Rambutan
They look like something out of The Little Shop of Horrors. The label on the box said "Rambutan" which I figured was a brand name. A one-kilo box was priced at $60 pesos—less than the price of peaches in Los Angeles—so I figured I'd splurge and buy some.
Once I got them home, it dawned on me I had no idea how to prepare them. (I often get myself into those kinds of fixes.) I decided to gain knowledge by dissecting one. I sliced one of the 1½" fruits in half with my french chef's knife.
Instant identification: these had to be big, hairy lychees. The translucent white, rubbery flesh and the big clingy pit were giveaways. And the fruit tasted the same. Well, once you know they're lychees, you know exactly what to do with them, so I won't repeat the tedious details here.
For the hell of it, I googled "rambutan" to learn about the grower. To my surprise, I learned that: 1) My fruits are not lychees, and 2) Rambutan actually is the proper name. In fact, the rambutan has its own website, well worth visiting if you're interested in exotic fruit.
I wasn't far off the mark, however, in identifying the fruit: "rambutan" means "hairy lychee" in the Malay language.
These fruits, along with lychees and carambolas (star fruits), are not expensive imports from Southeast Asia. Mexico is partly a tropical country: my rambutans were produced by a Mexican grower.
Rambutans appear in Soriana to appeal to Mexico's growing middle class. Such people have discretionary income and the curiosity to explore new culinary horizons. Less-developed parts of the country still see food in terms of one kilo of tortillas per person per day. But in the north, food means more than just nutrition. Distribution of wealth and income is still grossly uneven, but not so much as it was in the 20th Century. Many Mexicans now have money to spend, and malls are being built to accommodate them. The world's 12th-largest economy, for better or worse, is becoming more like the colossus north of the border.