Durian fruit is not cheese but it smells like it. To be specific, it smells like aged bleu cheese thrice vomited – once by a person and twice by a dog. The only thing more disgusting than a dog eating its own puke is durian fruit.
In much the same way that Jerry Lewis is a comic genius in France and Cheap Trick rules the rock stages of Japan, durian fruit is considered a delicacy in parts of Asia. I have no first-hand knowledge of the fresh product, but I’ve been told that it has a custard-like texture and a delectable flavor so unique that comparisons can’t be made. (I asked, and it does not taste like chicken.)
In case you’re planning a trip and are unfamiliar with this Asian delight allow me to be of some assistance: Keep your eyes and nose alert at markets and street carts for an oval shaped fruit -- spiky on the outside, (making it look sort of like a hedgehog) and stinky on the inside (making it smell like the hedgehog has been dead for quite some time.) You might even see signs banning the fruit from certain public places, like hotels and hospitals. It seems unbelievable to me that anyone has to be told not to inflict this malodorous experience on patients in a hospital. People there are already sick; an olfactory assault like a ripe durian could set off a hospital-wide vomi-rama affecting health care professionals as well as patients and taking hours to get under control.
I have read that, in places where the fruit is common, there are two camps: those with durian shame and those with durian pride. Among the first group there is a movement to genetically alter the crop to create a less noisome fruit so it can be exported without embarrassment. And of course, the second group delights in the will power required to run the gauntlet of stench. The reward, they say, is all the more delicious because not everyone has the fortitude. I do suspect that some of the proud are not necessarily disciplined, but the victims of an accident leaving them without a sense of smell. Cheaters.
Even without going abroad, naïve Americans should be warned of this epicurean landmine as some Asian food stores in the states carry not only the fruit, but products made with it. The combination of durian and ignorance create a recipe, if not for disaster certainly for disgust. Here in the Midwest, most people have never even heard of the food, but if asked, would probably agree that Durian would be a great name for a Golden Retriever. In a haphazard way they aren’t wrong, especially if the dog is excessively flatulent.
Here in Madison, the managers of the local Asian grocery store understand the power of the fruit and warn unwitting shoppers with shelf labels that say something like: “If you do not know this flavor do not buy this food.”
I have a very adventurous “foodie” friend, John, who saw the label as a challenge. Despite the advice of those in the know, he nonchalantly tossed a package of durian fruit flavored sugar wafers in his cart. This was not an act of hubris. Hubris would be buying the fruit and slicing it open. This was a packet of cookies, which seemed to contain only trace amounts of the noxious ingredient, making it a good place to start.
When the package was scanned at the register an alarm bell sounded alerting the clerk to the potential shopping error. She picked up the cookies, put them aside and told John that he really didn’t want them. John stubbornly insisted that he did want them. “Do you know this flavor?” she asked, almost belligerently. “Can you eat durian fruit?”
Anytime the question is phrased “Can you eat…” rather than “Do you like….” there’s trouble. In Japan I was asked many times, “Can you eat natto?” Natto is a nauseating fermented soy product covered in soy snot so stringy that it hangs from your chopsticks, stretching from bowl to mouth as you try not to look but can’t help it. Admittedly the odor is not as powerful as durian fruit, but it is far from pleasant. I foolishly ate natto a total of three times; the first because I didn’t want to offend my hosts, the second because I was so plowed I ate it by accident, and the last because I am a patriot -- backed into a corner I had to prove that Americans are not wusses. (Hey, we all make sacrifices.) Rather than knuckling under pressure or admitting that I can’t eat the slime I finally learned to counter the question with a question of my own. The challenge: “Can you eat headcheese?” got me out of a lot of tight spots.
After paying the $1.19 for the cookies John brought them to our house hoping for an interesting culinary group experience. Sitting in our kitchen he told us the story of their procurement, of the warnings and of the clerk’s preemptory look of ‘I told you so.’ Naturally our curiosity was peaked.
John removed the wafers from the plastic shopping bag and we each examined the package from every angle as archaeologists would study a rare artifact. “I’m eating one.” he said. “Yea, me too,” I told him offhandedly with no idea of what could be lurking in the bag. After all, I have eaten natto, so how bad can this be? Sara's response was naturally, “Maybe.”
John cautiously tore open a corner of the package and stuck his nose near it. He pulled his head back, scrunched up his eyebrows and said nothing. I leaned in for a sniff, and swear I damn near puked in my mouth. I was stunned. How could a sugar wafer smell like a fetid carcass? I don’t know how Sara reacted as I left the room in a hurry. From the living room I braced myself as the rank cloud invaded the house like some evil presence from outer space. I looked up and John was in the doorway holding one of the cookies.
“Aren’t you going to eat one? I’m eating it,” he said like a firefighter says “I’m going in” when faced with a burning building. I was horrified. “What? You’re not serious. You’re not going to put that nasty shit in your mouth are you?” John is not a guy who backs down. “Hell yea I’m eating one. Come on, you can do it -- just a taste,” he chided. All I could do was shake my head and clamp my mouth shut in much the same way a toddler refuses to eat brussel sprouts.
He held the nasty little wafer toward me and threw down his final dare: “Are you telling me that you categorically refuse to eat this cookie? Are you totally backing out?”
“That’s right. I refuse. No fucking way am I putting that turd near my mouth.” John shrugged as if to say, ‘your loss.’ Then with the seriousness of a surgeon he took a single bite, made a face and then ate the whole damn cookie, barely chewing. I have to say, I was really impressed. Sara walked by, picked up a cookie, took a nibble, wrinkled her nose, and casually threw the rest of it in the trash.
I have no idea why they were so calm while I was on the edge of hurling just from the smell. Unable to bring myself to approach the bag I begged John to put the damn thing outside on the porch. Even then, the pernicious odor hung around all day and the kitchen still stunk the following morning. (Yes, I did take out the trash.)
Sara and John both agreed that it tasted a bit like bleu cheese and the after taste was not easily neutralized. Neither was damaged by the experience although both said they were not interested in trying the fresh fruit.
As for me, I’ve been abroad and eaten foods I did not find appetizing, but was able to swallow with a smile to please my generous host. I’ve eaten crickets, brittle-like candy with tiny dried fish in it, rattlesnake, parts of goats I’d rather not speak of, and vegetables and meats I couldn’t identify. But I met my match with the mighty durian. Without having even a smidge of durian in my mouth I believe it should all be buried under concrete with other toxic waste.
I understand that such strong feelings are not shared by all and to those of you with durian pride, I apologize for my scathing review. But, come on, how many foods come with a warning label?
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