Author Archives: Bangkok Glutton

Doing research for a guide book can be back-breaking and uncomfortable work. I, an out-of-shape 50-year-old woman, have had to comport myself like a 20-year-old marathon trail runner on countless treks up rickety wooden staircases, through forests generously larded with poisonous snakes, and on the edge of sandstone cliffs in pelting rain. I have had more stomach issues than I could have thought possible as a food writer specializing in street food. And I narrowly missed swallowing several hairy caterpillars suspended from trees as my driver pelted up a mountain road. I have, I feel, been through it.

But it’s not all sweat and caterpillars. There’s an upside to this kind of work, especially when it comes to matters of the table. I (again, a 50-year-old woman) got to sample my very first moo kata (Thai-style pork BBQ) at my friend Aarya’s house in Loei, supervised by her incredibly generous and warm-hearted mother. I sampled various types of “Isaan eau de vie” (a creative euphemism for lao khao, or moonshine) at Kaen, and got to witness Chef Num’s creative reimagining of Isaan cuisine at Samuay & Sons. And I was able to enjoy a vast multi-course lunch at Krua Supanniga by Khunyai Somsie — for free, because we ended up being owner Khun Eh’s guest without realizing it!

The Khon Kaen restaurant, set next to Khun Eh’s family residence, is considered the flagship eatery of the chain of successful Supanniga restaurants scattered across Bangkok. And honestly, there could be no better setting for a restaurant (or a home, really). The entrance is lined with leafy trees decked out in white supanniga blossoms, the dining room itself incorporating a showcase of traditional Thai silk woven in nearby Chonnabot. Inspired by, obviously, Khunyai Somsie’s cooking prowess, the menu incorporates elements of Khunyai Somsie’s hometown, the eastern Thai town of Trat, melded with the Isaan influences of her adopted city of Khon Kaen. The result is, dare we say, a winning fusion that has struck a chord with dinners: the crab curry with chaplu leaves, the pork stewed with chamuang leaves, and the pu jah, or blended crabmeat and pork served in crab shells are now considered popular standards, if not particularly Isaan.

In Khon Kaen, the menu is more eager to lean into Isaan influences and local ingredients, as illustrated by the restaurant’s fairly luxury-sized tasting menu (9-10 courses, though honestly, I think we might have pleaded for less food at the end, as our digestive systems aren’t what they used to be *insert grandma emoji here*). Everyone had their particular favorites, and mine was the fermented Mon-style rice noodle (kanom jeen) topped with a relish of tiny local river prawns and colored with local dragonfruit rinds (brilliant considering all of the dragonfruit farms in Isaan there are).

Another standout featuring local seafood was the grilled river prawn plucked from nearby Ubolrat Dam, topped with local sadao, or neem leaves, which made for a great foil against the sweet fish sauce beneath. It’s a dish that my mother typically serves with grilled catfish, but really the river prawn is a better option and I can’t believe we hadn’t tried this earlier.

Stephane’s favorite course was the skewer of grilled wagyu beef from a nearby ranch — really, while Sakol Nakhon has been considered *the* place for Thai beef for a while, Khon Kaen’s beef farmers are really catching up (check out Arunsupa Farm if you have the chance).

Aarya’s favorite course was something of an anomaly: a simple chicken stew, frequently served at the owners’ family table when the grandfather went out hunting. Comforting and warm, the dish reminded me of something I’d also have for lunch with my husband’s grandmother; pleasingly retro but not fitting into what people would usually think to see on Thai tables, a post-WWII “fusion” that you might get at a cookshop.

After dessert, we got to go to the Laoraowirodge family home for Chinese tea. Unlike in the West, the Chinese only steep their tea for a couple of minutes, believing that infusing the water for too long can turn it toxic.

We then got to tour the meditation retreat, on the grounds across from the garden. Here, people come for courses of up to 11 days … and the whole thing is free. If you think I was tempted to check myself in then and there, well reader, you were correct.

But a deadline looms, and then another country unfortunately beckons. I’ll have to wait a few more months to get my head back on straight.

Loei seems like a wild place — even its very name means “beyond” — but it is in actuality very charming and slow. The forests are green and dense, yes, but the mountains are mostly rolling, never imposing, their sides sprouting trees from which all manner of good things grow, like wild tennis-ball-sized guavas (good if you can get beyond the bitter seeds), dragonfruit, and the region’s peculiarly long avocados.

If you know your stuff, the deep forest itself can yield a whole bunch of yummy things to eat as well. This is what we discovered when we initially made plans to go to Namthok Tarnthong, which, while nowhere near its strongest (that would be from August onwards), still presented something of a roar when we veered into the parking lot. But what was meant to be an attempt to dip our toes in some water came a cropper when we were diverted by the parking lot itself, lined with enterprising ladies selling the things they had gathered in the woods only that morning. There were nuts like hazelnuts, encased in a paper-thin skin that rubbed off when you handled them, and of course, the ever-present “exploding mushrooms”, or het pro, which I love when stewed.

There was also a large cache of lychee-like mountain “berries”, which Aarya characterized as sweet-and-sour.

But what ultimately made both Aarya’s and my heart thump padum padum were the mountain mushrooms on display by a couple of vendors towards the end of the line. Indeed, we got so excited that we bought them all without really knowing what they were.

It was only after we had sped out of the parking lot, booty in tow, that we realized … shit. What now?

Aarya’s friend to the rescue. She had gone to school with friends in Khon Kaen and, unlike me, had kept in touch with them all these years, including a few in Udon Thani where we were fortuitously headed. Could they actually knock something up with these forest mushrooms that we had impulsively purchased?

The answer is: of course. They were so lovely that they asked us to leave our mushrooms at the front desk once we checked in, so that they would have enough time to cook them. They made reservations at a restaurant serving local food that they liked, ChabaaBarn, and told us to expect our mushrooms there.

A few hours later, they did not disappoint.

Meaty and fragrant with Thai lemon basil, with just a hint of pla rah in the broth, the mushrooms were delicious, though I must admit I found the brown ones a little bitter. It was the kind of stew that would only improve with time (then again, what good stews don’t?)

Even more of a revelation were the recommended “Udon Thani” dishes they ordered to accompany the stew, like a frankly delicious chili dip pounded from local water olives and the signature heart cockle miang to be eaten like a grilled fish “miang” would be: stuffed into a leaf with fermented rice noodles like a taco and doused in one or both chili sauces.

We struggled between choosing a som tum of cut fermented rice noodles or a presumably “Udon Thani”-style one slathered in tiny freshwater shrimp from the river, and ultimately chose the latter.

And, although not really local,, we just had to have the duck larb.

The food and company were so good that I did something that I never do: order dessert.

I slept well that night.

One of the things about turning 50 is seeing — or I should say experiencing — how quickly my eyesight and hearing have deteriorated. Even restaurant menus are beyond my purview; when the lettering is too small, I have to straighten my arms to read, only to discover my arms aren’t long enough. It’s unsettling, after all these years, to not know exactly what you’re going to eat, or to not have a handle on all the dishes available to you.

My hearing is another issue. People frequently say things to me either too quickly or too softly, and I’m pretty sure the problem is with me. This makes me quite angry. But my anger isn’t because I can no longer hear what other people are saying. It’s because people still feel like they have to talk to me in the first place.

All the same, I was excited when I heard from Aarya that she was going to show me her “hometown” in Loei, on the banks of the Mekong River, a place I had never been. So when Aarya invited me on a road trip of her province, I put on my fat pants — which are now just my pants — and followed her there.

We met at the airport, where she picked me up in her blue pickup. We had a big day ahead of us, so we headed off immediately to our first destination, Pa Hin Ngam National Park. Perhaps stupidly, I had not yet eaten breakfast, so I was eager to see the options when we got to the park entrance. Alas, there were none. After traveling a further 2 km and parking in front of a mountain with a rambling metal staircase built around it, we found a bunch of vendor stalls selling piggy banks made out of bamboo, a coffee stall with great iced tea served in a bamboo container that we could take home (there was a lot of bamboo), and a natural medicine vendor who let us sample his “sore throat” tea, but really had tea for every possible ailment: period pains, headaches, arthritis, even hemorrhoids.

But no food … though we did discover an elaborate shrine (including clothing rack full of dresses) set up for the spirit of the mountain, whom, the coffee vendor told us, she’d dreamed of only the night before. “She’s very pale and so so tiny,” she said, describing the spirit’s appearance, which conveniently lined up with the statue of her at the shrine.

Maybe I would get lunch at our next stop, the “Mt. Fuji of Loei” only 15 minutes away. We piled back into our car and drove to the visitor’s center, where there was an “aharn tham sung” (made to order) and noodle stall. Alas, Aarya had no confidence in them. “Let’s wait until the next village,” she said. “They just opened yesterday.”

On the way up the hill, taken by a repurposed tractor with seats added onto the back and in the front where the plow used to be, we passed by avocado, guava and dragonfruit trees, and our guide even let us pick some of the wild guava — shaped and colored like a tennis ball — to taste. They were full of seeds which were a bit bitter, but the flesh itself was fragrant and wonderfully crunchy. We picked a bagful to take home to Aarya’s mother. The trek itself up the hill, made up of three “checkpoints”, was fun if a little alarming in our tractor.

But still no food. So on our drive to our third stop, Phu Kradueng, we insisted on stopping in town — only to discover it in the throes of a rocket festival, a huge (for the village) procession blocking the road as “mor lam” music blasted from the speakers of a truck.

When we finally did make it past the procession (after busting some of our fave Thai dance moves alongside a man dressed as a nurse, a woman jabbing a faux penis on a stick into the sky, a couple of children, and a happy monk) everything was closed except for a restaurant called “Thum Loei” which served, obviously, som tum.

So we of course ordered som tum, a local pad mee (fried noodles) and kanom jeen sot (fresh fermented rice noodles with a dipping sauce) as the sky opened into a downpour and an enormous spider the size of my hand scuttled down the wall behind Aarya.

But we were finally getting our food. Our som tum arrived, funky and fresh if a little sweet, as did our Loei-style noodle salad (which we had to send back for more lime juice because frankly it was super-candy-like-sweet):

We also had a dish that Aarya says is served all over Isaan in different iterations. Here, it was comfortingly plain, a nice foil to the spice of the other two. Aarya says that her mother makes it with local deep-fried catfish at home, and I was excited to try that for myself.

Heading North towards the river the next day, we made it to the border town of Ha Haeo, where we were told the bridge — rickety, wooden, the kind you see in your nightmares — had been washed out by the rains.

Luckily for us (they said), there was a bamboo “raft” that people were using to cross the river at another juncture. Little did we know that they really did mean a “raft” (or should I say “two rafts, requiring the dexterity of a teenaged gymnast”?)

Obviously, I made such a fool of myself screeching as I teetered over the water that a Laotian woman took pity on me and ushered me to the other side. When we got there, we paid a border crossing officer 90 baht each and were left to our own devices. We were in the middle of a sleepy village where a few people were grilling meat over charcoal as a few others halfheartedly attempted to sell things. A temple, decorated with hand-drawn murals depicting village life (including soldiers and government officials) was the main draw here. Luckily our breakfast awaited just steps away: what Aarya called “pho” and what we just call “guay thiew”: a heaping bowlful of it, leavened with freshly picked morning glory and plenty of Lao Beer to fortify us for the walk back.

Aarya was understandably nervous and, as she had decided to buy a whole case of Beer Lao, two bottles of whisky and two bottles of village-made “lao khao” (white spirits), decided to pay our obliging salesperson to carry the items across the river so that we could edge our way, slug-like, along the raft on our own. It was 10:30 and they were preparing to get rid of the raft, so it was urgent work. That was when, after we had basically crawled across step by agonizing step, we discovered that the water was only knee-high; our salesperson had simply hiked up her sarong and crossed the creek on foot. So much for the raft. It was our first experience with the border crossing in Loei.

We had better luck later on along the Mekong, a mighty stretch of ochre-colored water across which Laos was clearly visible. At a collection of seafood restaurants specializing in pla nam khong (the local fish) and freshwater shrimp, we stopped at a restaurant advertising its “dancing shrimp” (a spicy salad of live baby shrimp — sorry — with lots of chilies and garlic) and enjoyed a leisurely afternoon by the water with our lunch, happily not balancing over it on a flimsy raft made of lashed-together bamboo.