8 controversial foods that locals defend with pride

Food has always been one of humanity’s biggest identity markers.

It tells you where someone’s from, what they value, and even how they view the world.

But every now and then, you come across a dish that makes outsiders raise an eyebrow — or run in the opposite direction.

And yet, locals defend these foods with the kind of loyalty usually reserved for family members.

Let’s take a trip around the world and look at eight controversial foods that are passionately protected — even celebrated — by the people who grew up with them.

1) Durian: the king of fruit (and of polarizing opinions)

Let’s start in Southeast Asia with the fruit that divides travelers more than politics: durian.

If you’ve ever walked through a market in Thailand or Malaysia during durian season, you’ve smelled it before you saw it.

The odor has been compared to everything from gym socks to gasoline. Hotels even ban it.

And yet, locals call it the “king of fruit.”

Why? Because beyond the pungent smell is a sweet, creamy texture that durian lovers swear tastes like heaven.

It’s the perfect metaphor for the local mindset — that beauty isn’t always surface-deep.

I tried durian once while traveling in Singapore, convinced I could handle it.

Let’s just say the smell lingered on my hands for days, but the experience stayed with me for years.

That’s the thing about controversial foods — they make you feel something.

2) Marmite: love it or hate it (literally)

If you’ve ever had breakfast in the UK, you’ve probably met Marmite. Or at least smelled it.

It’s a dark, salty yeast spread that’s either a comfort food or a culinary nightmare.

Brits spread it thinly on toast (and I do mean thinly — a rookie mistake is slathering it like peanut butter).

The slogan “Love it or hate it” isn’t marketing hype — it’s truth.

But what’s fascinating is how Marmite became a cultural badge. It’s less about taste and more about identity.

Loving Marmite means you’re “in.”

From a psychological standpoint, Marmite lovers often associate it with childhood memories — that cozy, familiar taste that outsiders just don’t get.

It’s nostalgia wrapped in umami.

3) Pickled kelp: the Icelandic test of courage

There are foods that challenge your taste buds, and then there’s pickled kelp — a briny, chewy sea vegetable often served during Icelandic festivals.

Traditionally, Icelanders relied on preserved seaweed during harsh winters, and today it’s making a comeback as a sustainable superfood.

The taste? Earthy, oceanic, and surprisingly bold.

I read once that a chef described it as “the ocean’s version of jerky.”

Icelanders loved that. It only added to its reputation as a rite of passage.

That’s what makes pickled kelp special — it’s not about pleasure. It’s about pride.

It’s about remembering a time when survival meant eating what the land (and sea) provided.

4) Taho: the Filipino street food that comforts and connects

Taho is a beloved morning treat in the Philippines — silken tofu topped with sweet arnibal (brown sugar syrup) and sago pearls.

To outsiders, it might seem simple. But for Filipinos, taho is more than a snack — it’s nostalgia in a cup.

Street vendors call out “Taho!” at dawn, and locals rush out with mugs in hand.

It’s a source of comfort, a tradition passed down generations.

“You can’t call yourself Filipino if you haven’t had taho,” someone once told me in Manila.

And honestly, that’s what struck me most. Taho isn’t defended because it’s fancy. It’s defended because it’s "theirs".

Because to reject it is to reject a piece of their story.

5) Vegemite: the Australian national treasure (with an acquired taste)

Yes, it’s similar to Marmite — but don’t tell an Australian that.

Vegemite is thicker, saltier, and more aggressive in flavor.

Spread too much and you’ll regret it. Spread it lightly, and you might just understand why Aussies grow up loving it.

Australians defend Vegemite with the same zeal Americans reserve for peanut butter or Italians for espresso.

It’s not just food — it’s cultural DNA.

When I visited Melbourne a few years ago, I tried a Vegemite toast under the guidance of a local barista who treated it like a ritual: plant-based butter first, then just a "smudge" of Vegemite.

The result? Not bad.

What fascinated me was how defensive people get about it.

Criticize Vegemite and you’re not just insulting a spread — you’re questioning Australian identity.

6) Fermented cashew cheese: the rebel of plant-based tradition

If you think you’ve seen it all, let’s head to Sardinia — or rather, a modern vegan kitchen inspired by it.

Fermented cashew cheese is tangy, creamy, and alive with probiotics.

It’s made by culturing cashew paste until it develops a sharp, funky flavor that rivals traditional aged cheeses.

Some versions even include edible molds or herbs.

And here’s what’s fascinating: plant-based artisans don’t just replicate cheese — they reinvent it.

To them, it’s a rebellious act of culinary innovation. It’s about keeping traditions alive while honoring new ethics.

There’s a lesson in that. Sometimes, defending something “weird” isn’t about taste. It’s about autonomy — the right to decide what’s valuable in your own culture.

7) Century tofu: China’s misunderstood delicacy

Century tofu is a modern twist on the traditional century egg — fermented tofu aged until it develops a rich, savory flavor and a creamy texture.

The look alone turns some people off.

But in Chinese vegan cuisine, it’s considered a delicacy — earthy, umami-packed, and full of character.

I once had it sliced over rice congee at a small café in Hong Kong, and the flavor was far more subtle than I expected — mellow, complex, slightly funky.

To many Chinese families, century tofu represents patience, transformation, and respect for craft.

You don’t rush it — you wait, and it rewards you.

That patience says a lot about cultural perspective.

In a world obsessed with instant gratification, century tofu reminds us that good things — even weird things — take time.

8) Lye-treated banana blossoms: the Scandinavian dish that won’t die

If you’ve ever wondered what happens when you soak banana blossoms in lye, meet this vegan twist on lutefisk.

This Scandinavian-inspired dish is gelatinous, translucent, and — let’s be honest — an acquired taste.

But it’s been embraced by plant-based chefs who want to honor tradition without compromise.

Served with potatoes, peas, and vegan butter, it’s a holiday staple in some progressive Nordic kitchens.

Critics call it odd; Scandinavians call it homage.

I read an article once comparing it to Christmas fruitcake — everyone jokes about it, but no one actually wants to be the generation that lets it disappear.

And that’s exactly it. This dish isn’t about the flavor (which, let’s face it, is mild at best).

It’s about connection — about sitting down with family and honoring the people who came before you.

Why we defend what we love (even when others don’t)

Here’s the thing: food is never just food. It’s emotion, memory, and identity rolled into one bite.

Psychologists have studied this phenomenon for decades — how we attach meaning to certain tastes, smells, and rituals.

When outsiders criticize those foods, it can feel like they’re criticizing "us".

And that’s why locals defend them so fiercely.

Because defending a dish often means defending a story — their story.

I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s fascinating how our brains link comfort with familiarity.

Once something becomes part of your upbringing, your body literally associates it with safety.

That’s why a bowl of ramen can comfort one person while another finds it “too fishy.”

As a vegan, I’ve had my share of “controversial” food moments — things that make others cringe but bring me joy.

Nutritional yeast, for instance. Some call it sawdust; I call it gold dust.

The same principle applies: our experiences shape our preferences.

The takeaway

When we call a food “gross,” what we really mean is “unfamiliar.”

From pickled kelp to fermented cashew cheese, every controversial food tells a story about survival, creativity, or rebellion.

These dishes remind us that culture is built not on perfection, but on persistence — the courage to keep your flavor alive, no matter who wrinkles their nose.

Next time you travel and encounter something that challenges your palate, try not to dismiss it.

Ask "why" people love it. What does it represent for them?

You might not fall in love with the taste, but you’ll probably walk away with a deeper appreciation for what food really is: a love letter to identity, history, and belonging.