My durian epiphany

The Good Life with Eli F.J. Tajanlangit

Perhaps, one of the most storied fruits we have is the durian. Starting from the fact that it is covered in tough spiky skin that can be fatal if it falls on your head from above, to its legendary smell that divides people into those who love and those who abhor it, to its big, bold tastes that range from creamy to slightly-bitter, slightly-sweet and slightly-salty, or an interplay of two or all of these, the durian can fill reams of newsprint with stories spun around it.

On top of these are the tales of its legendary smell and nothing, not even layers of cover could hide it. There have been flights delayed because somebody had durian in their luggage and it had started to smell. Somebody once tried to sneak in durian to her hotel room in Thailand, where this fruit is revered. To keep the smell, or so they thought, they locked their doors and covered every crevice and opening where it could possibly go through, then opened the fruit in the comfort room. It did not take 10 minutes for the hotel personnel to come knocking on their door, reminding them it was not allowed to bring in, much less eat, durian in the hotel. The hallway had started to smell – the foul air had seeped through the air conditioning vents and traveled all the way through the hotel floor. Instead of finding a way to circumvent the durian prohibition, they discovered instead, the most effective way to circulate air in the hotel.

Add to these are the stories on how it is grown, how its reproductive system has to be egged on by human intervention for better fruiting. Then, there are the stories about how people start falling in love with it, and stick to such love for better or for worse, illness and health…in other words, falling for durian means an enduring, till-death-do-us-part affair, with plenty of I’ll-move-mountains-just-to-get-to-you episodes in between.

Mine began with Good Friend R, who kept sending me frozen packs of the fruit despite all my protestations about how it smelled horribly, and therefore really difficult to eat, much less love. But she’d send them anyway, perhaps thinking that somebody in my house must have been eating them anyway.

Actually, as soon as these durian packs arrived, I’d send them off to another friend who was, inexplicably to me at that time, just wild about them. It was always a wonder people can go crazy, and I mean, crazy, over this fruit that smelled terribly.

And then one time, past midnight – you know, that witching hour when most crimes occur – I had a sudden attack of hunger and there was nothing in my freezer but the newly-arrived durian packs.

I looked at them and smelled them – yuck! – but then I felt the sour, acidic taste of emptiness in my stomach – well, I guess that was how the Rugby players felt when they were stuck in the Andes mountains – which somehow made the durian in front of me eventually, suddenly, inexplicably palatable.

And so, just as it started to thaw, I scraped the already-soft part and put it in mouth and that was the first kiss that devirginized me of all my biases against this fruit. It tasted like extra-creamy ice cream – sweet, milky, with oh-so-subtle whispers of the salty. To be cheesy about it – aren’t all lovers cheesy? – it was love at the first bite, and before I realized it, the awful smell was no longer awful but sweet, lovable and even divine.

Thus began my love affair with what is dubbed as the king of all tropical fruits. I began with what we may well call “entry-point” varieties, the ones that are predominantly sweet and creamy, tastes that our palates are familiar with, and then moved on to the ones that are spiked with bitter and even pungent, the ones that come with unusual tastes.

The fruit is in season now, and it is time to weave our own story or affair with it. That should go with a warning that yes, eating durian is habit-forming, and the habit, once acquired, is highly addictive.* (Tomorrow: Ways with durian)

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