Bangkok Glutton

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!

When I was a kid living in Pennsyltucky, I used to daydream about a place with soaring green mountains, rice paddies, and snaking rivers that I could move to someday, far away from teachers who gave lectures about how not speaking English in the United States was “rude”. It turns out, the place I was dreaming about was Luang Prabang.

Lo and behold, I actually have family in Luang Prabang. They are second cousins (or maybe third?), relatives of my Grandma Jeanette’s whom we finally got to meet for the first time last year in November. So when I got a commission to research and write about Luang Prabang for a guidebook this year, I jumped at the chance to contact them again, if only to stuff my face with more of their food.

My relatives own a restaurant, and an ice cream parlor. Could I get any luckier? Madame Noy is owned by the eldest of three sisters, who has been cooking for her family all her life. Her restaurant is known for serving Thai-style chicken rice, crispy pork on rice, and red BBQ pork on rice (it would appear, even in places as proudly Laotian as Luang Prabang, that Thai-style dishes are better known than pure Laotian ones.) That said, her expertise isn’t limited to Thai street food; she makes a mean spread of Laotian food — and not just Laotian, but dishes that are hard to find anywhere outside of Luang Prabang.

One dish that I’ve had a hard time finding anywhere else is “khao poon nam jaew”. While “khao poon” is roughly equivalent to Thailand’s “kanom jeen” (Mon-style fermented rice noodles), “nam jaew” seems confusing because everyone associates “jaew” with “spicy chili dip”.

But this nam jaew has less to do with spicy red chilies, and a lot more to do with pork: pork offal, primarily. It’s what highfalutin chefs today would call “poverty cuisine” — all the off-cuts of the pig that no one else would want — but which is quite sensibly about making sure that nothing goes to waste. To maybe hide the fact that there are so many pig parts in there, a veritable mountain of toppings are included, like chopped banana blossom, cabbage, bean sprouts, the requisite green onion and fresh coriander leaves, green beans, basil leaves, fresh lime, raw chilies, and French watercress, ubiquitous in Luang Prabang. You pile your noodles with the toppings, ladle the stew on top, and give them a good mix while flinging the whole thing with lashings of chili powder. The final flourish involves smooshing rice crackers in your hands and tipping them over the noodles like croutons. The result is milder than expected, natural and somehow refreshing, like most Laotian food is.

Like Thais, Laotians are also fond of buying their favorite dishes from valued street vendors for special meals with family. This includes the only Luang Prabang dish that Thais are familiar with, “tum Luang Prabang“, made with slivers of cucumber (not necessarily big flat noodle-like slices, but often) and seasoned with shrimp paste, water olive and lots and lots of fermented field crab juice. My cousins’ favorite vendor is in the alleyway next to the former Dara Market (it’s since been closed to make way for something, likely another high-end hotel).

Another snack that’s everywhere in Luang Prabang is “khaiphaen”, which is Mekong river weed that’s been seasoned with sesame seeds and dried in the sun. You’ll see racks of it drying along the river banks in November, when the water is as its clearest, I’m told; the rainy season muddies the water too much for collection (not to mention, it’s fairly dangerous). The river weed is supposed to melt in your mouth like a communion wafer; if it’s sticky or chewy, it’s too old — meaning I’ve been chewing on old river weed all my life. The khaiphaen I’m served is a melt-in-the-mouth revelation, but when I ask where it’s from, I get hemming and hawing about how they are friends who process the river weed themselves. Needless to say, it’s not from the Morning Market.

Finally, Madame Noy served us a dish I’ve never seen before, looking like two big logs of black, sticky matter. No, reader, it was not photogenic, as you can imagine. Or don’t have to imagine:

It was called “oat bon”, though I’ve also seen it referred to as “or bon” or “aw bon” online (though that’s not what it sounds like when people refer to it.) Oat bon is not a dish you’ll find on many menus, and if it is there, it’s probably listed in Laotian. It’s made of taro or “elephant ear” leaves, which grow in profusion around the banks of the Mekong and Nam Khan rivers that surround Luang Prabang’s historical district. The leaves are poisonous when raw, so they are marinated and then steamed, thickened with pounded sticky rice, and mixed with seasonings like chilies, galangal, lemongrass, fermented fish sauce (pla daek), ground pork or water buffalo, and pork skin. The result is a stew, or as I saw it, a chili dip that my cousins said must be eaten by hand with a rolled-up ball of sticky rice. Only then would I become Lao, they said, so I did it, after getting a bit on my white shirt (of course). The taste was salty yet somehow light, better than the sum of its parts, and improved with each mouthful. But upon asking where they got this delicacy, they said the vendor made only a few a day: “They don’t really like to work too hard,” they said, and it was the most Thai thing I’d ever heard.

Online research tells me that I can find this dish at Little Lao Culture Bar, which is something I will check out when I return (yes, return!) to Luang Prabang in October for more research. It turns out, unlike what many people would have you believe about Laos, that Luang Prabang is roiling with things to do, and I have only scratched the surface of “sights & activities” (and “food & drink” too, for that matter). I’ll get my fill of everything else that I’ve missed, and make a return trip to Madame Noy (and U-Like Ice Cream next door for their sticky rice parfait, too).