Seville Oranges
The tart vigour of the Seville orange shouldn't just be stuck in the marmalade jar, explains
Liz Franklin, as she explores the short season and long history of a treasured import.
Seville is beautiful. The capital of the southern Spanish province of Andalucia, it is a place of sparkling
sunshine glinting off tiled façades; of half-lit tapas bars with haunches of jam�n hung from their
rafters; of narrow, cobbled alleys and the stately breadth of the Guadalquivir river; and, of course, of orange
trees.
Wander through Barrio Santa Cruz, Seville's old Jewish quarter, and you'll see orange trees lining peaceful
little squares with burbling fountains and azulejo-tiled benches. Turn onto the orange-tree-fringed Plaza del
Triunfo and you'll be assaulted by the vastness of the cathedral (complete with its own orangery), which towers over
the infinitely more tasteful Moorish Alcazar across the square, a metaphor in stone for the whole bloody history of
Spain's Catholic Reconquista.
The oranges are a truly seasonal ingredient. In summer, Seville bakes under an unforgiving sun; but now, in
January, the city and the trees come into their own, and the plump fruit glisten in vibrant contrast to the dark-
green leaves.
Although the Seville orange's sweeter sisters may grace our shelves all year round, the Spanish fruit has all but
disappeared by the end of February. Marmalade-makers await the season eagerly, while other people may not even be
aware of its passing. This is largely because underneath the Seville's thick, rough skin, the flesh is extremely
tart and packed with seeds; it is not an eating orange, but its high acidity offers perfect setting power for
preserves.
Bitter oranges originated in the northeast of India and neighbouring areas of China and Southeast Asia. During
the first centuries of their empire, the Romans took a great interest in the fruit; however, as their domination of
Europe ended, so did the cultivation of oranges. By this time, Arabs had established both themselves and the bitter
orange in Spain. With the Moors' irrigation technology, the fruit flourished in the once-dry land.
Some believe that the British passion for the fruit – or rather, the fruit transformed to marmalade – began with
a happy accident in 1700, after a young Dundee grocer named James Keiller took a risk
on a large consignment of oranges that were en route from Seville, on a ship sheltering against a storm in Dundee
harbour. The oranges were cheap, but Keiller couldn't sell them: the flesh was far too sour. His shrewd wife,
however, used the oranges to make a spreadable preserve. The jars went on sale in Keiller's shop and soon demand
became so high, the family had to order a regular shipment of oranges from Seville. By 1797 they had opened
Britain's first marmalade factory.
Despite the huge number of bitter oranges that are grown in Seville, none is available to buy in the shops or
markets; the people of Seville can pick the fruit freely from the trees anyway, so there's little point trying to
sell them. But the Spaniards use few in cooking and they aren't big marmalade-makers, so the bulk of the harvest is
exported to Britain. That said, the sisters of the San Leandro and Santa Paula convents make bitter orange
preserves, to traditional recipes that have been handed down the years, to be sold alongside their famous
pastries.
Marmalade aside, the tart juice of the Seville orange can also be used to create tangy salad dressings and
fabulous sauces to cut through the richness of meat and game. The classic French bigarade is a delicious example: a
dark, port-enriched, orange-flavoured sauce that is traditionally served with roast duck and for which dessert
oranges would prove far too sweet.
The juice makes a great alternative to lime or lemon juice in ceviche, a Latin American fish dish in which the
citric acid has a similar effect to heat on the protein bonds in the tissue and 'cooks' it by marination. Firm white
fish, plump meaty scallops and oily, omega-3-rich fish such as salmon and mackerel work especially well. Simply
slice the fish thinly and marinate in a mixture of bitter orange juice, lightly seasoned with salt and freshly
ground black pepper, with some sliced or chopped onion, crushed garlic, maybe a chopped chilli or two – even a
grating of ginger. Leave in the fridge or another cool place for a couple of hours or so, until the flesh turns
opaque – and that's all it takes. Just ensure the fish you are using is ultra-fresh.
To create versatile flavoured oils and vinegars, just drop a piece or two of
oven-dried peel into the bottle and leave for a while to infuse. They will beautifully complement zingy, peppery
leaves such as rocket, spinach and watercress.
The sharp juices are also wonderful in cakes and pastries, giving a lovely concentrated flavour. The marmalade
makes great ice cream too – I stir in crisp, buttery brioche croutons to make a lovely toast and marmalade parfait.
The good news is that unlike many of its less acidic cousins, the Seville orange can be frozen, so those pushed
for time post-Christmas can pop a bag in the freezer and make use of this very special, often undervalued fruit at a
later date.