It's a perennial worry. What on earth to take to the dinner party as a Gift for the Hostess (or rather, in these egalitarian and politically correct days, The Person with Alimentary Responsibility and In Charge of Making Sure the Blowtorch Has Got Bloody Gas In It This Time.)
To my mind, nothing can beat a Durian Fruit – and I speak as one who knows.
Some time ago – we've had to move since – a close friend turned up for dinner bearing a large and malodorous box. "Here you are," He chirruped breezily, "I knew you'd like one of these...."
I approached the box warily and wished I'd thought to wear the black skirt with the gas mask, instead of the blue dress with the unprotected nostrils.
Inside were several layers of newspaper, covered with Chinese writing. My Cantonese doesn't stretch much beyond basic Restaurant, but I expect the lead article said something along the lines of "Gullible Round Eye Gets Hers."
I peeled off the protective sheets, alone now, since everyone else had retreated to the safety of Worcestershire and nestling at the bottom of the carton was a durian fruit.
"It's all right," I lied, "You can come back now..." Curiosity got the better of everyone and we inspected this unlikely present.
It smelt, I am reliably informed, like an elderly corpse. I am quite prepared to believe this and hope I never have the opportunity to check the facts for myself. Astonishingly horrible, I can't imagine how the first person to come across one thought "Oh yum, I bet that'd be nice with some pouring cream and a raspberry coulis...." It didn't even look like a fruit. It had a sort of defeated rugger-ball appearance, lying there defensively murmuring "I know, I know..." as though it realised it was the ugliest person in the room, with bad breath and a perspiration problem that mere deodorant was never going to be able to solve.
"Shall we open it now?" I asked. "Because Terry has been very kind to bring us such an unusual...um...thing and if we don't, that stench is going to ruin dinner."
So we opened it. It was sort of melon-y, with avocado-ish overtones and something of the turnip about it. In short, it was like nothing we had ever seen before. Cutting bits off it, we all remembered articles we had read that said encouraging things like "They don't half pong but they taste delicious and the smell goes the moment you
eat it." This is complete rubbish. The smell doesn't go while you're eating it. The smell stays with you for years.
The taste, though. That was extraordinary. It was reminiscent of all the tropical fruits one had ever tried, with a hint of coconut and something hazel-nutty and yet pineapple-ish about it. Until it slid down the throat. At which point, just at the precise moment it was too late to do anything about it, it started tasting very, very peculiar indeed.
"Well," I said brightly, "Thank you so much for bringing us such an interesting and unusual present, you bastard."
And then I tried to get rid of it.
I wrapped it in everything I had in the house. Cling-film, silver foil, roofing insulation - nothing would mask the scent of the atrocious thing. I began to panic. Bin Day was another 48 hours hence and how the hell was I going to explain the contents of my black plastic sack anyway? Cotswold District Council would eschew the health inspectors and go straight to the police.
Eventually, I put it in the freezer. And on Bin Day, I got up at dawn, stood in the kitchen and waited for the noise of the garbologists' truck. At which point I grabbed the frozen and temporarily odourless package, shoved it in the middle of a sack of used cat litter and handed it over to the Chief Bin Person with a winning smile. I had, of course, taken the elementary precaution of writing a few envelopes with the wrong name and address on them, just to be on the safe side. God knows we wouldn't want the sack back. Ever.
We did, however, get our own back on dear Terry. We gave him an electronic pasta spoon for Christmas, which beeps hysterically every time he opens his utensil drawer and doesn't think pasta is cooked in anything under fifty minutes.
Mess with us at your peril.
