He tells me he knows just the street, just the guy. We'll have to drive there though, as it's some way across town. We climb into the car and make our way through the traffic, which slowly thins out as we pull up at a small roadside stall, lit up with flickering lamps. A few low plastic tables are laid out. We are not alone and thus, clearly in the right place.
A few minutes discussion with the vendor, some minor negotiation, money is handed over and it arrives at the table. The translation, meaning 'spike' or 'thorn', is apt both visually and odorously. Here, sitting on the table in front of us, is the infamous durian, King of Fruits.
Rewind to an hour earlier in the evening. We are discussing my few days experience of Singapore, and talk inevitably turns to food. Earlier that day I had noted with a chuckle to myself the presence of signs in the subway system insisting that customers should not consume durian on board. Then it occurred to me that I was yet to consume it myself. I had heard of it and of course smelt it since I had been in Southeast Asia, but was yet to try it.
The smell is something notoriously difficult to describe. The novelist Anthony Burgess likens durian to "eating sweet raspberry blancmange in the lavatory". The durian smell/taste dichotomy is much like that of aged blue cheese. You probably wouldn't want to wear a necklace made of it, or use it as perfume, but the taste is sublime, unctuous and sweet, a cross between avocado and almond ice cream.
Like a fine wine, choosing good durian is something of an art form, and, like a fine wine, durian can be an expensive luxury, with some Singaporeans willing to pay up to US$50 for just half a dozen fruits. At the more affordable end, I'm told by my King of Fruit guide to never buy pre-packed durian segments, which are wrapped tightly in plastic and left to sweat in a polystyrene state of limbo. Having later ignored this advice and bought a substandard durian against my better judgement, I can attest to this. Once it has dropped from the tree, the durian has just 3 to 4 days before it starts to overipen. A common saying is that a durian has eyes and can see where it is falling, because allegedly the fruit never falls during daylight hours when people may be hurt by its heavily armoured shell and weight of up to 3 kilogrammes.
Back to the table. Since polishing off a small, gateway durian, another, larger one has appeared enthusiastically in its place. Our companion recoils as our second course is sliced open. She tells us that while durian is enduringly popular in her hometown Jakarta, she is one of the many people who cannot stand it. Indeed, durian is so divisive, it is banned from many hotels, taxis and public transport systems, including the aforementioned Singaporean subway.
Equally however, the durian is subject of much adoration, the centrepiece of statues (Kampot, Cambodia), the inspiration for architecture (Esplanade Building, Singapore) and suggested aphrodisiac ("when the durian falls the sarong comes up", a traditional Indonesian saying).
Whether you love it or hate it, it's reputation, and stench, proceeds it.
