fruit whisperer, silently commanding them to ripen.

“Come on... any day now.”

So far, the tree has ignored me completely.

The fruit hangs there in perfect shades of green, pretending not to hear. I remind it that I have been patient. I remind it that I know what’s hiding inside those prickly little shells—a sweet, translucent treasure that I can no longer live without.

No response.

For now, I satisfy my cravings by buying handfuls from the street vendors who appear this time of year with bags full of bright red jewels. Their season is just beginning, but by fall they'll be everywhere. They tide me over but barely.

Last week, I ate a whole kilo of these on my way to work at the Galeria 1084, leaving a roadside trail of fuzzy shells from Dominical to Uvita.

If you’ve never tasted a mamón chino, imagine something about the size of a golf ball with a bright red, hairy-scary shell that peels away to reveal translucent white fruit wrapped around an almond-sized seed. The flavor is sweet with just a hint of tartness, and the texture reminds me of a grape, only firmer, crisper, and way more satisfying.

They’re one of those simple pleasures that mark the seasons here. Every year, I find myself watching that tree, waiting... dreaming... and occasionally begging Mother Nature to hurry along.

But come fall, my tree and I will have a very different relationship.

I already know how this story ends. I’ll be standing beneath those branches with stained fingers, little piles of fuzzy empty shells at my feet, wondering why I ever thought buying them from a vendor was enough.

Until then, I continue my daily ritual.

“Ripen.”

One of these mornings, I’m sure they’ll finally listen.

Some dreams hang just beyond reach, green against the morning sky, teaching patience one fruit at a time.

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(Watercolor sketch from September 2022, when I first discovered the irresistible magic of mamónes.)

Adelia Ritchie, PhD

Author of Quito and the Galápagos: A Bucket List Adventure