Bangkok Glutton

I don’t know if you know this, but I am a middle-aged woman. Like, seriously. I’m as middle-aged as it gets. How middle-aged, you might ask? I go “AHHH” after a sip of water like I’m in a Mountain Dew commercial. I clap my hands over my ears when I hear loud music at the mall. I repeat words that I’m reading on signs as I drive past, out loud. I sigh loudly after I read something depressing. I’ve become addicted to sparkling water. And I’ve started buying pleated polyester sets with elastic waistbands (in case you’re not aware, there are only two avenues available to Thai women after they reach a certain age: Pleats Please — artistic, kind of kooky — or Ferragamo flats — lady-like, traditional. You only continue as you have been doing if you have a very good doctor or no sense of shame.)

So at the risk of TMI, let me know you more about myself — after all, I feel like we’re friends now. I’ve been on hormone replacement therapy for a good long while now, like at least four years. I’ve been on it long enough that, last year, my doctor asked me if I wanted to go off of it. I said, why would I do that? so here I am now, still downing progesterone and estrogen like macaroni and cheese. But after hitting 54, it was like my body said “I give up” and now I am feeling like I’ve been hit by an old lady truck. I get lingering pains if I sleep in the wrong position. It could be the Arctic and I am sweating like a Rudy Giuliani in front of a landscaping company. The slightest setback (a rude server, no response after an invite to the movies, finishing a good TV series) is an overwhelming calamity. What am I going to watch now? WHAT AM I GOING TO WATCH NOW?

If you think this has affected my appetite, well, not really. It’s true I can’t eat like I used to. I call it “appetital blue balls”. But for whatever reason, it’s not as devastating as a chef who casually says “Chow can explain the menu to you” as they are walking away instead of doing it themselves. And I can still drink wine with the best of them. But otherwise, I am roundly AARP-ready. Husband who wouldn’t notice if I was on fire? Check. Friends who get quiet when we blunder into a conversation about menopause or Instagram influencers? Check. A mother who keeps suggesting cosmetic surgery procedures to improve my face? Check. Kids who would rather die than be seen with me? Give it time. The only thing I’m missing (and this is solely because my husband is allergic) is a cat.

There are Thai food writers who get invited to cool restaurants and cutting-edge openings. I am not one of those people. So when I received an invitation to Siamese Cat Cafe I obviously jumped at the chance, and enlisted my poor daughter to drive me there.

When we first arrived, we were alarmed at the lack of people in the front room, and then realized that it’s just the place where you place your order and pay (and buy merchandise, if you’re interested). The real action is in back, where all of the tables are taken up by Thai cat lovers and their long-suffering partners. Inside the glass walled-in room is the main draw: the cast of 16 adopted cats (more or less) available to meet free of entry, provided you bring your own socks (you can also buy socks in the front room, of course). Even better, a portion of everything the cat cafe receives goes back into animal rescue efforts.

In case you are afraid of the stress this might place on the cats, you’ll be relieved to know that the cats are free to slip away into a human-free room whenever they feel like they need a moment to themselves (the feline equivalent of my closet). There’s no pressure to feed them, either. Instead, cat toys are provided free of charge, and if you simply want to enjoy your drink while vibing with cats curious enough to seek you out, you can do that, too. That is what we did, and were rewarded by a baleful glare from a big gray tabby (we called her Grandma) and attention from a white cat who seemed intent on drinking our matcha lattes (we called her Hungry).

We became involved in the interpersonal dynamics of the cat group: the bossy Siamese one who is clearly the leader; the young, skittish Bengal cat; a slightly cross-eyed white one missing a toe; a queen-sized orange tabby hiding in a corner whom we called Garfield. It turns out they have far more poetic names that what we gave them, even the grumpy old one (pot meet kettle, I know I know).

If you get hungry, there’s more filling sustenance than lime-ade and coffee: the cafe specializes in Vietnamese food, which does not personally seem especially cat-like, but is a real crowd-pleaser. There’s also child-friendly chicken nuggets, cheese fries, and waffles and of course, burgers and spaghetti carbonara, must-haves for any cafe menu within the confines of Thailand. And if you don’t have your fill of cuddly animal time with the cats, there are also six rabbits and two turtles.

The only thing missing is wine.

Everyone posts lists ranking random items in the hope of fanning enough controversy that their bad opinions become viral (see: TasteAtlas). Yet, even though I am mostly immune to bad culinary hot takes (see again: TasteAtlas), I could not help but scan the list of “50 Worst Songs Ever” compiled by something called Blender Magazine. And of course, I was outraged.

First off, let’s clarify: these are clearly not the worst songs ever, because any song I haven’t heard already and have to look up obviously doesn’t count. This brings me to the next point. A lot of songs considered “worst” are songs that people are simply sick of, because they’ve spent a lot of time in the dentist’s office or sitting around in Emporium or whatever. After all, why else paint talented artists like Whitney Houston (“The Greatest Love of All”), Paul McCartney (and Stevie Wonder!) (“Ebony and Ivory”), the Beatles (?!) (“Ob-la-di, ob-la-da”), Celine Dion (“My Heart Will Go On”), Mr. Mister (“Broken Wings”) and Corey Hart (“Sunglasses at Night”, come on the vocals) with a “worst of all time” brush? Why not save it for people who clearly do not have a musical bone in their body, or had temporarily lost control over their faculties (namely, hearing)? Where is LMFAO on this list? Where is “Mambo no. 5”, a cursed song if there ever was one? Not even “Macarena?”

Which brings us to the champ, undisputed still, even more than 30 (?!) years after its release. I’m talking, of course, about “We Built This City” by Starship. Blender called it “a real reflection of what practically killed rock music in the ’80s”, which is actually a critique of the band selling out, not of the song; meanwhile, Grace Slick herself called it “awful” which is pretty slick (ha) considering how she was the one pushing for money for retirement before 50 (which I understand, so why be hypocritical). But Blender isn’t the only tastemaker extraordinaire piling on the song: Rolling Stone called it the worst song of the 1980s (also a really big take, considering all of the great candidates there are (hello late stage Kiss)). Music critic Greg Haymes called it self-congratulatory and pompous, proclaiming itself to be “real rock and roll”, yet so “corporate and bland production-wise that it argues against itself” (again, more of an indictment of the band, not the song, and extremely rich considering we now have Coldplay. Where is Coldplay on this list???) The “worst ness” of this song continues to capture the public imagination, with a recent Mental Floss piece on the song’s change in critical fortunes.

The point is, everyone is happy to pile on to this song, which I never really liked in the first place, but believe gets unfair hate simply because other people hate it. Even one of the singers hates it, even though it did end up funding her retirement. I don’t like that. It feels like bullying the weird new kid in school; there are no stakes here, except for the weird new kid of course. No one is willing to go out on a limb with their actual real opinion on things. No one is willing to say, “I don’t really have any opinion of the weird new kid. The actual worst is Mr. Patton, the sixth grade teacher.” There’s a taste cowardice that’s become weirdly prevalent in society, probably because of social media (how many people write “When can we wear skinny jeans again”, not realizing that, if they have them in their closet, they can just put them on?)

So I’ll come up with my own hot take. I’ll put myself out on a limb. Here it is. Laotian khao soi is better than Thai khao soi. There, I’ve said it.

I don’t know why Thai khao soi has the name it has. But I do know why Laotian khao soi does. It basically means “cut rice”, referring to the hand-cut rice noodles. Its sauce is a pork-and-tomato stew, reminiscent of the beloved bolognese of my childhood. It also reminds me of the “Thai spaghetti” that my dad would make for us from time to time, a dish that’s actually called “kanom jeen nam ngiew” and which I’ve written about probably too many times on this blog.

Like nam ngiew, Laotian khao soi has a deep umami thump from fermented soybeans that kind of mimics the umami you get from Parmesan cheese in bolognese and is deeply, deeply satisfying. I have yet to have a bad bowl of this stuff. That is not the same case for Thai khao soi, which can be cloyingly sweet and/or bland if placed in the wrong hands (this is why I don’t trust a lot of khao soi chains in Bangkok, no matter how much they try to make it look like ramen).

There’s a great bowl at Pasaniyom in Luang Prabang, but my favorite remains “Serious Khao Soy” (previously named “Raan Pho-Khao Soi Nang Tho”), also in Luang Prabang. Alas, I still can’t find a bowl of Laotian khao soi in Bangkok (I checked, calling all the Laotian restaurants recommended by Google Maps). I think Laotian khao soi is where kanom jeen nam ngiew used to be when I first moved to Bangkok in 1995. I just have to wait 30 years until I can find a bowl, it seems.

Until then, here’s a list of the 10 actual worst songs (that I have heard):

1. “Mambo No 5”, Lou Bega (1999 cover)
2. “Party Rock”, LMFAO
3. “Macarena”, Los Del Rio
4. “A Sky Full of Stars”, Coldplay
5. “Memories”, Maroon 5
6. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”, Deep Blue Something (also on other lists, it really is bad)
7. “Glamorous”, by Fergie
8. “I Wanna Love You”, by Akon
9. “The Hardest Ever”, by Will.i.am
10. Benson Boone

I spent three weeks in Laos and I loved it as much as I could without having the luxury of sleeping on my pillow back at home. But there was one thing that really bothered me about my stay, and it bothered me more than even the trickle of cold water that was my shower on my first night in Si Phan Don. It was the lack of Laotian food.

It wasn’t really a problem in Luang Prabang, Laos’ most visited city, where street vendors and Laotian restaurants (and even Luang Prabang restaurants) form a sort of Fibonacchi sequence in the historic district among all the tour operators, guesthouses, temples and coffee shops that repeat themselves every block or so. Even in the “new town” across the Nam Khan River, you’ll find streets full of barbecued goat restaurants (I’m told this is the “boozy fun night out” meal of choice) alongside the de rigueur pétancle courts, open-air markets with ready-made food, and countless noodle vendors. As I’m typing this, I realize that Luang Prabang is a veritable paradise of Laotian food in a way that nowhere else I’ve seen is.

Because when I landed in Pakse, the so-called “gateway to Southern Laos”, I hadn’t yet found a Laotian restaurant where I could have dinner. Oh, there were plenty of “Laotian restaurants” listed on Google Maps, serving long-cherished Laotian favorites like pad Thai, green curry and pad gaprao. I don’t blame the Laotian restaurants for this; Laotians, like most people on Earth, need to make money to live, and it’s difficult explaining to the casual tourist why they can’t have pad Thai even though they are in Southeast Asia. Hell, Thais can’t even explain to tourists that eating rice and curry with chopsticks is crazy. And can you imagine the annoyance among Vietnamese people when Thai restaurants served deep-fried spring rolls as a “local appetizer”? None of us are immune from this.

I finally did find a restaurant — a French steakhouse, no less — with a real “Laotian” section on their menu promising stir-fried Mekong river fish eggs, local fish laap, and a crispy Laotian rice salad called “nam khao”. Everything came with mountains of green vegetables, the way it’s supposed to be eaten, and it made me overlook the stringy, tough meat of the medium-rare beefsteak.

But what really stuck with me of all the dishes we saw was the “nam khao”: imagine the crispy bits of the paella pan, with aa gentler, sweeter version of a Thai yum dressing, sour fermented pork “naem” sausage, and lots of extra texture with roasted peanuts, deep-fried shallots, and fresh herbs. It’s a dish that I’d seen on the street in Bangkok countless times called “naem sot” (fresh fermented pork sausage) or “yum naem” (a dish I’d thought was Isan, but of course it would be Laotian). I figured it would be something I could find throughout Southern Laos. Or so I thought.

Because when we left Pakse for the Bolaven Plateau, we were having a hard enough time finding any good food, much less Laotian food (we ended up eating a Thai lunch cooked by a former personal chef of notorious village headman Kamnan Poh (!) and deep-fried veggies bought at a Katu village community market for dinner). And Si Phan Don, aka “4000 Islands”? The situation was even more dire: pad Thai and dreadlocked young white people everywhere like it was Khao Sarn Road, and a selection of som tum, fried rice and cheeseburgers on our hotel menu. I began eating Western food, because, to me, eating a mediocre pizza is better than having a not-great massaman curry, but the nam khao was in the back of my mind the entire time.

So on our way back to Thailand, we stopped at the tiny island of Don Daeng for lunch at La Folie Lodge, where I’d read they offered nam khao on their menu (and yes, they also had a nice burger). I wanted my friend Andrew to try it, marketing it as the next Burmese tea leaf salad. Is it for real? I don’t know, but I never tried to make Burmese tea leaf salad at home. However, I have made nam khao, adapted from this recipe, and have decided to write it down for you in case you agree with me that this salad is awesome.

Nam Khao

Serves 2-4

• 1 cup old, cooked rice
• 1 tsp ginger, grated
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 shallot (or half of a large red onion), chopped
• 2 lime leaves, julienned
• 1 Tbsp red curry paste
• 1 Tbsp fish sauce
• 1 tsp pepper
• 1 tsp palm or coconut sugar (brown will do in a pinch)
• 1 egg
• 1/2 Tbsp corn or potato starch

Combine all of these ingredients, form into balls (they will be gloopy), and stick in the refrigerator to firm up. Meanwhile, make the dressing by combining:

• 2 Tbsps fish sauce
• Juice from 1 lime
• 1 Tbsp palm, coconut or brown sugar
• 1 garlic clove, minced
• a small handful of chopped coriander stems and leaves
• 1 bird’s eye chili, sliced
• 1/3 cup boiling water

In a large bowl, combine these ingredients:

• a 2-inch slice of naem (fermented pork sausage), cubed
• 1/4 cup of roasted peanuts
• 1 shallot (or 1/4 of a large red onion), sliced and deep-fried
• 1 shallot (or 1/4 of a large red onion), sliced
• 2 green onions, sliced
• Handful of mint leaves, chopped
• Handful of chopped coriander stems and leaves
• 3 bird’s eye chilies, sliced

In about 2 inches of canola oil (or other oil if you prefer), deep-fry your rice balls in batches until brown and crispy, making sure to not crowd the pan. Place the fried balls on a plate or wire basket lined with paper towels to soak up the oil. Once you’re done with all of the rice balls, add them to your big bowl with the naem and break up the balls roughly with a fork and spoon while tossing. Before serving, add the dressing and give another toss, and if you have them, garnish with a few leaves of chopped sawtooth coriander and a couple of dried chilies.

Eat with fresh lettuce leaves (or whatever other greens you’d like) and you’re all set!