Airlines won’t let you fly with it, Singapore’s mass transit won’t let you ride with it, and at least one hospital in the Philippines won’t let you bring it in, even for a final wish.

And now I’m about to eat it.

I have, to be honest, avoided durian for years. I don’t have many food hangups, but certain things stick with you, and my dad’s wild-eyed terror of the stuff is so acute I developed a sympathetic fear of it myself.

My father, in very rare storytelling mode, once told me about visiting friends in Thailand. (“Dad, you have friends? In Thailand? That you visited?” I asked, incredulous. All I’d ever known of my dad is him either working, eating or sitting in front of the Internet, buying cases of nail clippers for really, really cheap on eBay. I guess this my family’s version of the, “Son, when I was your age …” talk.)

Anyway, he was at their place, trying to enjoy a dinner that was probably far too spicy for his delicate constitution, when dessert time came. Pleased beyond belief, the hosts hauled a fresh, ripe durian into the room, and the way my father described it, it was like there were vultures circling, dodging the ceiling fan blades overhead. They sliced the fruit open and offered him, the honored guest, the first sloppy plateful. Wanting to show his appreciation, he took a small bite. They urged him on, so he took another. And another. Only he couldn’t bring himself to swallow it, and he just chewed and chewed, letting the durian sit in his mouth. Soon, Dad’s head was a prison, an unholy combination of gasoline fumes and smushy rot. He excused himself to use the restroom, where his body promptly rejected the poisoning it thought it was taking.

It’s hard to be the son of a man who’s gone through that experience and look at a durian without wanting to punch it.

But now that — thanks to a sadistic boss — my own date with durian destiny is here, I quickly learned an important lesson: You do not want to punch a durian. The spikes are not for show, people. They are sharp, tough and for hurting you and any other animal not tough enough to rip the durian open, eat all the insides and carry its seed far, far away. And considering that the specimen I just bought is the size of a bowling ball and weighs a good 6 pounds, the mind boggles at the number of ways the durian can be weaponized, even before you get to its famous smell.

So what about that smell? Well, sitting there, unopened and threatening, the smell is actually quite mild and … lovely. It’s like a cantaloupe on vacation in the tropics. But when I plunged the knife in, the rest of Salon knew about it. “Oh, there it is,” someone said, and by the time I split the fruit in two, gasps and groans were in the air.

And it wasn’t just the smell, which was clearly assertive, like eggs and onions and a bit like cheese. It was also how it looked, which one person described as “anthropomorphic,” and another as “anatomical,” before the brilliant Drew Grant noted that it possessed a quality of “Cronenberg-ness.” Gruesomely Naked Lunch it was, opened up to reveal white, bulbous soft flesh like brains, with a cut-open seed that looked like split bone or a gland or another animal part that you’re really not looking forward to in a plant.

The first bite was also bizarrely, intriguingly and, yes, kind of disgustingly not like any fruit I’ve ever had. I dug in with a spoon, to find the durian jealously holding onto its custardy flesh. Cutting through fleshy fibers, I stole a mouthful and it was creamy, sweet and … oniony. Sulfury. Thomas Rogers, who gamely stepped up for a spoonful of his own, was visibly disturbed. “It tastes like eggs,” he said, and then nervously walked over toward the trash. I understood where he was coming from. As I chewed, the soft fruit giving way to a meaty chew, the flavor really, honestly, tasting exactly like creamed onions, my brain fought with itself. “This could be delicious with some salt and slathered on a burger,” one lobe said. “This is supposed to be a freaking fruit, and that’s just weird,” the other shouted back. I had trouble getting it down. Plus, by now, someone else walked into the office and said, “Hey, you guys, it smells like a big [case of the vapors].”

The second bite was very different. Juicier, sweeter, much less oniony, it was inarguably pleasant. I really can’t understand how creamy this stuff is, how rich like dairy, with a strong but soft sweetness, like coconut and melons. A third bite, though, and it was back to onion casserole land, and it seems that you have to kind of feel your way around the fruit to get a sense of where it’s going to taste like tropical panna cotta and where it’s going to taste like a burpy burger topping. Kerry, The Boss, was reaching for his water after a spoonful it looked like he’d enjoyed. “I did like it, but, uh, the aftertaste …”

I don’t know if I want that kind of uncertainty in a fruit, but as I put away the durian, I felt a sense of peace about it. Maybe I could learn to be its subject, or maybe I could just stay out of its way. But I felt no violence toward it, no hatred. I put it in the fridge and went toward my desk, when someone stopped me. “I hate to tell you this,” she said, “but I think it’s soaking into your clothes. It didn’t smell here until you just walked by.” 

Aren’t you sad you didn’t get an invitation to the World’s Most Sanctimonious Dinner Party? I am. I want to know what gets served for dessert at a soiree like this.

But my Fancy Brooklyner self-hatred aside, the lady had it right, for sure — mussels are the jam. They taste great, are cheap, are ridiculously easy to cook, still pack some heat on the impress-the-guests scale, are seriously versatile and are, yes, sustainable. Calling seafood “sustainable” is usually tricky business because there are so many variables, but with mussels, you’ll almost always get responsibly farmed shellfish that actually clean the water they’re grown in. (They’re a “best choice” on the well-respected Monterey Bay Aquarium Seafood Watch list.)

For too long relegated to “mixed-seafood pasta” jumbles or clichéd steams with white wine and herbs, it’s time for mussels to get shown a little love. They can seem intimidating for home cooks, but really, I can’t think of anything easier to prepare. And I love how sitting there with a big pot of them, slurping them out of the shell, soaking up the broth with bread, turns dinner into an event of conversation and juice-slicked hands.

How to clean mussels

Most mussels come pretty clean, actually, and there’s pretty much never a problem with grit or sand, as you might have with clams. If there’s a beard coming out of one — you’ll know it when you see it — just give it a yank to pull it off. Some chefs want you to scrub them afterwards with a stiff brush or pad, but I never do. Your call.

How to store mussels

You don’t want to hang on to them for too terribly long, more than a couple days, but they’re fine in the fridge. Especially if you keep them in a bowl lined and topped with a moistened towel or paper towel. Whatever you do, don’t keep them in water; fresh water will kill them.

How to cook mussels

Get them hot. They will open. They are cooked.

How to cook delicious mussels

OK, this is the fun part. Mussels have a flavor that’s unmistakably oceanic — salty, briny, minerally. They’re not as saline or meaty as clams, not as clear and ringing as oysters, but they’re a little earthier, a little down-and-dirtier. And they pair beautifully with anything you can think of that would do well with that salty, earthy bass note.

Earlier, I knocked on the combination of mussels with garlic and shallots, white wine, herbs and butter, but there’s a lot to be learned in the basics. You have garlic and shallots (and usually butter or olive oil) as the aromatic base; an acidic liquid to help the steaming and to lighten the flavor; a bunch of fresh herbs towards the end of cooking to add a nice top note, and a finishing stir-in of butter to enrich the broth.

Using this framework, you can start improvising your way to limitless combinations. Basically, if you can imagine a bunch of flavors tasting good together, they will probably be good with mussels. Like a version with leeks or onions (aromatics), bacon (just because) and dark beer (liquid), and finished with a stir-in of crushed or ground nuts for more richness. (And maybe a final splash of malt vinegar or something if it wants a little brightness.)

The handsome chef Barton Seaver (who once chipped the hell out of my cleaver when I was in culinary school with him, and no, that’s not a euphemism) has a new, excellently named book, “For Cod and Country,” and it’s got a bunch of fantastic mussel pairings: mustard in the classic white wine version, with scallions instead of herbs. Shallots, roasted until soft and caramelized, with red wine, finished with butter and rosemary. Roasted garlic and IPA or another strong beer, also finished with butter. A fistful of spices, finished with chorizo. (That one’s called Mussels Saint-Ex, and it’s probably worth buying the book for.)

Steamed mussels

This isn’t a recipe so much as a basic method for steaming mussels; please do improvise with different flavor combinations, liquids, finishers, etc. Serve with big hunks of bread, crisp toasts, French fries, rice, pasta or whatever floats your boat. Allow about 1 pound of mussels per person for a main course, or half that for an appetizer.

“The point is to learn to control everything at the coffee bar — the beans, the roast, the right grind, the water, the timing, the machine — everything. So part of that means learning how milk behaves, and how to control it,” says Ken Nye, owner of Ninth Street Espresso, and the man many credit with popularizing latte art in New York City.

And controlling the milk means, in short (because it can get very, very long), to 1) heat it up, which brings out its sugars, 2) “stretch” and infuse it with air, inflating it like whipped cream and 3) “roll” it to pop all the bubbles. If you get it right, you have a “microfoam” of thick, sweet, glossy milk that can hold its form when poured into espresso, allowing the barista to shape and stream it into lovely, graceful, whimsical designs. Well-textured milk tastes like magic, creamy but light. It has a visible sheen and makes a splat, like oil paint, when spilled. It’s miles away from the stiff, dry foam that floats on top of many a chain-coffee cup.

“It’s really not easy,” Nye says. “It’s a good first sign for your drink, because the barista’s taken the care and effort to learn the skill.” (“But,” he’s quick to add, “it’s one point of a complex process. It doesn’t really tell you anything about how properly made the coffee itself is, or how the drink is going to taste.”)

A CONTEST FOR YOU, WITH PRIZES!

To celebrate this aspect (yes, it’s just one point, but it’s a fun point!) of the coffee arts, we’d love for you to show us the handiwork of your favorite coffee slingers. Snap some pictures of your favorite baristas’ latte art skills and send them to us. We’ll pick our favorite shots, and the top five entries will win fabulous prizes from Bodum, makers of super-sweet, design-y coffee gear.

Four winners will get a set of Canteen insulated glasses, made of wonderful-to-hold, super-light borosilicate glass. (No, I’m not shilling; I just date an architect whose geekiness about materials rubs off.) One super-extra winner will get the Canteen glasses and a classic Chambord French press. And, if you’d be so kind, please go and “Like” Bodum’s Facebook page. Yes, I am shilling now, but they’re kind enough to hand out some sweet prizes for our goofy little contest, so why not? Winners will be chosen purely based on the subjective whim of our staff judges!

HOW TO ENTER

Take a picture — or several, or many — of latte art, and email it to: coffee@salon.com. Please include the name of the coffee shop, date, and time you took the picture, and, if you’d like, the name of the barista who created the art. (Don’t you like to see people recognized for their work?) By sending us the photo, you grant us permission to publish it on Salon.

Photos must be 400 x 600 minimum size, 72 dpi, but bigger is better. Please put “Foaming at the mouth” as the subject line of the email. And please know that by sending these photos in, you’re agreeing to give us permission to publish them on Salon.

All entries must be received by 1 p.m. EDT, Wednesday, April 6, 2011. Winners will be announced Monday, April 11.

Francis Lam

Latte art by Trey Wrange / Ninth Street Espresso

Francis Lam

Latte art by Trey Wrange / Ninth Street Espresso

Francis Lam

Latte art by Trey Wrange / Ninth Street Espresso

Ross Satchell

Latte art by Ross Satchell / Naidre’s Cafe, Brooklyn

The Rich Taste of Succulent Shrimp Returns to Taco Bell Without the Pricey Cost

It’s no longer just about who you know – but knowing where to go. Starting this week, everyday foodies craving succulent shrimp can look past the nearest yacht party or invite-only gala, and turn to Taco Bell® for its Pacific Shrimp Taco and NEW Pacific Shrimp Burrito. Filled with tasty ingredients and shrimp marinated with chipotle seasonings, the limited-time menu items will satisfy mouth-watering hunger for shrimp – all while offering red-carpet taste for less green.

Infiltrate yacht parties! Steal from invite-only galas! Forget shellfish, it’s subversive class warfare! Sadly, though, all this creative revolutionary fervor dies down under the crushing weight of still being a corporate press release, and so it continues for another 250 words, including choice selections like, “flavorful, premium protein option,” and “tumbled in a ‘waterfall’ of chipotle marinade.” At some point, it refers to an ingredient called, seriously, “red strips.” Presumably they are not made to deliver that “red-carpet taste,” but who can say what magic food scientists have conjured?

But, hey, since it’s Lent, which for non-Catholics is also known as “Fast Food Seafood Season,” I’ll bite. (Fun fact: McDonald’s Filet-o-Fish, and possibly every other fast food seafood item, was invented to keep Catholics coming to burger joints during Lent.)

Remember the old Taco Bell slogan “Run for the Border”? Well, if you’re in midtown Manhattan, the border is the basement of Penn Station, and while I appreciate commuter rail, it’s hardly the first place you want to look for lunch. But there I was, grabbing my to-stay burrito and taco from a counter that doubled as a KFC.

Not to be all enviro-weenie, but why do they bother to ask if it’s to stay or to go and still hand it to you in a plastic bag either way? I went to a table, empty but for alarming, dried-on streaks of barbecue sauce, and on the way passed by a woman struggling to free her taco from its plastic sack. She finally got it out, tugging, exploding the wrapper and showering the floor with a confetti of lettuce and cheese. It was, for a split second, captivating, the green and orange shreds sailing in air. It was like a scene deleted from “American Beauty.”

I went for the burrito first, and that familiar kinda-sticky, kinda-tangy-smelling, kinda stretchy tortilla gave way to cold lettuce and salty cheese, which I couldn’t now help but imagine falling onto the floor, over and over again. There came a crunch — shreds of tortilla chips, dyed red (Ah! The “red strips”!). And then there was the shrimp, coiled and about an inch in diameter, pleasantly chewy, and which, to be honest, tasted pretty good. I mean, the “waterfall of chipotle marinade” meant that it was going to taste mainly of vague spices, chile and “natural smoke flavoring,” but under that, there was an actual flavor of shrimp. In particular, the iodine-y tang you often find in Gulf shrimp. (Though I am under no illusions these are American wild-caught Gulf shrimp.)

It’s a flavor not everyone loves, but I have to admit I was pleasantly surprised to find any shrimp flavor at all in these guys. Usually shrimp this size are too immature to develop much real taste or texture. And while the size-obsessed may gripe over their puniness, a few bites that included all the various ingredients really kind of convinced me of their size-appropriateness; they’re part of the harmony of the burrito mélange. (Yes, I just said that.) A mélange in which, it turns out, the red strips are the crunchy star, like a pile of tortilla-wrapped nachos, doused in green-tinted mayo. (It’s “avocado ranch,” apparently. The world has so many lessons to learn from ranch.)

Next, I went for the taco, which was basically the same thing, minus cheese and red strips (sad!) and plus “salsa.” As I tasted this “salsa,” I thought, “Whoa, cucumber! Turns out cucumber and cilantro are delicious together!” And then I realized there was no cucumber in it, but rather just very wan tomatoes. I filed away the cucumber-and-cilantro idea for my own personal use.

Still, this is all supposed to be about the shrimp, and I got to wondering how they could find small shrimp with so much flavor. I checked Taco Bell’s ingredients list, and, sure enough: “chicken broth” and “natural flavor.” One means that they’re not quite the purely pescatarian delight you may have been hoping for; the other means “better living through chemistry.”

As I prepared to leave, I went back to the counter, to get another shrimp taco to go for a curious friend. I still had the flimsy bag in my hand from my own order, so I handed it toward the woman behind the register, suggesting she just put the taco back in it. She used a look that would have been reserved, in prior centuries, for lepers and fingerless beggars. I persisted, saying something about “I can just re-use the bag.” She was not amused. She used that look again, and I felt … witheringly small. Like I’d been caught crashing a yacht party.