Hachiya Persimmon and Brie Pastries
Hachiya Persimmon and Brie Pastries, The Saison.
The persimmon is a fruit that demands patience — an almost monastic stillness in a world that prizes ripeness as immediacy.
To eat a Hachiya persimmon before its time is to be punished: its tannins grip the tongue like a lesson in restraint. But when fully ripe, it offers not just sweetness, but a kind of generosity—flesh that yields without protest, flavor that dissolves into memory.
Native to East Asia, the persimmon (Diospyros kaki) has been cultivated in China for over two thousand years. Its name, translating roughly to “fruit of the gods,” reflects its status not as quotidian produce but as symbol: of longevity, of transformation, of the quiet virtue of endurance. In Chinese and Korean lore, the persimmon tree is considered auspicious, its fruit likened to lanterns or prayers, its branches used in brushwood paintings to evoke seasonal change. In Japan, the fruit is associated with wisdom and poetic melancholy—most famously in Bashō’s haiku:
I bite into a persimmon / the bell resounds / at Hōryū-ji.
The symbolism is apt. Where other fruits beg for plucking, the persimmon teaches waiting. The tree itself—twisting, resilient, slow-growing—is less orchard staple than quiet presence, and the fruit’s afterlife is just as compelling. Dried persimmons (hoshigaki) are hung in rows from rafters in autumn, their skins gradually wrinkling and sugars surfacing, a kind of suspended alchemy. In the American South, a different species—the wild Diospyros virginiana—was once foraged and baked into dense puddings and wartime breads, its bitter youth mellowed by frost.
And yet despite this history, the persimmon remains underappreciated in the West, too often reduced to novelty or misunderstood entirely. The Hachiya, with its tear-shaped body and jelly-soft texture, frightens those accustomed to the crisp command of an apple. It has no snap, no crunch. It bruises easily and ripens without warning. But for those willing to wait—to set it on a windowsill and trust—it becomes something richer: a vessel of sweetness without sharpness, a fruit that has let go of all its defenses.
Which brings us to the kitchen. Pairing Hachiya persimmons with brie—a cheese as yielding and unctuous as the fruit itself—creates a kind of textural echo, offset by the golden puff of pastry. It is a dish that speaks softly but insistently, a conversation between age-old restraint and modern indulgence.
Ingredients
Serves 4
1 sheet of frozen, store-bought puff pastry
1 large Hachiya persimmon, sliced into half moons
1/2 wheel of brie cheese, sliced
1 egg, beaten
Turbinado sugar
Honey
2 baking sheets
Parchment paper
Directions
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees and line two baking sheets with parchment paper.
Cut the puff pastry into four pieces and place two on each baking sheet.
Distribute the brie and persimmon onto each pastry, adding the brie to the center and bordering with the fruit. Leave an exposed border around the edge of the pastry.
Brush the edges of the pastry with the beaten egg.
Drizzle the pastries lightly with honey and sprinkle with sugar.
Once the oven is preheated, place one baking sheet on the upper oven rack and the other on the lower rack. Bake for 15 minutes then switch the racks and bake for an additional 10-15 minutes.
When golden brown, remove from the oven and let cool.