What a pong! Definitely the worst thing I have ever tasted. A dish fit for the gods! Durian polarises opinion like no other fruit.
When I first sampled durian - in Thailand in 1986 - I loathed it. It was beyond my comprehension how this fruit with a nauseating smell and a sickly taste could be so esteemed by the natives. All the other Brits in my tourist group agreed with me.
For 17 years I avoided durians. Then, in July of this year, I went to Malaysia and a miracle occurred: one reckless afternoon, to confirm yet again that this was truly a fruit from hell, I bravely put a morsel of durian flesh in my mouth . . . and I loved it.
For the uninitiated, a durian is a tropical fruit with a thick green outer casing covered in spikes ("duri" in Malay means thorn). It has the size and shape of a small lumpy football or a monstrous potato. Underneath the rind are several large seeds, each one coated in creamy-coloured flesh.
The nineteenth-century naturalist, Alfred Russel Wallace, described durian flesh thus: "It is like a buttery custard flavoured with almonds, intermingled with wafts of flavour that call to mind cream cheese, onion sauce, brown sherry and other incongruities . . ."
In Malaysia, durian is the most prized of all fruits. Because of its overpowering smell, it is banned from airline cabins and many hotels, but everywhere else it abounds.
Travelling around the country, I saw small mountains of fresh durian. I ate durian sweets, durian cake and durian cooked in coconut milk.
In Malacca market I watched a man buy some durians. No money changed hands until each one had been carefully tested.
Using a sharp knife, the vendor made a deep incision in the rind, down to the flesh below. The customer - rather like a wine expert - lowered his head, sniffed critically, nodded approval and paid up.
While in Perak province, I had durian cake for breakfast and playfully offered a piece to the 10-month-old son of my host, Aziz. The infant grabbed it and began to chew with relish. I had previously thought that durian must be an acquired taste but now am inclined to believe that the Malaysian love of durian is genetically inherited.
Durian is reputed to have aphrodisiac properties. There is a Malay saying: "When the durians are down, the sarongs are up." Aziz pooh-poohed this notion, but my friend, Greg, reckoned there was some truth in it. It was common, he said, to see young Malaysian men gorging themselves on durian before meeting their girlfriends.
Malaysians know when a durian is ripe and ready to fall from its tree.
Greg told me a wonderful story about a boy who waited all day in the forest for a ripe durian to drop.
Darkness set in, but, certain that the durian would fall any minute, the boy waited on. Sure enough, the durian thudded to the ground, and the boy walked over to claim his prize . . . only to find himself staring into the eyes of a tiger. The boy bolted, but he needn't have: tigers love durian and this tiger had eyes only for the ripe fruit. Its powerful claws would have made short work of the formidable rind.
Malaysian tigers and humans are, it seems, programmed from birth to enjoy durian, whereas Westerners are not.
How, then, can I explain my own metamorphosis from durian-denigrator to durian-devotee? It is possible, I suppose, that the durians I sampled in Thailand, all those years ago, were inferior specimens. A more likely explanation, however, is my own changed personality. I am definitely more adventurous and receptive to strange new places and tastes than I was in 1986.
Working overseas - in Africa, South America and Asia - for 20 years has broadened my horizons and made me the durian-loving expat I now am.
On my last day with Aziz, he asked: "You can put durians in the boot of any car except one. Which car?" I gave up. "A Volkswagen Beetle - the boot is at the front, so the smell would be too strong."
Yes, I thought, it would revolt most Westerners but it would drive me insane with longing. I would lose concentration, crash the car and go to a heaven filled with eternally-laden durian trees.