Tikkabik

Ryan and Jenn took me to Polly Ann Ice Cream in the Outer Sunset district last night to top off a phenomenal meal of sushi. This place has a truly stunning array of really unusual flavors -- everything from the mundane (licorice, root beer) to the exotic (lichee -- which I had, and loved, jasmine, and many others).

By far, however, the oddest flavor on their menu is durian.

Ryan, a certified gastronomic adventurer and great cook in his own right, encouraged me to sample the durian ice cream.

Durian, for the uninitiated, is a thorn-covered fruit native to southeast Asia that is renown for its unique taste, smell and texture -- enough so that it's commonly restricted from being transported to hotels, subways and airports in its native land.

"She'll ask you 'are you sure,'" said Ryan of the girl working behind the counter. "Just stick it in your mouth and don't smell it."

Immediately alarm bells went off the moment Ryan said that, but always up for a culinary challenge, I decided to go forth anyway.

Anthony Burgess, author of A Clockwork Orange, among many other books, spent much time in Malaya and once described the act of eating durian as akin to eating vanilla custard in a latrine. The flavor is not far off that mark, though Ryan's description is more charitable -- he likened it to the flavor of children's antibiotic.

The girl handed me a small sampling spoon smothered in durian ice cream, which wisely is kept in a back room, apparently to avoid contaminating the many other, more appetizing flavors Polly Ann makes. Hopefully kept under lock and key, chained to the wall like a wild animal.

I took Ryan's advice and simply shoved the globe of sickly yellow ice cream into my mouth, then swirled it around a bit to get the full experience.

Durian has a wide variability of flavor, I have learned, so what one person tastes may not be what another tastes. What's more, there are nine different edible varieties of durian, each with unique flavors. But regardless, durian so far off the Western concept of "appetizing" as to be truly stunning.

Excluding the ice cream base's own rich, creamy undertone, the sampling of durian ice cream I had can best be described as stinky armpit and unwashed balls with the faint essence of almond, garlic and leeks.

It was the culinary equivalent of a toddler mashing as many keys on a piano as it can muster to hit at once. But therein lies the durian's exotic appeal. I know it sounds contradictory. For the love of God don't ask me to explain. But I'm actually curious to try durian again.

Not the ice cream. The real fruit.

But not in the hotel. I don't want to get arrested.