I should have known from the husk. A properly ripe Musang King does not arrive tidy — the seams splay like it's giving up, the smell gets opinionated from two stalls away. This one was sealed shut, polite, the thorns springy with the arrogance of fruit that doesn't know it's not ready.
But the price was the price and I am weak, so the seller cracked it at eleven-forty in front of my block. Four pods, one deformed. The flesh was the right gold and the wrong texture — chalky in the middle where it should have been custard, the bitterness of a young cat rather than an old one.
Here is the part that keeps me at stall 7: he volunteered it. "This one need one more afternoon, you can put back." No one else at the market talks you out of a sale. So the two stars stand, and the $34 stands, and tomorrow afternoon I will be back at 11:20 to see if the box under the tarp has finally turned.
Verdict: ★★☆☆☆ — chalky, premature, honest seller.