There is a certain art to buying a durian and the Chinese have got it sussed. The process is initiated by a lengthy negotiation over origin, professed quality, variety and price. The spiky, green fruit are prodded, tapped and weighed reverently, cupped carefully like huge breasts, tapped and sniffed. Careful sniffing gives clues as to ripeness and an anticipation of flavour. The stem is then caressed, its moistness and turgidity tested, an indication of freshness. Once the price has been negotiated, with a certain amount of histrionics on both sides, the buyer borrows the vendor’s large knife and carefully slaps her chosen fruit, listing carefully for the rattling of dried out seeds within, a bad sign. Having examined a dozen or so fruit, the chosen one is swiftly split open and served at the aluminium roadside table, a steel bowl provided for the discarded stones. Three, perhaps four, Malaysian dollars change hands and the fruit is devoured with a certain reverence.
I’ve tried the slapping and sniffing, the weighing and fondling, but the selection of the best durian remains a mystery to me. Perhaps when I can eat the sticky fruit without needing a wash and change of clothes I will discover the secret.
The durian is so pungent, so repulsive to some, that it is banned from many hotels here in Kuala Lumpur. Anthony Burgess likened it to eating vanilla custard in a latrine and food writer Richard Sterling had this to say “its odor is best described as pig-shit, turpentine and onions, garnished with a gym sock”. I have a vague memory of disliking the smell when I first came across it many years ago, but now when I catch it on the breeze I find myself tracking down the source, mouth watering. To the cognoscenti, the varying scent of the durian tells an important tale, identifying the species, cultivar and stage of ripeness, giving a foretaste of the quality hidden inside the thorny husk.
Durian grow on the branches and trunks of magnificent trees that can reach 50m in height. When they are ripe, they drop, and as they can weigh 5kg could easily be lethal. In Penang they put nets beneath the trees to catch the falling fruit, although whether to save the fruit or casual passers by, I’ve never been sure. Malaysians tend to like their fruit ripe - when the fruit is at its most pungent and custard-like. In Thailand, where most of the world’s durian come from, they tend to prefer the fruit picked fresh from the tree. Then its flavour is more mild, its aroma gentle on the nose.
I’ve been told that eating a lot of durian causes the body to overheat, although as most Europeans sweat so heavily here, it must be hard to prove conclusively. The solution is to eat mangosteen or drink salted water from the durian husk, both of which are ‘cooling’. I’ve tried both of those methods in the past, without obvious effect, although I am happy to accept any excuse to eat the wonderful local mangosteen.
Sadly, it is hard to find this fruit in England. Of the 1.4 million tonnes that are grown each year, only 500 tonnes make it to Europe.
I’ve tried the slapping and sniffing, the weighing and fondling, but the selection of the best durian remains a mystery to me. Perhaps when I can eat the sticky fruit without needing a wash and change of clothes I will discover the secret.
The durian is so pungent, so repulsive to some, that it is banned from many hotels here in Kuala Lumpur. Anthony Burgess likened it to eating vanilla custard in a latrine and food writer Richard Sterling had this to say “its odor is best described as pig-shit, turpentine and onions, garnished with a gym sock”. I have a vague memory of disliking the smell when I first came across it many years ago, but now when I catch it on the breeze I find myself tracking down the source, mouth watering. To the cognoscenti, the varying scent of the durian tells an important tale, identifying the species, cultivar and stage of ripeness, giving a foretaste of the quality hidden inside the thorny husk.
Durian grow on the branches and trunks of magnificent trees that can reach 50m in height. When they are ripe, they drop, and as they can weigh 5kg could easily be lethal. In Penang they put nets beneath the trees to catch the falling fruit, although whether to save the fruit or casual passers by, I’ve never been sure. Malaysians tend to like their fruit ripe - when the fruit is at its most pungent and custard-like. In Thailand, where most of the world’s durian come from, they tend to prefer the fruit picked fresh from the tree. Then its flavour is more mild, its aroma gentle on the nose.
I’ve been told that eating a lot of durian causes the body to overheat, although as most Europeans sweat so heavily here, it must be hard to prove conclusively. The solution is to eat mangosteen or drink salted water from the durian husk, both of which are ‘cooling’. I’ve tried both of those methods in the past, without obvious effect, although I am happy to accept any excuse to eat the wonderful local mangosteen.
Sadly, it is hard to find this fruit in England. Of the 1.4 million tonnes that are grown each year, only 500 tonnes make it to Europe.
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