“Durian can be deadly in more than one way.”

Many years ago, when air travel was still fun and they would not fondle you, puff air at you, look through your underwear, declare toothpaste dangerous, make you take your shoes off (to better your chances of catching some fungus), make you put your jacket in a bin (where dog poop-soiled shoes might have been a minute ago) and make you stand in line while giving you verbal instructions, I checked again into my favorite hotel at Marina Square in Singapore.

Ahhhhhhhhhhh, fruit basket and butler service!

Singapore was always a fine city when it came to food and probably everyone with a little time to spare went to the East Coast seafood restaurants. So did I, with my good friend and partner, a true Singaporean, who had paid his way up through fees and permits all the way to being able to operate a car in that city.

After a pot of “Drunken Shrimp.” cooked after drowning in a bottle of brandy, pepper crab and all sorts of other goodies, including a few pitchers of beer, my friend looked at me and asked  if I knew Durian.

I asked, “This is that thorny, weapon-like fruit that is outlawed wherever you go. Hotels and public transportation, right?”

I added, “It is also that thing that emits an incredible stink and kills you when it hits you on the head, no?” He replied yes and went on to ask me if I’d ever eaten one. I admit, with the thought of its stink, eating one of those had never crossed my mind. Even though, some of the “stinkiest” cheeses are some of the best tasting ones.

“Well.” he said, looking slyly at me, “How about you try and become one of us?” Having just drunk an empowering amount of beer, I quickly agreed and said, “Why not.” After he convinced me that the best Durian available was close to the red light district in Chinese-owned food stalls, we were on the road and I got quite a free education about the love life of Malaysian workers in Singapore.

Here we are, the Lah from Singapore, and me, the guy from the West, staring at fresh Durians.

Quickly we agreed on two of them and suddenly the Chinese folks from close by stalls started moving in to see a Westerner taking on the Durian challenge. I have to say, the stink was nauseating, but the fruit itself was quite tasty. The less ripe one was more to my liking than the softer and sweeter one. Touching this stuff felt like reaching into something like a full baby diaper.

OK. I did it and I was mighty proud of myself while earning approving chatter from the Chinese market people. My fingers now stunk like the ones of a worker in an old sneaker recycling plant, but help was offered quickly by my friend who let me know that water running over the outer skin of the Durian and using it to wash my hands would quickly remove the rotting smell. Believe you me, it worked!

A last word of advice was that I should not drink any alcohol for a couple hours. And of course, I ignored the advice and helped myself to a nice bedtime treat. I had to live with this bad decision throughout the night, and surely, the room rates must have been reduced on the entire hotel floor after I left!

Now I know how to find the right cab in Singapore; I move closer and inhale, because some of the cab drivers love their Durian as well and a tiny little burp might linger for an hour or so.

Proudly I can announce that I do belong to the fine and small club of Western Durian gourmets. Just to make sure that you know, the various Durian pastries offered in hotels are outstanding and have lost all their offensive attributes. For a short while, I even toyed with the idea that Durian would make for a fine first name.

Durian Brontolare … but then, people might keep a safe distance I guess.