Why you must try the breadfruit on your next trip to Seychelles

By the third day of my trip in the Seychelles, I knew I was developing a minor obsession. It started with salted breadfruit chips, followed by curries where the starchy chunks acted as perfect sponges for spicy gravies. Watching me clear yet another plate, my tour guide Camille Randolph said with a grin, “there’s a saying on the island that if you eat the breadfruit in the Seychelles, you are destined to return.” I wondered if my repeated helpings had secured me a permanent residency.

Driving through the winding roads of Mahé, the scent of breadfruit roasting at roadside stalls is unmistakable. For a few rupees, you can buy a warm, charred orb wrapped in newspaper—a snack as ubiquitous as a baguette in Paris.

“Visitors often ask if it’s a giant lime or a jackfruit,” says Randolph. “I tell them, ‘that is our insurance policy.’ Even if the ships stop coming tomorrow, no one in the Seychelles will go hungry as long as that tree is standing. It’s been our guardian since the first settlers arrived.”

Along with cassava and sweet potato, breadfruit was a primary staple in the Seychelles long before rice was introduced in the 1950s. In the late 18th century, French and British explorers viewed breadfruit as a low-cost solution for feeding enslaved populations. Known as the ‘Tree of Life,’ its wood built house rafters and canoes, while its sticky latex waterproofed boats. The broad leaves thatched roofs and wrapped meals.

Depending on the hour of the day, the breadfruit or friyapen pivots from a snack, to a main course or a lush dessert. For Marcus Freminot, head chef at Carana Beach Hotel, the fruit evokes childhood memories of his grandmother’s stews. But he warns that the fruit is highly temperamental. “You cannot rush it. If you pick too early, it is hard; too late, and it is sweet and elastic. You have to wait for the small drops of white latex to appear on the skin. That is the fruit telling you it is ready.”

Traditionally, the breadfruit is tossed whole into burning coconut husks until charred, then cracked open to reach the steaming white flesh. With a profile between mashed potatoes and sourdough, it can be cubed for curries or fried into French fries. While common in savoury dishes, it also anchors the dessert Ladob where slabs of ripe fruit are slow-simmered in fresh coconut milk with nutmeg and vanilla.

The breadfruit is a prolific traveller. Long before I encountered it in Mahé, I knew it as sheema chakka, the spiky green fruit from my grandmother’s backyard in Trivandrum. She would cook the chunks with fanfare reserved for a chicken curry. Later, in my in-laws’ home in Mumbai, I saw it sliced and panfried as kaap.

Breadfruit can now be spotted on white-linen tables. At Carana Beach Hotel, Freminot turns the fruit into soups, croquettes and even beignets. On Creole nights at the hotel, the fruit is the star. “Guests see these massive fruits while driving around the island, then they come to the hotel and realise this is what they are eating,” Freminot says. His team has even developed a breadfruit cheesecake. “While we can always return to our grandmother-style curries, we must innovate and find new ways to spark interest and show the younger generation that breadfruit isn’t just a relic of the past. It’s our future.”

At the Four Seasons Resort Seychelles, sous chef Terence Florentine prepares a breadfruit gratin, slow-baked in cream until golden. At Avani Plus, executive chef Robin Etienne serves breadfruit gnocchi with smoked fish.

This shift is more than a trend; it’s a necessity. “Global supply chains are unpredictable. Every time there is a shortage of imported potatoes or carrots, we see the value of our own sweet potato, cassava and breadfruit,” adds Freminot.

My guide was right about the pull of the island, though it has more to do with the plate than folklore. As I finished my last bowl of breadfruit and fish curry, I realized the friyapen represents a culture that knows how to turn a fruit into a thousand reasons to stay. For now, I’ll settle for another bag of chips for the flight home, a salty reminder that some legends are worth eating.

Nivedita Jayaram Pawar is a Mumbai-based food and travel writer.