Discovering French Cherries and the Art of Clafoutis
- Geraldine Provost
- Jun 3
- 5 min read
There’s a certain hush that settles over the marketplace just before summer truly begins. The rush of early spring produce—those bundles of green asparagus, the first tart rhubarb, and the beloved Gariguette strawberries—begins to ease. The scent in the air becomes richer, deeper. And then, without warning, a new arrival steals the show. Crimson, glossy, heart-shaped jewels tumble from their crates into paper sacks with a rustle that suggests secrets of sunshine and orchard breezes.
C’est le temps des cerises.
Photo by Pixabay: https://www.pexels.com/photo/cherry-fruits-on-white-and-red-ceramic-round-plate-162804/
To the French, cherries aren’t just a fruit—they’re a memory, a song, a love letter to fleeting sweetness. “Le Temps des Cerises” is more than a tune; it’s a nostalgic ode to pleasure, to heartbreak, to the tender ephemerality of life. And nowhere is this sentiment more vividly embodied than in the arrival of cherries to the marché.
Nestled between fragrant strawberries and sturdy bundles of basil, the cherries make their entrance in mid-May and hold court into July. There are hundreds of varieties cultivated across France, though only about fifteen are commercially available. These fruits are sorted by hand, often picked from ladders high in the trees, evaluated for shape and sheen, and sold in wooden crates that whisper of the countryside.
The first to appear is always the Burlat.
You’ll know them by their plump, round shape and nearly mahogany skin. Burlats are the heralds of cherry season, making up roughly 30% of France’s national cherry production. Bite into one and it floods your mouth with syrupy juice—a balance of sugar and acidity that wakes your palate. Their early arrival mirrors the Gariguette strawberry in spring: delicate, full of character, and short-lived.
Two to three weeks later, the Summit cherries arrive. Compared to the Burlat’s rotund elegance, the Summit cherries seem almost whimsical, shaped like tiny hearts. Their flesh is firm, with a satisfying bite that holds well for cooking or preserving. They account for about 11% of the market, but they stand out for their shape and their deeper, wine-like flavor. They’re a flirtatious contrast to the Burlat’s bold sweetness—an invitation to explore further.
And you should.
France, ever the connoisseur of agricultural nuance, does not stop at two varieties. Strolling the market, you'll spot handwritten signs boasting names like Van, Stark, Beige, Sweet Heart, and the inky Noire de Meched. Some are tart and best suited for preserves, while others dissolve on the tongue like jam made solid. Then there’s the Rainier, with its pale yellow-and-rose blush, which evokes peaches and honey. These cherries are less acidic and often the earliest bi-color fruit to appear on the stalls, typically by the end of May.
There’s a ritual to cherry shopping in France. You don’t simply grab and go. You taste, you discuss. You ask about where they were grown—was it Montmorency? Provence? The Ardèche?—and the vendor may wax poetic about the weather’s impact on this year’s harvest. There’s reverence in the exchange, as if each cherry were a wine vintage.
And yes, they can be expensive. Shoppers, especially visitors unfamiliar with the pricing system, sometimes do a double-take. But there's a reason. Cherries are fragile. They bruise easily, spoil quickly, and must be picked at the perfect ripeness—often by hand. Add in the careful transport, the perishability, and the classification as "catégorie extra" (the crème de la crème of fruit ranking), and suddenly the price per kilo makes a little more sense.
If you’re lucky, you’ll arrive when the market is humming, the sun is just cresting over the rooftops, and the cherry sellers are offering tastings. This is when you sample them all. Buy a handful of each, carry them in your straw basket, and head to a bench with a view of something old and beautiful—a cathedral, a river, a crooked Parisian street. Let the juice run down your fingers. Let your only agenda be comparison and delight.
Now, what to do with this trove of treasure?
Of course, you could eat every single cherry out of hand. But if you’re in France—or channeling the French spirit—you’ll likely turn to a beloved dessert: the clafoutis.
Clafoutis (pronounced klah-foo-TEE) is something between a flan and a pancake. It's custardy, simple, and entirely forgiving. You whisk together eggs, milk, sugar, and a bit of flour, pour the mixture over fruit, and bake until it’s golden and just set. The traditional version uses whole cherries—pits and all. Purists will argue that leaving the pits in preserves the integrity and flavor of the fruit during baking, and indeed, there’s something rustic and satisfying about navigating each bite.
That said, if you’re not trying to break a molar, you can certainly pit the cherries first.
Either way, what emerges from the oven is a wobbly, golden masterpiece, slightly puffed around the edges and studded with pockets of molten fruit. It’s best served slightly warm, dusted with powdered sugar, perhaps with a dollop of crème fraîche or a spoonful of lightly whipped cream.
Here’s a version of the recipe that stays true to the spirit of the original but allows for a few gentle updates.
Clafoutis aux Cerises (French Cherry Clafoutis)
Serves 6–8
Ingredients:
2 cups fresh cherries, stemmed and pitted (or left whole, if you’re a purist)
3 large eggs
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 tablespoon brown sugar
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup whole milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3/4 teaspoon almond extract (or a splash of Amaretto)
Butter for greasing the baking dish
Optional: powdered sugar for dusting
Instructions:
Preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C). Generously butter a 9-inch round or similar-sized baking dish.
Arrange the cherries evenly across the bottom of the dish.
In a medium bowl, whisk the eggs until frothy. Add both sugars and the salt, and whisk again until well combined.
Sift in the flour and whisk until smooth.
Slowly pour in the milk, stirring constantly to avoid lumps. Add the vanilla and almond extracts.
Pour the batter gently over the cherries.
Bake for 35 to 40 minutes, or until the clafoutis is puffed and golden, and a knife inserted into the center comes out clean.
Let cool slightly before serving. The clafoutis will deflate a bit as it rests—that’s part of its charm.
Dust with powdered sugar and serve warm or at room temperature.
The magic of clafoutis lies in its effortlessness. It doesn’t scream for attention, yet it always draws admiration. It’s not overly sweet, not too heavy—perfect for summer lunches or lazy dinners on the terrace. And best of all, it honors the fruit itself.
Because that’s what this season is about: noticing the details. The way the market changes each week. The conversations with vendors who remember your preferences. The paper cone of cherries carried like a precious bundle back to your kitchen. The simple pleasure of biting into something ripe and real.
By mid-July, the cherries will be gone. Replaced by plums and peaches, then apples and grapes, and then eventually the sturdy produce of autumn. But you’ll remember them. The color, the perfume, the delicate skins that burst between your teeth. Maybe you’ll even hum a few lines of that old French song. Or better yet, teach someone else to make clafoutis.
Because the beauty of cherry season isn’t just in the eating. It’s in the sharing. And the knowing that some of the sweetest things in life are also the most fleeting.
Header Photo Credit: Pixabay https://www.pexels.com/photo/cherry-fruits-on-white-and-red-ceramic-round-plate-162804/
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