My friend Michelle is Singaporean. She LOVES durian.
Durian is a green, spiky-exterior large (slightly bigger than your head) fruit. The spiky outside is nature's way of screaming at you "DON'T EAT ME.'
And many people don't... when you cut away the thick outer shell, a sweet, yet musty, moldy odor fills the air. There are signs in airports in hotels that forbid the fruit, it smells so bad. My friend Amanda had a "stinky food" party once, and, as she tells it, someone brought durian and the house smelled for days. Many Asian people can't get enough of the stuff, describing it as "fragrant," while many others describe it as "pungent."
Michelle and I are in Chinatown a couple of years ago, and she convinces me to taste the stuff in the form of a shake at some Vietnamese restaurant we were passing by. In her very excited way, she giggles and shreiks "durian!! get the durian!!"
The shake reeks. It smells like old socks. I have no idea how anything that smells this bad could taste good. I don't breathe in. I take a sip.
It tastes exactly as it smells. It's vile. I pass it off to Michelle, and although she admits it isn't very good (how can there be a season for something that smells like a gym locker at its best?!?) but she drinks it anyway.
Fast forward to yesterday. I'm in Asia. It's durian season. It's time to revisit the beast.
I had hoped to try it with Mattias, Nao, and Tonia, as Tonia is a durian lover herself, but the time never came. I'm on Khao San, a seeminly unlikely place for a durian vendor to be, as the ratio of White people to Asians is roughly 100:1, but he's there.
Inside the duiran lies bone-colored pods, resembling a sickly pale foie-gras. Not a lot of actual meat for a fruit that large. The vendor has already shelled the fruit, and has a bunch of styrofoam plastic-wrap coated durian pods.
I look at him with contemplation mixed with fear.
"Durian," I say.
"Yes. Durian."
I pick up the package and smell it. It's not THAT bad. Nor is it GOOD. But I expected to recoil from the odor. Now I'm thinking that Thailand manufactures the strongest, least-porous saran wrap in the planet. That, or Thailand has some kind of "Durian light" and it's the newest tourist scam. Make 'em think they like durian.
I buy it.
It's nighttime, and I want to take a video of this, so I bring it to the hotel, wrap it tightly in the plastic bag, and hope that the aircon is enough to not make it rot and stink up the joint further.
First thing in the morning, I march down to the open cafe of my hotel and sit nearest the street. I fear the smell, that I will disturb everyone and the smell won't leave the hotel all day. I place the package neatly before me, and one of the staffers bring me my coffee.
"DURIAN!," she proclaims, laughing and smiling. She's pleased with me. I tell her that I must try it, but I don't think I'll like it. She sits with the other workers, and I can feel their gaze burning into my back.
I open the package. Smell is no worse, no better. The pods are off white, and have a thin edible ever-so-slightly wrinkled membrane that to me, makes them look like testicles. Oblong testicles. The waitress brings me a knife and fork. Now I can classily eat my durian and puke.
I carve into it and accidentally split the brittle pit in half. I peel back the membrane to reveal a creamy, cheesecake-like consistency.
Good idea, I think to myself. Think of it as cheesecake. Camembert cheesecake. Mikxed with bad-quality brie. That'll help.
I take a bite.
The first was the hardest. It tasted like it smelled. I didn't want to immediately spit it out, but I didn't like it.
On the second bite, I remembered not to inhale. It was better.
I'm now thinking that this, mixed with sweetened condensed or coconut milk, might actually make a good shake, if the durian were fresh. (Michelle agreed.)
Three bites, and I let myself off the hook. I gave a full report to the waitresses at the bar, still laughing, and gave one of them my untouched pod as a gift. She put her arm around me and gave me a tight squeeze.
As much as I did not like it, nor feel the need to ever prove myself by eating it again, in any form, I do feel the need to say that it was 1000 times better than the chopped liver I at at my sister's engagement party.
That shit was foul.
Durian is a green, spiky-exterior large (slightly bigger than your head) fruit. The spiky outside is nature's way of screaming at you "DON'T EAT ME.'
And many people don't... when you cut away the thick outer shell, a sweet, yet musty, moldy odor fills the air. There are signs in airports in hotels that forbid the fruit, it smells so bad. My friend Amanda had a "stinky food" party once, and, as she tells it, someone brought durian and the house smelled for days. Many Asian people can't get enough of the stuff, describing it as "fragrant," while many others describe it as "pungent."
Michelle and I are in Chinatown a couple of years ago, and she convinces me to taste the stuff in the form of a shake at some Vietnamese restaurant we were passing by. In her very excited way, she giggles and shreiks "durian!! get the durian!!"
The shake reeks. It smells like old socks. I have no idea how anything that smells this bad could taste good. I don't breathe in. I take a sip.
It tastes exactly as it smells. It's vile. I pass it off to Michelle, and although she admits it isn't very good (how can there be a season for something that smells like a gym locker at its best?!?) but she drinks it anyway.
Fast forward to yesterday. I'm in Asia. It's durian season. It's time to revisit the beast.
I had hoped to try it with Mattias, Nao, and Tonia, as Tonia is a durian lover herself, but the time never came. I'm on Khao San, a seeminly unlikely place for a durian vendor to be, as the ratio of White people to Asians is roughly 100:1, but he's there.
Inside the duiran lies bone-colored pods, resembling a sickly pale foie-gras. Not a lot of actual meat for a fruit that large. The vendor has already shelled the fruit, and has a bunch of styrofoam plastic-wrap coated durian pods.
I look at him with contemplation mixed with fear.
"Durian," I say.
"Yes. Durian."
I pick up the package and smell it. It's not THAT bad. Nor is it GOOD. But I expected to recoil from the odor. Now I'm thinking that Thailand manufactures the strongest, least-porous saran wrap in the planet. That, or Thailand has some kind of "Durian light" and it's the newest tourist scam. Make 'em think they like durian.
I buy it.
It's nighttime, and I want to take a video of this, so I bring it to the hotel, wrap it tightly in the plastic bag, and hope that the aircon is enough to not make it rot and stink up the joint further.
First thing in the morning, I march down to the open cafe of my hotel and sit nearest the street. I fear the smell, that I will disturb everyone and the smell won't leave the hotel all day. I place the package neatly before me, and one of the staffers bring me my coffee.
"DURIAN!," she proclaims, laughing and smiling. She's pleased with me. I tell her that I must try it, but I don't think I'll like it. She sits with the other workers, and I can feel their gaze burning into my back.
I open the package. Smell is no worse, no better. The pods are off white, and have a thin edible ever-so-slightly wrinkled membrane that to me, makes them look like testicles. Oblong testicles. The waitress brings me a knife and fork. Now I can classily eat my durian and puke.
I carve into it and accidentally split the brittle pit in half. I peel back the membrane to reveal a creamy, cheesecake-like consistency.
Good idea, I think to myself. Think of it as cheesecake. Camembert cheesecake. Mikxed with bad-quality brie. That'll help.
I take a bite.
The first was the hardest. It tasted like it smelled. I didn't want to immediately spit it out, but I didn't like it.
On the second bite, I remembered not to inhale. It was better.
I'm now thinking that this, mixed with sweetened condensed or coconut milk, might actually make a good shake, if the durian were fresh. (Michelle agreed.)
Three bites, and I let myself off the hook. I gave a full report to the waitresses at the bar, still laughing, and gave one of them my untouched pod as a gift. She put her arm around me and gave me a tight squeeze.
As much as I did not like it, nor feel the need to ever prove myself by eating it again, in any form, I do feel the need to say that it was 1000 times better than the chopped liver I at at my sister's engagement party.
That shit was foul.
3 comments:
I told you! Durian's good when it's in season! And when it's in season, it don't smell FOUL... though yes, it still smells. But in a gentle, FRAGRANT manner. ;-) And Thailand doesn't have the strongest saran wrap in the world -- Thailand has some of the best durians in the world, is what it is.
Btw, if you're down in the southern part of Thailand near Malaysia, keep an eye out for durian candy, if you see any. The Malay name is durian dodol -- if they use the Thai name, I have no idea what that is.
It won't look like durian at all -- it'll be in brown sticky logs wrapped in shrinkwrap, or perhaps brown sticky pieces wrapped in plastic or somesuch. They cook durian flesh with coconut milk and sugar (see, you weren't far off the mark!) and it turns brown and sticky. DURIAN FUDGE. THAT IS WHAT IT IS.
One packaged example: http://www.asiansupermarket365.com/Tan_Kim_Hock_Dodol_Durian_p/sn0001.htm
Oh, and if you do find any, can you bring me back some? Please? :-)
I forget if you're going to Singapore, btw -- are you? Or passing it by? Definitely let me know if you are...
(Btw, Ben says rofl.)
You're right. It ain't chopped liver and I have the picture to prove it. LOL. Boy did I laugh. ILY, Mom
stumbled onto your blog recently (old blog on Montevideo, where I am now). Love your writing style -- wish you'd write more.
Mike
mobilelawyer.blogspot.com
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