(Originally published in the Malaysian magazine Against the Grain.)
For an American who has never even seen the Indian Ocean, Malaysia conjures simple, storybook images: stunning beaches framed by high hills, tempestuous monsoons, music and dance from intermingled cultures, and…wait a minute. What’s that funny smell?
That smell is, in fact, the Durio zibethinus, known as the durian. We’ve been hearing about it in the U.S. for a while now, but the stories had a quality about them that was almost legendary. This aromatic “King of Fruit” was said to be so foul-smelling that it was banned in public places in some countries; some said that it was illegal to bring one on airplanes, due to ventilation issues. One American magazine told a story about durians shipped to Europe to be processed for ice cream. When no ice cream materialized, the shipper in Malaysia called Europe to find out why and was told that all the fruit had arrived rotten. As the shipper no doubt told the sensitive-nosed European, they’re not rotten; they just smell that way.
These stories were irresistible to me.
Maybe I should start with the obvious question: What’s an American doing writing for a Malaysian magazine? Is the term “globalization” too overused? Let me give you my view of that great word. It’s possible that as our generation (X, that is) comes into its own, as we begin to make our mark in governments, companies, and media, we will discover that globalization means that I have as much in common with Generation X in Malaysia, despite being a world apart, as I do with my parents and their generation in America. I think that bodes well for the future of our world.
That said, the next question must be, “Why write about a durian?” (Or even, “Don’t writers usually choose a subject that is more familiar to them than to their audience?”) Perhaps it is because I like adventure, trying new things, going to new places. America exports so much of its culture but can be rather slow to sample someone else’s. And I like symbolism. The durian strikes me as a compelling symbol. The conflict between the senses of smell and taste indicates how carefully nature guards her secrets. “Brave” doesn’t even begin to describe the person who took a whiff and said, “Maybe this would be good to eat.”
I had to try one.
Getting one’s hands on a durian in America is not an easy matter, but it may be getting easier. (Modern transportation has done wonders for the distribution of food that, historically, has not shipped well.) A Malaysian friend of my wife’s suggested the local Vietnamese grocery. As for getting a ripe fruit, I had read that the durian must pass three important tests: it must look good, have no holes, and be fairly free of blemishes; it must smell, well, like a ripe durian; and it must not rattle too much when shaken. Thus armed, I walked the four blocks to the grocery, joined by my wife and a friend.
In the store, I found a durian before too long. Was it a good one? It had no holes or blemishes, and it certainly smelled like something. I picked it up to shake it and quickly discovered how sharp the spines are. The sight of me trying to shake this brownish-green porcupine of a fruit drew smiles from other shoppers, obviously aware that I was a neophyte. Not willing to stand around shaking the prickly fellow any longer (since I didn’t really know what to listen for anyway) I marched my durian up to the counter at the front of the store. The young Vietnamese man there greeted me with equal parts amusement and concern.
“You know what you’ve got there, right?” A smile played on his lips, but he did seem genuine in his warning. I nodded. “It’s not a jackfruit, you know,” he added. I tried to thank him with the air of someone who knew what he was doing, but I’m sure he saw through me.
Back at home, I carved into the fruit. My first thought was that the scent of ripe durian was not at all what I expected. It was certainly pungent, but more reminiscent of asafetida than anything else, and certainly not “rotting onions” or other descriptions I had heard. My wife scooped some of the custardy flesh into bowls, and we ate.
The texture was creamy, a little fibrous, and surprisingly juicy, the flavor unlike anything I had ever tried. It’s always entertaining to see what words or comparisons people will use when tasting something new. Vanilla and pine, I thought. “Cherimoya plus melon plus banana – kind of,” said my wife. “Really fleshy,” said my friend. But the smell had a taste, too. That aroma that lingered in your nose lingered on the tongue as well. While not sickening, the taste and smell seemed to build to a point at which you knew your limit had been reached.
My friend got there first. He set down his bowl and said, “I think I’d prefer an orange.” He came back to pick a bit more, finally conceding that the durian held some charms. Then my wife was finished. Then I, too, found my limit. I packed up the leftovers, reserving a separate container for some friends at work, who had pointed out a magazine story about the durian and were happy to let me be the first to sample it.
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