Bangkok Glutton

Roughly 110 days of 144 days into the cruise, I drink too much. I know, that is shocking, because it would seem like I always drink too much. But this time, I drink so much that I am unable to go on my planned tour excursion, Day 1 at La Digue in the Seychelles. And of course I would end up regretting it. The Seychelles are stunning — as beautiful as the Maldives or French Polynesia, but less crowded than either. The water isn’t as clear, but the fish come right up to you on the beach. Also, the food is arguably better.

Having missed my first day in the Seychelles, I make sure to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the next day at Port Victoria, the islands’ capital. Although this part of the Seychelles was arguably British, everyone still speaks French and eats food that is a mix of French, Asian and African, aka “Creole”. There are chilies galore, and plenty of fruit and vegetables, and anything (and I mean ANYTHING) can be curried, including octopus, parrotfish, and fruit bat.

So when out snorkeling excursion ends, we tidy up as quickly as we can and set out into a sweltering heat on a walk to lunch at Marie Antoinette. Google Maps tells us it’s a mere 30 minutes from the pier, which is totally doable, right? Especially since, on our way there, we encounter the German-speaking Belgian group, who have been out and about for a whole two hours. “We’re missing our excursion,” says Johan, glowing in a peachy sheen of sweat. “But it probably wouldn’t have been fun anyway.”

But after 15 minutes, I cannot believe I am still outside walking. After 20, while walking up a hill, I realize that if I were to trip and fall, I would simply lay down and die. Finally, we reach the restaurant, which is actually on the outskirts of town, halfway up a fairly steep incline. At the restaurant, we encounter more people from the ship. “We took a taxi,” they said, glancing at our clothes, which look like we’ve been thrown into a swimming pool. The staff kindly direct us to the coolest spot in the open-air dining room. Behind us, next to the restrooms, a crowd of tortoises is having their own lunch, a mass of carrots, eggplants, cabbage and tree leaves.

To cool ourselves down, we order the local beer, which aptly features a turtle logo.

Yes, it’s true that Marie Antoinette serves fruit bat curry, but we did not have the guts to order it. We got the set menu instead, intended for 2 people but ultimately enough for 3. Included was a hefty serving of parrotfish and eggplant fritters, served with a kind of sweet Thai-like chili dip; improbably tender marinated tuna steaks; baked Creole-style red snapper with garlic; and what they called a “Creole” sauce, which tasted like a mix between tomato salsa and ketchup and was meant to be eaten with the fish.

Best of all, however, was the rice and chicken curry, paired with a spicy mango salsa, pickled chilies and pickled, shredded cabbage and carrots.

On the way home, we ordered a taxi.

In Madagascar, we have fewer moments for food spotting, simply because the lemurs take up all of our time. And when we are not turning around to see a bright-eyed lemur staring straight at us from a nearby branch, we are in a rickety old bus that is clearly on the verge of dying, just like I would be if I was forced to walk instead of ride.

In fact, two other buses break down during our day out in Madagascar, which, when forced to fend for itself on the “non-lemur” side of the road, produces sights like the “Ghost House”, where an Indian man once lived and committed the grave sin of … not having any children. In retaliation, a ghost took over, forcing the European family that purchased the house later to flee. Today, the children from the school next door look in through the window, having told each other of a time when some children exploring the house were pushed from the walls by the ghost, never to climb again.

But later, at a “comfort” stop where both men and women queued 20-something deep for two bathroom stalls, only to queue again for soft drinks with which to refill their bladders, we wandered to the second floor where we could look out over the beach. Here was the beating heart of the town, where young people jogged, danced, flirted and even exercised in earnest as fishermen strolled past with their catches and the occasional tourist splashed in the water. Also, there were doughnuts.

All very nice and good, but the next stop, French Comoros, is actually a bona fide district of France. And although our tour of the island ended up being a half-hearted stroll past some government buildings, our lunch afterwards at the pier was worth the 10 kg of water weight that we had lost in the humidity.

We ended up ordering the ubiquitous “poulet au coco”, less curry-like than its counterpart on the Seychelles, as well as the cote de boeuf, saignant, with the chef’s signature chili-laced mayonnaise sauce. Even better (I’m afraid to say) was the accompanying hot sauce, a specialty of the island and a mainstay at the markets.

My favorite of the day was the blanquette de poisson, made from swordfish that had only just been sent to the kitchen. This was fortuitous, since we foolishly ordered two of the blanquettes (and three steaks, plus all of the side dishes on the menu). It was a lot of food.

It was a nice lunchtime foray into our brief moment in France, but I must admit I am looking forward to our next stop, Mozambique, where I am told I am going to eat at … a Thai restaurant. Yes. I should be ashamed, but it’s been a while. Latest tally: 113 days down, 31 to go.

In the movie “There Will Be Blood”, the discovery of oil turns Daniel Day Lewis’ protagonist from a humble prospector into a rabid, ever-hungry force of greed, capable only of dominating and consuming, Western capitalism personified.

Oil has changed the Arabian peninsula, too, but in different ways. It is less about a rapacious need for one’s own dominance, and more a case of making sure everyone is taken care of — for, let’s be honest, better (free education and healthcare for citizens) or worse (“protecting” women by restricting them from working on weekends). Case in point: Oman, which makes Singapore look like Manhattan’s Lower East Side in the ‘80s. In Muscat, the streets are clean enough to eat off of, the landscaping and lawns alongside so well-attended that one wonders exactly how many gardeners are employed by the government. Maybe it’s because it’s Ramadan, maybe it’s because it’s midday, but the impression is very much like a Sim city, with very few NPCs other than the shopkeepers and cafe owners catering to your various whims.

When people (okay, racists) say things like how the discovery of oil turned a bunch of desert dwellers without a culture into millionaires overnight, they are demonstrating a huge ignorance of history. Oman has a long multi-cultural heritage, represented by the patchwork of different people that comprise it. Clothes and jewelry differ in accordance with region, as do the hilts of the ceremonial daggers that men wear (a peaceful man wears his dagger on the right side in order to make it more difficult to draw). In the spring, the country’s famous Damascus roses are picked and made into rosewater for desserts; lockets carrying phrases of the Koran are worn around the neck to protect the wearer, much like Thais wear certain Buddhist amulets. But the product that Omanis are most proud of is their frankincense, taken from the sap of trees and prized most from the inland regions for their light green-yellow color and intense fragrance. These buds of resin, or “tears”, are lit on charcoal in ceremonial burners (the symbol of Omani hospitality), their smoke used to mark every celebratory occasion that you can think of.

There is one more thing Omanis can be proud of, and that is their dogged salesmanship. In the main souk in Muscat, I make half-hearted stabs at negotiating and fail at most of them. All the same, I make off with bags full of souvenirs for family back home (okay, mostly for me), even in the height of the Omani heat. 

Dubai is a similar story. Many people — including me — have come to Dubai, explored the “biggest mall in the world” with its very many attractions, and called it a day, leading most to conclude that Dubai is basically one big mall. The truth is that, once you leave this sprawling complex (and all the other malls that may come your way), you will have an enjoyable adventure, even in the sizzling heat. There is the “new town”, yes, but that means there is also an “old town”, and that is where the bulk of the fun is for both foodies and shoppers. A litany of souks awaits: textile, perfume, spice, gold, as well as the different ways to find them: bus (the bus stops are housed in little cabanas with AC!), subway, even by boat for a mere dirham. And if you were to accuse me of simply buying a luggage-load of spices and calling it a day, you would absolutely be right (give or take a fluffy beanbag cover or two and a couple of pairs of camel pants). Once again, I am an abject failure at bargaining — so much so that the shop owner gives me a free bag of chocolate-coated almonds and a couple of chocolate-covered dates filled with pistachios (which come in handy on an empty stomach in the heat).

But yes, the mall is fun, too. Besides the aquarium and the much-ballyhooed ski field, there is the walk to the Dubai Mall subway stop, a good 20 minutes away via a covered bridge that I discovered later is the longest walking bridge in the world. A shame I was wearing my sandals, though, or I would have enjoyed that walk (and the subsequent trek to the restaurant from the subway stop) much more. Because it was Wikki’s birthday, our destination was Gazebo Restaurant, which serves a wide selection of Indian specialties, but is perhaps most famous for its biryanis. We ordered chicken and lamb, as well as a spicy chicken that made people cry.

In Abu Dhabi is where my story ends. When I first arrived, in around 2009, it looked a lot like how Salalah, Oman looks now: dry, dusty, a little barren. It seems to have woken up in the decade-plus since then and realized that, oh yeah, it is actually the richest sultanate of the UAE; just about every part of Abu Dhabi now hosts cranes and construction and scaffolding.

Aside from that, I have no thoughts, since I spent nearly the entire day and most of my afternoon trying to persuade my son and my nephew to leave Ferrari World (the world’s “largest indoor theme park”, no less) or the ship would depart without us. What can I say? We had fun and were sad to leave — especially the good Wifi.

I have been to Goa before. I have even — when this blog was but a glimmer in my eye — traveled through northern India, on a train optimistically known as the “Palace On Wheels“. Every time I go, I am struck anew by how little I know, especially about the food.

Alas, our jaunt to Mumbai was but a blip in the schedule, taken up with the three (!) methods of commute — bus, boat and rickety, doddering old train –needed to get to the Elephanta Cave, which told the story of Shiva: his role as creator, his time as protector, and, inevitably, his evolution to destroyer, all in order to start up the cycle all over again.

As interesting as the story behind the cave was (first as a temple, then as a place used by the Portuguese to store their weaponry, then as a place destroyed by the Portuguese so that the succeeding British could not store their weaponry, now as a de facto monkey hotel), the only local bites managed were of a few bags of nuts offered streetside before hopping back onto the decrepit train. Happily Goa promised more: a trip to a spice farm with lunch.

Now, many of the spices grown in Goa are can be similarly found in Thailand (also arriving courtesy of the Portuguese): cashews, from which the apple-like fruit attached to the nut is used to make a brutally strong liquor called “feni”; nutmeg and its sister, the red, lacy webbing called mace; and bird’s-eye chilies, of which our guide said, to our amusement, that one would only use for oil — unless one had an enemy which one wished to dispose of, in which case one would serve these peppers fresh.

All the same, we learned things about the spices we ourselves use daily: that the different types of the “king of spices,” the peppercorn (green, black, white and red) are simply the same “berries” at different stages of aging, either peeled of their skin (white) or aged in the sun (black) to create different flavors. We knew lemongrass had mosquito repellant properties; we did not know this of saffron, the most valuable spice in the world (but then again, who would waste saffron by using it to chase away bugs?) We discovered that good cloves bear brown “buds”; when they go black, the cloves are old (a fact impossible to discern from the bud-less cloves on supermarket shelves). We were told ways in which to flavor our sugar with the world’s second most valuable spice, vanilla (halve your pods and stick them in your sugar for a week, and it will smell of vanilla for six months). And when it comes to cardamom, the “queen of spices” and the third most expensive spice in the world, you get health benefits up the wazoo, fighting everything from acne to depression to cancer.

So yes, it was a diverting morning spent rambling around the farm grounds, but it was of course all just a prelude for the real event: lunch. Once one of Portugal’s footholds in South Asia, Goa hosts a cuisine that features seafood, coconuts and rice prominently alongside pao (Portuguese bread), patoleo (rice pudding flavored with coconut steamed in turmeric leaves), caldo verde (the Portuguese love their soups) and the ever-present cashew.

A generous spread awaited us when we returned to the farm’s main building: pao and two kinds of rice, one scented with saffron; deep-fried and breaded prawns and dried, salted tranches of the local kingfish; a runny shrimp curry; a vegetable “gravy” that included pumpkin and beetroot; a watery yellow dal; stir-fried squash; a sort of “tempura” of cauliflower; spicy lime pickles; a fresh salad of mostly shredded cabbage; and my favorite, a chicken xacuti curry showcasing poppy seeds, coconut and dried red chilies.

To finish — besides the patoleo and shot glasses brimming with the farm’s own feni — was a savory drink made from kokkum, a plum-like fruit related to the mangosteen and said to aid in digestion after meals and to suppress hunger pangs before them.

Once again I had discovered something new. I relished the salty, slightly acidic flavor of the infusion, somewhat easing the sting of my cowardice in refusing the feni, made fresh on the premises by a man clad only in a turban and dhoti who squashes the fruit with his feet. My only regret is that this will surely necessitate yet another Goan trip in order to screw up the resolve to finally try the feni, as well as anything else that India seeks to throw my way.