By Brian Hernandez
Jackfruit looks like a problem. But it doesn’t have to be. You either love it, hate it or are possibly saying to yourself right now: “Whose fruit?”
It’s enormous—and not just “big-for-a-fruit” enormous. Jackfruit is the largest tree-borne fruit in the world, capable of growing to truly unreasonable sizes. It’s spiky. It looks like it should be chasing down a tiny Indiana Jones. In the grocery store, it sits over there with the other exotic fruits—dragon fruit, starfruit, rambutan—the stuff that feels less like groceries and more like background props from Labyrinth.
And then there’s the durian problem. Jackfruit unfairly resembles durian, a fruit whose smell tends to land somewhere between onions, sulfur and a locker room after the big game. But while jackfruit’s own scent is quite divisive, ranging from sweet to repulsive—with some of the more colorful descriptions likening it to sewage, skunk or mature cheese—it’s not as bad as durian.
And yet… here we are. Guilty by produce association. So it sits there. Alone. Waiting. Judged silently by pizza operators who think, “Absolutely not. I’ve got a business to run here. I’m trying to pack customers in, not freak them out… JACK.”
Here’s the twist: Jackfruit might be one of the most useful non-meat ingredients you’re not using.
First, let’s clear something up without turning this into a TED Talk. There are two very different versions of jackfruit. Ripe jackfruit is sweet, tropical, banana-adjacent and surprisingly delicious and refreshing right out of the fruit. And while it has a long history in desserts, snacks and sweet-savory dishes across Asia, that’s not the jackfruit driving the current plant-based conversation.
What matters to most pizza makers is young, green jackfruit, usually found canned in water or brine. That’s the version that behaves like food instead of dessert—neutral in flavor, flexible in structure and far more interested in absorbing sauce and seasoning than sweetness.
From a nutrition standpoint, jackfruit also has another virtue that matters in today’s menu conversations: It’s low in fat, modest in calories, and mostly water and carbohydrates, with a small amount of protein and fiber. A 100-gram serving clocks in under 100 calories, with minimal fat and no cholesterol. It’s not pretending to be a protein powerhouse, and it doesn’t need to. Its value isn’t nutritional bravado—it’s balance, accessibility and versatility.
Young jackfruit doesn’t taste like fruit. It barely tastes like anything at all. And that’s the point. Texture is the headline here. Jackfruit pulls apart into long, fibrous strands that mimic pulled pork or shredded chicken shockingly well. It tears. It shreds. It takes on flavor quickly and thoroughly, and, most importantly, it chews like a shredded meat, which is why it works in so many applications.
That’s why operators need to stop thinking of jackfruit as a flavor and start thinking of it as a template. Jackfruit is not pineapple. It’s not anchovies. It’s not asking to be loved on its own merits. It’s a delivery system. A vehicle. A blank canvas. And right now, it’s being unfairly pigeonholed as “weird vegan BBQ stuff,” which is like judging mozzarella based solely on string cheese.
Yes, jackfruit shows up a lot on BBQ pizzas. That’s not wrong. BBQ sauce hides a multitude of sins, and jackfruit plays well with it. But if that’s where the story ends, you’re missing the plot entirely.
Jackfruit isn’t here to replace meat. It’s here to stand next to it without starting a fight. And once you understand that, the question shifts from “What is this thing? to “What can I make it do?” That’s where things get interesting.
Brian Hernandez is PMQ Pizza’s associate editor.
