Confessions of a durian addict

Oh durian, King of Fruits, how I love thee!

I tried durian, a tropical fruit grown in Southeast Asia, for the first time about a week ago. Rick is at home for his brother’s graduation, and so I’ve had quite a bit of extra time on my hands. Needing a break from watching episodes of The Wire, and craving a novel experience, I finally gave in to my curiosity and bought some durian pods at the local fruit stand.

I had always been reluctant to try it, because it’s famous for smelling really gross, like rotting vegetables. In some countries, it’s banned on public transportation because of the smell. It’s also extremely divisive: people either love it, or it makes them hurl. Alfred Russel Wallace, a British naturalist who wrote about eating the fruit in 1856, described it as “perfect,” and said its “most exquisite flavor is unsurpassed.” The Food Network chef Andrew Zimmerman, on the other hand, said it tastes like “completely rotten, mushy onions.”  I had no idea what to expect.

What I experienced biting into its flesh was something akin to ecstasy. Everything about the fruit is difficult to describe, because it’s so unique. The scent, to me, is not altogether displeasing, but is certainly pungent. The texture is like creamy custard, like a less-dense avacado, with a dash of pulpiness like you would find in a citrus fruit (but is not acidic like a citrus fruit). The flavor is indescribable. It’s sweet, but not overly sweet, and its fatty for a fruit–five grams of fat per 100 grams, according to the wikipedia page. The fattiness adds a luscious, savory element. The flavor is truly indescribable. I refuse to even try. It’s one of the greatest things I’ve ever tasted.

Now durian haunts me. It’s all I think about, dream about. I know I shouldn’t overconsume it, especially as I now live a low-carb, no-added-sugar lifestyle (I’m convinced sugar and refined grains are the cause all the world’s chronic diseases; look up Gary Taubes). One durian pod is about half my daily carbohydrate allowance. ALso, it’s not cheap – 25 kuai for 2 pods, which are about the size of an avocado. And it makes your breath stink, a lot. (Lucky for Rick that he’s out of town!)

But I can’t stop. Other sugary treats that used to entice me seem like pig slop in comparison to the almighty durian, unless they include durian of course (like durian ice cream, which I got to try when I was in Hong Kong). Other foods I used to think were the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten have been downgraded in my mind to “very good but not as good as durian” status. Every time I eat it, it tastes better than the last time! How is that possible?!? Every time I buy it, the fruit stand lady knowingly chuckles at me with flashing eyes. She knows.

She knows I’m a junkie.

The most painful part about my addiction, however, is the knowledge that I won’t have easy access to this luscious fruit in the US. Most Americans have never even heard of it. I did some research and discovered you can sometimes find it frozen or canned in Asian supermarkets, but I’m sure it pales in comparison to the fresh stuff.

I dabbled in self-delusion for a day or two, thinking of ways I can cook durian into recipes so that when I’m home, I can open a durian themed restaurant to justify importing it fresh every day. Durian creme brûlée. Durian ice cream. Chocolate-covered durian. Durian pudding, durian cake, durian pie. Yesterday, I cooked up some durian with 2 tablespoons of butter and topped it with cinnamon, ate it hot. It was amazing, but not as good as the raw fruit by itself. The problem is that you can’t improve on it, which is why the restaurant concept is actually a terrible idea. What was I thinking?

I just need to enjoy durian while I can, for the next few weeks, and then kick the habit cold turkey. No more late-night runs. No more recipes. No more stinky breath. No more delusions. As much as I love it, it was not meant to be something I eat every day. I think the experience of eating durian on its own justifies coming to China. I will cherish the memories.