We both said goodbye to our familiar soil, venturing toward the promise and embrace of New York City. Our peculiar affair was anything but ordinary. It wasn’t love at first sight, nor love at first bite, and certainly not love at first smell. Despite our shared Asian roots, we never intersected until the Big Apple magnetized us under a new roof. The metropolis, in its masterful fashion, excels at luring wild species from around the world. This time, it enticed durian and me into a surprising fusion of attraction and desertion.

 

     Born and famed in Southeast Asia, durian wears the imperial titles of the “King of Fruits” and the “Queen of Fruits,” crowned by devoted admirers from its native lands. Its rich nutritional profile and array of flavors boast distinctive traits—creamy, soft, sweet, and many other undefinable personalities. Its popularity knows no bounds, crossing the Pacific Ocean from Asia to America, transcending borders and cultures—echoing the path I have traversed.

 

     Protected by a thick, spiky yellow-brown jacket, the tropical fruit flaunts its bulky, clumsy armor like a superhero. Reminiscent of a porcupine, it seems ready to jab anyone or anything without a minute’s notice. Its awkward visage draws curious glances from passersby. Yet it is the odor—an overpowering, unmistakable stench—flying through the air for blocks that truly makes a statement. Fans and detractors alike compare its pungency to dirty socks, sewage, or something even more notorious. The scent is so invasive that some Asian countries have banned this fragrant outcast from public transportation.

 

     Prior to my relocation to New York City, durian remained a vague and abstract concept to me. I had heard its name only once or twice during my upbringing in China. I never had the opportunity to meet it, not even in a picture. It was a long chapter of poverty in the country, where three meals a day felt like a game of survival for many. Initially, I mistook durian for a person’s name before discovering it was something meant for the mouth. In that era, luxury items, such as exotic fruits, were distant fantasies. Despite the short geographical distance from its birthplace to my hometown in Beijing, economic constraints kept these “royalties” out of reach for the nation, at least for the general population. While studying in the remote farming lands of the American Deep South, encountering any far-flung produce, like durian, was equally scarce.

 

     Over the past three decades, I have been amazed and astonished by the rapid and revolutionary changes unfolding both near and far, particularly in my old country. I am filled with disbelief that what was once a foreign luxury is now China’s top fresh fruit import. Its climb to stardom has been a winding journey, surpassing my wildest imaginings. What a remarkable fruitvolution!

 

     My first interaction with durian was unexpected. I had moved to New York City, believing I was more mature, more open-minded to new experiences, and definitely more sophisticated. When I stumbled upon the South-East Asian crop in Manhattan, I realized I was not who I had thought. The fruit’s uninviting appearance and audacious aroma nearly made me vomit. I turned in the opposite direction.

 

     Well, as the old saying goes, “Things can change, and so can I."

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     Right after the incident, my dear friend from Taiwan, a zealous aficionado of durian, set out to challenge my taste buds. Growing up in an environment that deeply appreciates this quirky fruit, she was determined to transform my culinary habits. She invited me to take a bite of her beloved delicacy—the “Queen,” as she called it.

 

     “Give it a try. Promise you’ll love it,” a charming smile on her pretty face. She insisted with astronomical confidence and unwavering patience. Using coaxing and cajoling tactics, she worked hard to get me to open my mouth.

 

     Succumbing to her persuasive charisma and persistent urging, I took a deep breath, half-closing one eye. Hesitant, I nibbled a small kernel from her spoon. The first bite of golden pulp felt odd. The second jolted my senses. By the third, I was hooked, begging for more. A strange phenomenon struck me—each bite-sized piece melted effortlessly on my tongue. The strange smell simply evaporated, leaving only the rich, silky flavor. The smooth aftertaste lingered creating a lasting impression.

 

     A lesson well learned: never judge a fruit by its cover or by its odor, especially in a relatively new cultural landscape. My delectable affair with royal durian took off, inspiring me to seek out my own “King” or “Queen.”

 

     Durian’s prime harvest season in its homeland runs around May through August. This is also the best time to buy and savor the fruit in New York City. Finding it is as simple as following your nose to its signature scent.

 

     While immersing myself in the vibrant metropolitan life, I came across a newspaper report stating that approximately 80% of the city’s durians were “immigrants” from Thailand, with the remainder coming from Malaysia. During my visits to these countries, in the off-season for the reaping, I shared these statistics with my hosts, who proudly served me the fruit from their local markets. Both defended the superiority of their offerings, declaring with pride that their durian was the finest in the world. I couldn’t help but trust them both, swayed by their heartfelt convictions.

 

     At a small vendor in Manhattan’s Chinatown, I picked the plumpest durian, though I had no clue how to judge its quality. The hawker, wielding a specialized knife, peeled away the prickly shield. Inside lay the golden, voluptuous, dumpling-like treasure. He swiftly transferred the pieces from the fruit’s tight, neat quarters into a couple of plastic containers. His precise process spares customers from performing the “surgery” at home, escaping the sticky skin and stinky smell. This practice is common among vendors eager to market and sell the fruit efficiently.

 

     Mirroring my first zigzag trail, my husband pinched his nose, resistant to the outlandish “monarch.” Imitating my friend’s strategy, I applied gentle persuasion and playful tricks to coax him. Eventually, he surrendered, embarking on a bumpy road toward his new tasting adventure. After much anticipation, we indulged in the special treat, basking in the moment in our little space. Out of nowhere, the shrill doorbell shattered our enjoyment.

 

     The building superintendent stood at the door, his face stiff with panic, and brow furrowed. “Residents on your floor have reported a gas leak in your apartment,” he blurted out before I could even say hello.

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     “Damn! Jerk durian!” I muttered silently, each word furious. Right away, I knew—another offender had joined the infamous stench roster. That was g-a-s: more than an air polluter, it was a home “killer.”

 

     What bad luck! My first durian purchase ended in embarrassment. My brief romance with the Asian native was short-lived, symbolizing the end of a complex relationship—one of both attraction and aversion. Since then, I haven’t dared to bring the King or the Queen back home, saving a dozen apartments from potential suffocation. I wish my neighbors could have known and appreciated my loss for their gain.

 

     Abandoning durian has left me with lingering guilt, as though I’ve turned my back on a life rich in cultural heritage and legacy—much like my own. Since our separation, I’ve continued to inhale the same so-so city air—sometimes tinged with a hint of gas, on those scorching summer days when I miss the durian most. I still wonder why people make such a fuss over this product from the East. Isn’t durian part of New York City’s dazzling makeup and stylish perfume? Why single it out just for its less-than-average fragrance?

 

     Sadly, living in a compact high-rise apartment requires me to follow the building’s rules, limiting how much of the pungent delight I can savor within my own space. Keeping the eccentric fruit at bay has proven to be a prudent decision—one made not by choice, but out of unfortunate necessity.

 

     In the end, both durian and I have sacrificed parts of ourselves for the sake of practicality. The unmistakable aroma of this Asian tropical royalty has become my forbidden pleasure— within the confines of my own home. Our once-promising encounter is now reduced to a fleeting memory. Perhaps we should be proud of ourselves for adapting to—and abiding by—the laws of our adopted culture.