The Shadow Durian

As a lifelong foreigner, I’ve learnt that being open to new things smooths the path considerably. Food especially opens doors, and I’m very much an “absolutely will I eat that weird dish” type of person.

Not only will I eat it, I’ll probably enjoy it.

(Sometimes a bit too much.)

And so I came to have the privilege of eating the shadow durian.

Note: This is not an official name. But since it has so many aliases — larit, ralit, dalit, sukang, durian burung, durian rimba, durian isu, Durio graveolens, among many, many others — why not add another?

But why is it so shadowy? Let me tell you the three ways in which this fruit lurks in the liminal zones: it hides from commercial success, its flavour lies in its dark subtlety, and it harbours a surprise for the unwary.

First, the shadow durian is shy and modest compared to the large, perfectly formed ‘normal’ durians. Often available only in local markets, where it is sold from piles on the floor rather than displayed in neat rows, it’s much smaller. Its flesh, which comes in segments called arils, is thinner and coloured any shade from honey-yellow to cherry-red.

Second, its taste is sublime yet powerful, far more subtle than the candy-sweet durian modern consumers crave. For me, it’s best described as hazelnut bubblegum — a bit savoury and only delicately sweet. Trees can differ in the flavours of their fruits, with some offering notes of peppermint or chocolate.

And the third shadow? I discovered it the hard way when my husband brought back two of these delicious globes. I was instantly curious.

“Is this durian?”

“No.” He grinned. “Larit. You try.”

I tried an aril. Oh! Yes, yes, yes! I had another and another…and then it was finished.

“Mmmm?” I eyed the second shadow durian and my husband, with the copious supportive enthusiasm I married him for, immediately cracked it open. Thus, I ate two shadow durians that day. Pretty much to myself.

(There is a lesson on greed to be had here.)

I then went upstairs to do some work, but for some reason the words on the screen started to dance, and then the room began spinning. Was I drunk?

“Um, honey?” I called downstairs. “Were those durian okay?”

“Yes, my honey. Why?”

“I’m feeling…woozy.”

“Yes,” he said as he guided me down the stairs. “The larit makes you mabuk (=tipsy).”

“Oh great.” I struggled to stay upright. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because,” he said, gently tipping me into the hammock, “everyone has to let go sometimes.”