Bangkok Glutton

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.

It’s been a little over a week since my knee surgery, and since then I’ve mostly been relegated to hanging out at my house, Jimmy Stewart-in-“Rear-Window”-style. Like Jimmy Stewart, I have been left to my own devices, entertainment-wise. Unlike Jimmy Stewart, Grace Kelly is not visiting me and a look out my window mostly yields …………………………………………… um …. ok.

So nothing much entertaining on that front. Instead, I have been left to my device, literally: of course I’m talking about my iPhone. I’m on it now like it’s my job, and politely-worded requests from my nice new editor to trim 30 pages from my manuscript are the distraction from the very important work of matching all the Chinese barbecue skewers onto the correct grills for the pretend customers in my new video game.

And when I’m not playing this game, I’m lurking on Twitter. Yes, I know about Elon Musk. But I can’t shake the feeling that I find out things more quickly from Twitter than I do from Threads, which I was shamed into joining by my sister on my way to the hospital last week (and haven’t checked out since). There are great conversations and funny comments that make me glad I’m there, as well as incredible discoveries. That includes the band Angine De Poitrine (which you’ve probably heard of already), which I’ve linked to on Youtube and not to Twitter, to make my sister happy.

But there are times when Twitter makes me angry, which is not surprising, since that is the entire point of Twitter. There are several “discourses” that pop up for people, depending on their algorithm, which can either fade away in the span of a few hours or linger on for three or four days (a Twitterer’s lifetime). Not surprisingly, a lot of my algorithm has a lot of food stuff, when it isn’t occasionally mistaking me for 1. an Indian man or 2. Indonesian, for some reason (which is why I’m getting a lot of anti-Korea stuff right now — a new “discourse”, don’t ask). I’m also getting a lot of post-Thai election outrage, and all I’m going to say about that is that it’s a case of Thailand following in the footsteps of the US, but not in the way you might think.

The one “food discourse” that took off recently involved a woman who wanted to give advice on easy cooking for people with “executive function issues”(I don’t want to get into specific handles anymore because the last time I mentioned someone, they ended up responding to *gestures wildly* the current political dumpster fire by calling for defunding the Democratic party, but if you’re on Twitter a lot, you probably already know who I’m talking about).

Now, I don’t really know what “executive function issues” means, but I (as well as my sister) do have untreated ADHD. I also imagine that if one person has executive function issues, other people probably do too, and that includes Asians. So it rubbed me the wrong way, just a little, when someone wrote “Love Asian cuisines, but they absolutely are the worst to cook at home. You have to buy 44 ingredients to make one dish and it’s not something you’ll want to have more than once a week.”

There are a few things to unpack here, which is what I’m here for. 1. Asians manage to cook things at home. Even with street food just a few steps away for many of them. 2. You really don’t need 44 ingredients to make a dish. I know it’s an exaggeration but come on. Very few people are making curries from scratch, much less using more than 10 ingredients for them. 3. Why wouldn’t you use those ingredients ever again? A lot of them — soy sauce, chili powder, rice vinegar — last a long time in the pantry.

But then when people chimed in with the obvious “What about stir-fries?” it ruffled even more feathers. “Sounds good but respectfully, sautéing veggies or meat in garlic and oil isn’t reading as Asian to me. It’s a very regular way to cook anything.”

And then, when incredulous people said, pushing stuff around in garlic in oil absolutely is stir-frying unless you’re a wok hei master, she (it’s a she) pointed out that she had sautéed green beans with garlic at home; did that mean she had cooked Asian food *smirk emoji*?

So it’s not enough to say something maybe a little obtuse, like the Twitter equivalent of Jennifer Aniston greeting Ross at the airport with his new Chinese girlfriend. It’s now important to double down by equating stir-frying with being a wannabe “Cobra Kai” extra practicing kata in the grocery store checkout line. And then I got mad.

To a commenter who may or may not have been trolling when he said she could fall back on French cuisine, which relies on high-end ingredients and culinary school, she said, “Strong agree. This is why I frankly prefer French food for home cooking. It’s [sic] requires less of what stresses me out from a prep perspective, and relies more on technique and ingredients, which I’m happy to learn and am lucky enough to afford.”

So for people with “executive function issues”, the cuisine you choose is FRENCH? An ingredients list for sesame noodles is deemed too long, but boeuf bourguignon is par for the course? A recipe that involves a sauce is too time-consuming, but FRENCH food (with 5 official mother sauces) is not? No prep is required for the cuisine that invented the “mise en place”? Chopping vegetables and taking olives(?) out of their container to put in a bowl for “white people tacos” (yes it’s this person) are too hard but the suggested recipes — mostly tray bakes with chicken and rice or roast potatoes — require no prep for those ingredients? Marinating meat for a stir-fry is terrible but marinating steak is ok? It’s too hard to use a food processor to chop vegetables but a grill is “executive function”-friendly? It’s the contradictions that vex, not the inability to think of something else to do with soy sauce and sesame oil. Don’t even get me started on the intimation that Western cuisine is superior in terms of technique and ingredients. Just say you’re uncomfortable with Asian cooking! And to bat away well-meaning suggestions and even recipes with iterations on “Weren’t you listening?” or straw man arguments about virtue signaling via a pantry full of exotic ingredients takes a special, JK Rowling-level commitment to virtual self-immolation. Have you ever been confused about the Asian concept of “face?” This is it, illustrated for you. Just gargantuan levels of stubbornness (and anti-Asian snobbery, besides).

Smartly (finally) the discourse ended with the OP saying basically “OK you win, you made the world a better place lol.” And then it ended. But I continued to think about it. Because it’s not just OP who feels this way. Asian recipes are scary for a lot of people. I remember after publishing my first cookbook, my son told me that his friends’ parents complained that the ingredients were too exotic (this was a cookbook explicitly tested in Western kitchens). A lot of people balk at buying things like makrut lime leaves, lemongrass and galangal (none of which you can substitute), especially if you don’t know that you can stick them in the freezer when you aren’t using them. We aren’t made of money, after all.

With that in mind, it’s not surprising to retreat to the refuge of the oven, where you can throw anything into it and it usually turns out OK, because I’ve done it too. I always roast a chicken and make a lasagna (with the cheater’s mix of ricotta and mascarpone instead of béchamel) whenever I invite people over but am definitely not feeling it on the day of. I’m sure people who have been to my house recognize this particular combo. People don’t always have the time, money or temperament to “fail” at a dish (though I have failed at roast chicken before). It’s easier to retreat to what you know, like baked chicken, no sauce, Lawry’s seasoning, salt and pepper.

The truth is, I’ve only just begun to hit my Asian cooking mojo, simply because I’ve written (now two) cookbooks on Thai food. I’ll do anything, but I have to be in the mood for it. There are the daunting “44 ingredient” recipes like Chef Dylan of Haawm‘s white curry, which he very generously gave me the recipe for and which I only recently screwed up the courage to try (there are 22 ingredients including the masala powder, not including the garnishes). I didn’t have everything and it was OK. Was it as good as Dylan’s? No way! But my husband really liked it.

I’ve also discovered that if you invest in a handful of sauces — soy sauce, mirin, sake, and dashi powder or packets — you have the foundational ingredients for most Japanese recipes. That includes noodles and even stir-fries sautéing things in a pan with oil and garlic! Is it the same as you’d get in a Japanese restaurant? No way! Is it fun to make? Absolutely yes.

And have I had failures? Totally! My tonkatsu was sliced too thinly, so it was tough (the sauce is an easy mix of Worcestershire sauce, oyster sauce, ketchup and sugar though).

And whatever special alchemy happens in Laos that results in ultra-delicious “som tum Luang Prabang”, it was not happening in my kitchen, even with the Laotian tomatoes and nam poo (pulverized field crab sauce) smuggled back home in my suitcase.

What I’m trying to accomplish by posting my amateurish attempts at Asian cooking is to say that it’s OK to fail. It’s OK to not do things perfectly the first time. It means that you’ll inevitably get better at it. The point is to reach that place where you’re ready to try. And that place can be reached. Trust me.

So here’s an Asian recipe that I think satisfies just about every possible obstacle for people with executive function issues, or for people who just want something easy to deal with (although you do have to chop some cabbage, onion and a carrot). And I found out about it from Twitter! It’s the “no-water” chicken soup, which is cooked over very low heat in little to no water so that the vegetables and chicken can exude their own juices. I used regular cabbage, omitted the goji berries and added turmeric, as well as a roasted Sichuan-pepper-and-salt mix left over from another failed Sichuan eggplant stir-fry (Karen said it was too salty).

Did I almost cut off the toe from my injured leg by dropping a knife onto the floor? Yes! Did the mixture burn at the bottom because my heat was too strong (“medium low” should actually be “low” in the recipe)? Yes! I ended up adding dried Ancho chilies gifted to me by my friend Jon and their soaking liquid, and the end result was quite nice and smelled amazing. Do I have a picture? No! It’s not like I can run up and down the stairs willy-nilly right now, especially after the previous burning incident. You’ll just have to trust me.

Oh OK, fine.

It doesn’t actually produce as much water as I’ve been led to believe on Twitter, or maybe Thai cabbages and chickens are simply not that watery. What does result is full of chicken flavor, however. It’s one of those recipes that can go on forever (a la Wattanapanich beef noodles), as long as you keep putting in a little water. All it requires is, like many things, a little patience, and a willingness to try.

If you follow astrology, you will have read that there is a big shift in the world from the sun exiting Capricorn and entering Aquarius. Of course, if you follow the news, you are already well-aware that a big shift in the world is underway, and that things are unlikely to ever return to how they were before. Personally, I have experienced more than my fair share of changes over the past 12 months. I have (unwillingly) moved out of my house, am an empty nester, and find myself free from any writing projects for the first time in at least two years.

Maybe because of this, I have had a hard time shifting out of the grieving process — grief for my old house, of course, but also for my old life, which wasn’t perfect, but was perfect for me. What makes things more difficult is that I have to put on a brave face for my husband, who feels bad when I grieve, so here I am on the Internet, grieving in front of an audience of mostly strangers. I erroneously believed that Joan Didion once wrote “Growing old is saying good-bye”, but she would never write something that simple-minded. She wrote “It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends” and also about being nodding acquaintances with your past selves, all of which I understand well now but wish I didn’t. Some other things that I’ll have to say good-bye to this year:

1. Money (that Lonely Planet payday went quickly!)
2. Prozac (Eli Lilly is no longer making it, citing the proliferation of dupes on the market. I don’t like the dupes, and my therapist says I don’t need them. This is all a good reason for me to hide away in my new abode, as I fear what will happen with an unmedicated me unleashed on the world).
3. Any pretence that I’ll get to read “A Dream of Spring” by George R.R. Martin
4. My hair

Since Joan Didion didn’t write about saying good-bye and getting old, I’ll say it. The longer you spend on the planet, the more used you become to saying good-bye and doing without. There will be other, much more difficult good-byes than the ones I’ve had to deal with coming up. But since this is ostensibly a food blog, I’ll have to focus on something that we never thought we’d have to say good-bye to, and that is curries.

“What?” you say. “Curries are everywhere,” and that’s mostly true, though a recent stop at Nang Loeng Market shocked me when I saw that Khao Gang Rattana had shrunken to half its former size (street food Ozempic!) When I talk about disappearing curries, I’m not talking about the heavyweights like green curry and massaman curry, the Bruce Springsteens of the Thai curry world. I’m talking about curries that are harder to find: the thom kati (things simmered in coconut milk), the gang taypo (red curry with morning glory and tamarind juice), the gang ki lek (cassia leaf curry), and the super-regional stuff like white curry (from the Deep South, it has no chilies in its paste base). These are dishes I get excited about when I see them, so when I find myself at Or Tor Kor, I invariably end up at Mae Malee, where these curries rub elbows with their more famous brethren.

But even Mae Malee, and famous curry rice shops like The Originals Mae On’s Curry Over Rice in Saphan Han, have been forced to follow the times and offer more stir-fries, fried chicken and one-dish specials for diners, who are used to eating alone. One-dish meals, like pad kaprao and pad see ew are the new staples of the Thai table, supplanting curry, which 1. is wildly labor-intensive if made from scratch and 2. often requires a whole battery of other dishes to accompany it to round out the samrub (meal). Even when you do eat curry by yourself, you are all too aware of your alone-ness; after all, curry is meant to be a communal dish, as communal in spirit as hotpot and Korean barbecue. While eating these things alone is possible (and believe me, I’ve seen it), it also makes one all too aware that it wasn’t designed with the solitary diner in mind. Perhaps this is why there is a proliferation of Japanese restaurants (hand roll bars are the new Wine Connection) and pad kaprao spots. Everyone eats alone, even at home, where people are getting used to having separate meals together (thanks, Line Man, and shoutout to “Being Alone Together” by David and David, and if you know what I’m talking about, congratulations, you’ve been saying good-bye for a while now).

I’m not railing against the end of the institution of eating one Thai meal en famille; I’m saying good-bye to it. It’s what we inevitably do, if we stick around long enough. A few days ago, I shot something for a documentary at Klong Toei market with two young Spanish filmmakers who reminded me of my kids. One of them, Uri, said he supported national culinary boards that would protect the cuisine of each country from veering too far away from the publicly mandated path. I felt like it was a Sisyphean task. “As time goes on, you have to say good-bye to things, that’s what getting old is all about,” I proclaimed, pretending to be wise. On the way home, I bought green curry paste from the market and, because it was just for me, my favorite part of the chicken (that would be chicken blood) to make a solitary curry for myself. It felt like a good-bye, though at the time it was just a good-bye to my market.

When I have knee surgery in a few weeks (again, I’ve been around a while), I will be saying good-bye to my old knee, and seeing what delights the new one has in store for me. Until then, I have the time to say good-bye properly: to my knee, to my medication, to curry, though maybe not to my hair.