Bangkok Glutton

A long long time ago, in a country far far away, I went to a Steely Dan concert. It was a gift (bought voluntarily, and out of the blue) from my then-boyfriend, during a visit to his family home in Vermont. It was the ’90s and Steely Dan were obviously past their prime, but big enough to do the kind of nostalgia tour that big-name acts from the past rely on as their bread and butter; as a result, the crowd was full of wealthy boomers who were no longer able to immediately recognize the smell of pot (from somewhere, I don’t know where). When we got back to the car, my then-boyfriend punched in a tape of Velvet Underground’s “Loaded” (which was mine, mind you) and, as the start of “Who Loves the Sun” began to sound, pounded on the steering wheel with the energy of a prosecutor presenting a murderer with the evidence of her crimes. “How great is this music?” he shouted, and it was his way of telling me he had had a horrible evening, full of terrible music, regretfully on his own dime.

People who care about music (or me) seem to misunderstand why I like Steely Dan. It’s not the great musicianship or production value, or occasional “smooth jazz” of it all. I like them in spite of these things. It’s because they sound like a beleaguered small-time band playing in the lobby of a down-at-heel lounge in Murray Hill, shoehorning gigs in between 9-to-5 jobs and sermons from well-meaning family members on why giving up on your dreams is the adult thing to do. There’s something about Donald Fagen’s voice that suggests that he is persevering in life in spite of it all, even though he is undoubtedly way richer than me. When he sings “Any Major Dude” (a song that pulled me through some tough times in the past), it sounds like it’s coming from an old guy sitting on someone else’s stoop in the west 40s in New York, who you’ll never see again. That thought gives me comfort for some reason.

Karma works in funny ways. I had my own Vermont ex-boyfriend moment recently (but not on my own dime), at a buzzy new restaurant on Charoen Krung Road (arguably Ground Zero for buzzy new restaurants). Specializing in modern Thai cuisine, it had won plaudits internationally and had correspondingly taken some lessons from fine dining restaurants in the West. There was an understated, almost hidden entrance leading to a hushed sanctuary within, and the necessary pre-dinner moment of contemplation (15 minutes minimum) where we could focus on original artworks exclusive to the restaurant. The menu (in courses, obviously) didn’t list the dishes themselves, but instead the chef’s inspiration and musings on how the dishes came about, in the sort of teeny-tiny writing that is the bane of old people everywhere. And then there was the food: reimagined classics, or showcases for technique, dishes saddled with names reminiscent of early stage Gaggan (or maybe late stage Gaggan too, I haven’t been to Gaggan in a while).

If I haven’t said this before, let me state this explicitly: I don’t believe in “authentic” Thai cuisine. I believe that the evolution of Thai food is a necessary part of keeping the cuisine alive and vibrant, and that Thai food has been able to remain vital by doing just that over the past few centuries. There is no “real” recipe for green curry, or anything else, aside from the fact that it uses Thai ingredients and starts from a paste (hopefully pounded in a mortar and pestle, but not etched in stone, even though I will judge you, but who cares). I’ll even loosen the Thai ingredients thing if you’re a restaurant abroad, because I believe that great cuisines can evolve from monetary (and customer taste) constraints, just like how Chinese-American and Japanese-Peruvian cuisines were created (and they are great cuisines). I want to see new cuisines sprouting from Thai food. I want to see people innovating and expanding the boundaries of what make Thai food possible. I want it to incorporate elements from everything that is around it, just as it has successfully done since the birth of Thai food.

But I hated this meal. I hated the fact that, today, fine dining = courses, frequently more than you can stand. I hated how seriously everything was presented, in the face of dish titles that highlighted an overarching desire to be a part of the West (you can accuse me of unconscious projection here, even though consciously I do all I can to fight that in spite of my terrible language skills and overall demeanor. You understand my dilemma). I hated that there was plenty of intellectualizing, but no emotional element to the food (this is also a Western trait because post-Rousseau, the West distrusts emotion). And I hated that there was barely any rice, except for a cursory nod at the end, in honor of Thailand’s agricultural roots, of course.

I’ve come to understand that what I hated, really, was the system in which food like this has become necessary. We must have wine pairings like in Western restaurants in order to be taken seriously, even though that’s not our tradition. In the same vein, we must have courses, even though our food is not meant to be eaten that way. Some restaurants (Aksorn, Samrub for Thai, Haawm) thread this tiny hole in the needle by presenting courses at first before serving everything Thai-style at the end. I am OK with this, because I understand that many of us live in a sort of twilight world where we are one thing but also the other at the same time. I respect this because — OBVIOUSLY — and because that is also what modern Thai cuisine is, a “luk krung” (born from two parents or lifetimes of different cultures). And like any “luk krung”, there is the overweening temptation to fall all the way over to the side that is “stronger” (again: my Thai language skills). The dislike for the obvious Western slant in some modern Thai restaurants comes from a dislike of my own weaknesses. But that doesn’t mean that I’m wrong; adhering to a system started by someone else inevitably puts all of your work at a disadvantage. Playing by Western rules for Thai food will always allow people to categorize Thai food as inferior to that of the West.

Time to listen to “Any Major Dude” again, I think.

In spite of all of the guides I’ve published about traversing the length and breadth of Thailand for good street food, I’d never been to Songkhla, a province set like a cap over the three southernmost Thai provinces of Pattani, Narathiwat and Yala. Formerly known as “Singora” or “Lion City”, Songkhla was once the “jewel in the crown” of a former Malay kingdom before coming under Thai control in the 18th century, where it (obviously) has remained ever since.

Thanks to its serene location connecting Malaysia to Siam, conveniently situated next to the Gulf of Thailand, Songkhla always enjoyed a role as a trading hub. This made it ideal as a base for entrepreneurial Fujian and Guangdong Chinese families, one of whom rose to political and business prominence as the Na Songkhla family, serving as governor for eight generations until 1901. Today, their former home serves as the Songkhla National Museum.

I was aware of all of this, and had even been told of how charming Songkhla’s Old Town is by numerous people. Yet nothing prepared me for exactly how picturesque and idyllic it was until I set foot in town after an hours-long delayed flight on AirAsia and a failed attempt to get a fried chicken lunch near Hat Yai airport (Songkhla does not have its own airport). What this means is that I was hungry, and in a bad mood, and still I was charmed by this town with its photogenic alleyways, interesting street art, innumerable cafes, and obviously, wonderful food.

Part of what makes the Old Town so idyllic is the marked absence of Starbucks, McDonald’s, or even a 7-11 (that’s left to the rest of town, where most people live). There’s only a Cafe Amazon (how are they everywhere?), tucked away on a shady side street across from a local sweets shop, as darkened and hushed in atmosphere as a hidden library. Another thing? It feels relatively undiscovered, populated by a few wandering Malaysians, a couple of touristing Thais like us, and a handful of Western tourists that you can get to know over the course of your 2- or 3-day trip (periodically bumping into the guy from the cafe this morning, the couple from the wine bar last night, the family from the hotel lobby, you get the picture). It’s quiet enough here to be almost unnerving, and even the youngsters taking photos for their social media are unobtrusive, as if they had been schooled in the airport on how to behave.

Displayed in almost every business in the Old Town is a useful book promoting the eateries and shops of Songkhla, through which we discovered local delicacies like “yum kai krob Songkhla”, a spicy salad of steamed egg yolks with herbs; “guaythiew hang moo” or “pig’s tail noodles”, seasoned with palm sugar and vinegar; and “khao man gang gai”, a Southern Thai-style nasi lemak combining the twin delights of coconut rice and chicken curry.

Alas, we didn’t have the time to try these delicacies (I know). What we do have time for is one of Songkhla’s most famous snacks: a quick “sundae” of house-made ice cream topped with egg yolk and a spoonful of Ovaltine powder from I Tim Ong (also famous for its fish meatballs).

There’s also the famous “kanom kai” made by Pa Mon (there are a lot of famous things to eat here), Thailand’s answer to Proust’s madeleine.

But the culinary peak of our trip was Tae Hiang Aew, recommended by my friend Nat and the inspiration behind the “Old Town Songkhla” guide (much like how Jay Fai was originally the inspiration for my first street food guide in 2010). Said to have been a must-try for all visiting dignitaries to Songkhla, this surprisingly humble open-air shophouse restaurant specializes in honest, straightforward Thai-Chinese cuisine, without contemporary bells and whistles like mountains of chilies or rivers of oyster sauce.

According to the Songkhla guide, there are five dishes that regulars always order here. The first is a delicious yum of “mamuang bao”, an egg-sized green mango native to Southern Thailand that is studded with little umami bombs like strips of dried squid and dried shrimp powder (on the side for us, because my husband is allergic). There’s a “dry tom yum” of deep-fried seabass with tons of lime leaves, lemongrass, galangal and roasted chili paste. A dry “pullo” (Chinese-style five-spice stew) of duck snuggled against red barbecued pork. Tofu “song krueng” (“fully dressed”), slathered in a cornstarch-thickened minced pork sauce larded with scallions and ginger. And either deep-fried whole fish or our choice, stir-fried morning glory, not smothered in chilies but simply cooked with garlic and a fermented brown bean sauce, simple and secure in its flavors, a genuine taste of mid-20th century Thai-Chinese cooking.

This is when you can tell that the chef in the kitchen has taken a few orbits around the block; it’s a type of cooking that is disappearing, slowly, as tastes and palates evolve. It doesn’t rely on anything — not on teasing the eye with beautiful arrangements or the tongue with sensational flavors. It’s the type of food you’d find at a place like Hi Nakorn Pochana , known for its seafood but actually excelling in its large variety of stir-fried greens: simply served with garlic, allowing the flavor of the vegetables to shine through. This is not to say that cooking today is worse or inferior; it’s just changed, just as we all change over time.

Thankfully, Songkhla seems to be one of those places that doesn’t change as much, at least for now. Maybe this is why I’m so drawn to it. I’ve located my new house, which appears to be inhabited, next to a lovely alleyway with a view over the lake (I will not tell you where this is because I don’t want you to take it, but if you’ve been to Songkhla you probably already know). I will just bide my time until it becomes available (or not, because maybe it’s not meant to be). So don’t worry, you won’t have to forward my mail just yet. But you’ll find me there again, by hook or by crook, someday. Hopefully I’ll get to try everything else that I missed the first time around.

Another week, another outrage-generated Twitter discourse, and this time, it’s not about food. Instead, it’s about the only subject that is truly in my wheelhouse, the only thing that would spur me to drag myself off of my couch and onto my rickety right leg to the laptop, the only diversion that would get me to stop watching “Friends” reruns. That subject? Why, the annoyingness of Asian-Americans, of course.

The spark is, of course, a young woman who had the temerity to win a lucrative Stanford writing fellowship on the back of a story about her life experience. Said life experience is about being an Asian-American woman, naturally. Cue other writers, some Asian and some not, weighing in on how boring and superficial Asian-American writing always ends up being. Mean mom? Check. Pressure to succeed? Check. Intergenerational trauma cued by some elderly female relative’s dumplings? Of course.

“I am a young, recently graduated AsAm woman,” writes Freezing Peaches (I don’t care anymore, these people are all smart and witty writers, why hide them under a bushel?). “Asian mother is awful. White boyfriend is awful. Job is awful. So I quit my job and travelled to Asia to discover myself but everyone there just made ching chong noises at me. Then I visited a temple and felt feelings. The end.”

“Hmmmm,” I thought as I read this. “Sounds interesting! Maybe that’s my next project…” …. only to realize that that’s basically all I ever write about, on this blog, Bangkok Glutton.

“The reason why Asian Americans tend to just write about tiger parent trauma or the struggles of smelling like tofu or whatever is because most Asian Americans have had very boring lives,” writes Tomie, who is Asian American. “There’s not much drama in Kumon. The history, the legacy, it’s all second-hand, third-rate…The source material is mid.”

It’s ridiculous, because what kind of exciting life was Jane Austen leading? Was William Shakespeare partying hard all over the place? But then he goes on to compare Asian-American experience to a can of LaCroix, which is really inventive and funny. Also, I think Tomie needs to go to Asia on his own and have a talk with his ancestors, whoever they may be.

This is the thing about Asian-Americans. I can write this because I am one. They are annoying because they are brought up to hate themselves. Seriously.

“Asian Americans are really cringe because America seems to colonize their Asian diaspora people far more aggressively,” writes Lina Hua, who grew up in Germany. “Result is that Asian Americans are either completely mentally colonized white LARPers or mentally ill chronically angry incels” (that’s me!).

But seriously, there is nothing more pathetic than a person that is brought up completely disconnected from their own roots, the roots that are literally the first thing anyone ever sees because it’s their actual face. That really is me, with my terrible Thai that only gets worse and completely American mannerisms. I will always be referred to as “Thai-American” by others, no matter how many times I call myself “Thai”, how many years I’ve spent with my Thai husband, and how many centuries my family members have lived in this kingdom. And it’s obvious why: I am a living, breathing illustration of modern colonization.

“Great read on the REAL problems with Asian American literature,” writes Fred I. Lee. “An inability to orient/locate oneself in an ‘organic’ literary canon and a lack of interest in developing one’s own literary culture on one’s own terms. Instead, we enter the Anglophone canon/tradition on its terms.”

Yes, Fred I. Lee, you go! This is why I absolutely hated “Interior: Chinatown” — a book so intent on being liked by white people that it literally works within the confines of Asian stereotype. This critically lauded story (which is now a TV series too, because why not) takes any potential subversion, kung fus it into submission, and wok fries it with oyster sauce and lots of ketchup for an all-white audience. What, you haven’t read it? OK nvm. What I’m saying is that we should be creating our own traditions and frameworks, ones that are suited uniquely to us. Ones that don’t have anything to do with someone’s mom or the SATs or even LaCroix.

But hey, I’m still Thai. Yes, even with my crappy language skills. Yes, even though I look like a bag lady. Yes, even though I can be spotted as a weirdo by “real” Thais from a mile away. After all, why can’t “Thainess” be the giant circus tent that “Americans” used to pretend to be? I think that’s the reason why I am so insistent that Thai dishes with inspirations from abroad be considered “real Thai food”. Would you question the authenticity of “khao mok gai”? “Kanom jeeb?” Even “som tum pla rah?” Probably not (unless you are my mother, in the most ironic twist of all). Am I the plate of quesadillas stuffed with green curry? Yes, I’m afraid I am, and yes, I’m demanding that you recognize me as Thai *sprinkles self with grated mozzarella.*

This avocado som tum is also me, as well as all of us. It is Thai, utilizing an ingredient now found in many Thai households all over the country. It is inspired by Baan Somtum‘s new avocado salad, resembles guacamole, and is delicious with tortilla chips. It is also very easy to make.

Avocado Som Tum

Ingredients:

• 1-2 avocados, cubed
• 2-3 bird’s eye chilies
• Pinch of sea salt
• 2 garlic cloves
• 1 teaspoon of tamarind pulp
• Juice of 1 lime
• 1/4 – 1/2 Tablespoon of palm sugar (any sugar should be fine)
• 1 Tablespoon fish sauce
• Sprinkle of chili powder (for garnish)
• Fresh coriander leaves, chopped (for garnish)

In a mortar and pestle, pound chilies with a pinch of salt. Add garlic and mash well with the chilies. Add tamarind pulp and do the same. Add palm sugar and ditto. Add lime juice and fish sauce and taste for seasoning (chances are it’s already perfect). Add cubed avocado and mix with dressing before decanting into bowl. Garnish with chili powder and fresh coriander, if using. You can lean fully into the “som tum Thai” vibe and add dried shrimp and toasted peanuts, but that might ruin it (says the person who ate this with two-week-old tortilla chips). Serve immediately.