In my early days in Singapore I was intrigued by the admonition at the MRT station not to carry a durian into the train. I knew I could not eat or drink anything in the train but why not even carry the fruit in?
I posed the question to my colleague Jasmine. She excitedly went on a tangent.
‘The durian is the king of fruits,’ she said. ‘To quote the naturalist E. J. Banfield: “Nature has tried her hand at the culinary art and beaten all the cordon bleu out of heaven and earth.” Do you like custard?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘And almonds?’
‘Yes.’ It was an understatement: I love almonds.
‘Then you’ll love the durian: it’s a combination of the two.’ Seeing my sceptical look, she continued, ‘I did not make up that description. I was quoting Alfred Russel Wallace, the 19th-century naturalist, who had a particular affection for the durian. In his words, it is “a rich custard highly flavoured with almonds, neither acid nor sweet nor juicy. The more you eat of it, the less you feel inclined to stop.” Wallace was a naturalist whose theory of evolution inspired Charles Darwin to publish his treatise about natural selection.’
I was impressed, less by her eulogy of the fruit than her dedication to it. She seemed to know more about the durian than I did about the internal combustion engine, and that’s after having studied mechanical engineering for four years.
‘Wow!’ I said. ‘No wonder it’s banned on trains: A fruit so delicious the government is afraid that anyone carrying it will not be able to resist eating it!’
‘That’s not the exact reason it’s banned,’ Jasmine said, a tad reluctantly. Seeing my puzzled look she added, ‘Try it first, then we can talk some more.’
At a local market a few days later, my nose discovered the reason for the ban. Telling me not to bother asking the way to the durian stall, it took me by the hand and led the way. The durians sat on a special table with a dedicated salesman. But ‘salesman’ overstates his job scope. He was simply collecting the cash – the fruit was selling on its own.
I bought a packet of cut durian, took it home, laid it on the coffee table in the living room and invited the family to join me. They did not come running.
‘It wasn’t a feast,’ I confessed to Jasmine the next day. ‘Before eating it, I thought the smell was strong. But after eating it, the smell appeared very mild in comparison to the taste.’
‘It’s an acquired taste! Try it again with an open mind.’
‘And a closed nose,’ I said, but only to myself.
However, I was determined not to be foiled by a mere fruit, however emperor-like it may be. “If it’s edible (and has not breathed previously), Paddy will like it” is a common refrain among family and friends. And this was a Singaporean delicacy: having acquired the country’s citizenship, I was determined to acquire its taste.
Two months later, once the taste had faded from memory, I roped in a fellow Indian friend for round two.
‘It’s the king of fruits,’ I told him, ‘The origin of the name, duri, means…’
‘Huge distance!’ He interrupted me. ‘I always keep my duri from it.’ He laughed with the practised gusto of a man who keeps this joke in his wallet and unleashes it whenever the word is mentioned.
My family was similarly inclined. But I was made of forged steel. I tried it on my own – same result.
Every few years since, I’ve taken a test drive of the fruit and failed every time. I’ve done it on my own and with colleagues; I’ve tasted it in Singapore, Kuala Lumpur and Bangkok; and I’ve tried it on an empty stomach and a full one.
During all the years we were colleagues, Jasmine was a constant source of encouragement, a durian mentor.
‘We have to face the truth, Jasmine,’ I told her after a few years of trial and failure. ‘The taste is too strange for my tongue.’
‘What’s that you’ve brought for your lunch,’ she asked, ‘a white glutinous mass with yellow pieces?’
‘Curd rice!’ I said with enthusiasm. ‘Rice and yoghurt mixed together nicely with a sprinkle of salt and some pieces of mango (Banganapally in this case). Here, taste some.’
She did and grimaced.
Then she looked at me strangely and said something strange. ‘And you find the taste of the durian strange?’
Paddy Rangappa (https://www.linkedin.com/in/paddyrangappa/), an ex-CEO, now teaches humour for leaders; happiness at work; and marketing through consumer insights
© Paddy Rangappa
