“Here, smell this,” my husband Alan said the other night when he came home holding a paper bag.

I looked at him skeptically as he put the sack to my nose.

“I brought you a surprise,” he said. “Don’t worry. It’s food.”

I do love surprises—especially when they involve eating—but I sniffed suspiciously at the bag.

It smelled….Ripe. Fruity. Floral.

And a little bit like yesterday’s socks.

I reached into the bag and pulled out a shiny, golden bun sprinkled with sesame seeds.

“It’s from the Vietnamese bakery,” Alan explained.

“It’s a durian-coconut bun.”

If you’ve ever come within 20 feet of a ripe durian, an oversized thorny fruit native to Southeast Asia, you have to wonder what possessed the first person to try to eat it.

Not only is its greenish-brown exterior covered with pointy spikes—like a child’s drawing of a hedgehog—but it possesses an undeniably pungent aroma.

Because of its smell, durian has been famously forbidden in the Singapore subway, in hotels, and in many public places.

I first sampled durian years ago in Kuala Lumpur. The flesh is creamy, almost custard-like, and the fruit tastes tropical and softly sweet—far gentler than the over-ripe, musky smell it exudes.

I’ve seen it raw and in ice cream, but it never occurred to me that you could bake with it.

I bit into the durian-coconut bun that Alan brought home, a pillowy-soft bread filled with a mash of buttery, sugary coconut.

It tasted quite like a Chinese “cocktail” bun, except for its flowery, fruity notes.

And its more prominent smell.

Which was not a benefit.

I do like surprises, though. Even if they’re slightly stinky.

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Our durian-coconut buns came from Tung Hing Bakery (1198 Kingsway, Vancouver), which makes stellar bahn mi (Vietnamese sandwiches), in addition to its pastries. The bakery also has several locations in the Toronto area, including one in East Chinatown (674 Gerrard St. East, Toronto).

The Washington Post recently published two durian articles by writer Julie Wan: “What it takes for the durian to smell of success” and “How to pick and eat durian fruit.”

National Geographic weighs in with a video about this “Funky Smelling Fruit.”

And for all the news that’s fit to print, about durian anyway, check out All About Durian, a fledgling durian blog.

Have you seen, or sampled, durian-coconut buns in Asia? Please leave a comment and tell us about how they tasted – or smelled!

And if you’re a food blogger, join the fun! Here’s all you have to do to link your post to WanderFood Wednesday.

Photo credits:
Durian-coconut buns and bun interior ©Carolyn B. Heller
Whole durian by YIM Hafiz (flickr)
Forbidden durian by James Cridland (flickr)

Once I got home, I set about trying to recreate the buns that had captured my fancy on the streets of Beijing, Dandong, and Shenyang. With much trial and error, I adapted the following recipe from a cookbook I had brought back from China, with the cheerful title, “Welcome to the Flour Family.”

If you try it, please leave a comment and let us know how your chive buns turn out. I hope it will fuel your own chive bun obsession!

Pan-fried Chive Buns

Your chive buns may not look as lovely as these, but don’t worry. Asian food expert Andrea Nguyen took this photo of buns she made (they’re not filled with chives, but the process is similar). Check out her blog, Viet World Kitchen, for more Asian food ideas and for tips on frying buns.

Enjoy!

On my first morning in Beijing, I stepped out of my guesthouse into the bustle of a serpentine alley.

Amid the scurrying shoppers, honking taxis, and bell-clanging bicycles, I stopped at a sidewalk bakery stall, where a battered wooden table overflowed with stacks of round breads. Some were bright yellow-gold, some were puffy white, while others were floury or studded with sesame seeds.

I pointed to a golden one, handed over one yuan, and bit in. I expected sweet, since the bread resembled a flattened hole-less donut. Instead, I got a mouthful of flaky pastry and then grassy, brassy garlic.

I had chosen a pan-fried chive bun.

This crisp vegetal sandwich was forest green inside, a mash of garlic chives dotted with sunny bits of scrambled egg.

I later learned that it’s called “jiucai hezi” – a chive “box” or “pocket.” And after my first garlic-filled bite, I was hooked.

From that day on, as I journeyed across northeastern China, from Beijing through the distant northern provinces of Liaoning, Jilin, and Heilongjiang, I bracketed my days with bread.

For breakfast, it was pillowy-soft mantou, steamed ivory balls puffed up like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

Lunch from a street stall in frantically-urban Shenyang was a floury English muffin, unexpectedly stuffed with a sweet bean paste.

Among the turreted Russian-style buildings in Harbin, I found a dense steamed bun made of cornmeal – barbecued pork with a maize cover.

In Dandong, on the border of North Korea, it was a variation on my chive favorite, a golden fried bread filled with just-wilted leeks.

And everywhere, I sought out the golden, garlicky chive pockets that had first triggered my fixation.

Everywhere, too, I haunted bookstores, looking for cookbooks that would enable me to fuel my doughy dependence back home.

There were plenty of cookbooks, to be sure, their pages lined with enticing photos of crispy buns, pale ivory breads, and meticulously-wrapped dumplings. But I don’t read much Mandarin, and the instructions remained maddeningly indecipherable.

Finally, I found a thin paperback with the cheery title, “Welcome to the Flour Family.” Not only did it boast alluring photos, but its text was in both Chinese and English.

I packed the book into my dusty carry-on, and, after one more golden-brown chive bun, I boarded the plane for home.

Back in my own kitchen, though, I discovered that my Flour Family cookbook was depressingly vague. Use a “suitable amount of filling,” it advised, or “fry until done.”

So, many buns later, my obsession continues. As I chop garlic chives, scramble eggs, and mix flour and water, always seeking the proper balance, I think back to the narrow lanes in Beijing, lined with bread-sellers’ stalls.

Before I went to China, I had expected to return with memories of ancient palaces and modern cities, of wild-west-style border towns and deep green forests.

Yet the green of my now-dough-covered dreams is not the tall pines of the northern woods.

It’s the forest-green filling of a crisp garlicky sandwich.

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Update: Want to learn how to make chive buns? Here’s a chive bun recipe.

Thanks to roboppy (Robyn Lee) for the chive bun photo (via flickr).