The Grapefruit has a spectacularly complex personality. It is unapologetic in its imperfect, enigmatic state of flavor. It is simultaneously sweet, sour and bitter – yet its taste remains disarmingly balanced and curiously pleasant. It is neither small nor big, its skin neither thick nor thin, smooth nor bumpy. Underneath its sunset-gradient peel of pinks, oranges, and yellows is a punchy, vibrant, uniform hue of ruby-pink. It is even consumed in a uniquely ritualistic fashion, both functionally and aesthetically – sliced along its equator, glittering triangles exposed, dislodged and consumed – one small wedge after another, before the pink walls are scraped down and the flimsy shell is pressed together to release the last remaining stream of tart juice onto the serrated spoon (which was, of course, created expressly for said occasion). Somewhere in the history of evolution, the Grapefruit emerged as a fine, respectable, sophisticated member of the citrus family, and is surely the envy of many a one-note fruit.