Karen likes to say that everything on the internet is “public, permanent, and traceable”. Everything, that is, except for my blog posts. I don’t know where my latest one is. I should probably be sad because I spent a lot of time on it. However, it might be God’s way of saying that no one should ever have to see my terrible Anthony Bourdain fan fiction. Bullet dodged, world.
I have been giving a lot more thought to fan fiction lately. This is because I want to make EL James-level bank, see my flaccid scribblings re-enacted on the big screen, and then make a nuisance of myself at numerous, famous people-populated parties. I have narrowed the criteria down to three major points. To write successful fan fiction, one must: 1.) feature a love triangle 2.) have the heroine (who is invariably the narrator and unwitting object of everyone’s affections) possess some ineffable quality that is completely beyond her control and renders her irresistible to her more standoffish (and undoubtedly more handsome) suitor, and 3.) make the heroine dowdy and/or judgmental, because making an effort to look good/being popular with boys makes you a big slut. She must be attractive to every man in the story for some other reason, as long as that reason is not her personality or intelligence, because that is boring and/or hard to write.
There seems to be a set of criteria for the successful Thai food stall as well. These are: 1.) tables that are crowded with “locals” 2.) a gruesome display of animal carcasses either in front or in back, because one must always be reminded of how truly adventurous one really is, and 3.) an abusive and/or harried cook. If the cook is not sufficiently ornery, then the stall must be in a hard-to-find location. The point is to suffer for your food.
Luckily for me, Guaythiew Ped on St. Louis Road (127/44 St. Louis Soi 3, 02-211-1411) fulfills all of these criteria, from the grisly-yet-tasty carcasses:
to the crowded tables and harried, frantic cook out in front. Of course, the food stands center stage — yes, the duck in every iteration: its tender gizzards, simmered feet, soft neck, rich liver and tranches of soft meat, cut with a vinegary chili sauce to offset the greasiness of the flesh.
But my favorite part of my meal is the cubed duck’s blood, not so soft that it disappears into the broth, nor so hard that it resembles sanguinary finger jello: slightly squidgy and giving to the slightest pressure, festooned with spring onions and coriander leaves.
Presented with a formidable pile of the stuff, I managed to dispatch of every duck blood cube in maybe 5 minutes.
“You ate that like a vampire,” said Karen, unable to try even a single cube, because I had eaten it all.