Bangkok Glutton

Full o’ pork noodles at Guaythiew Moo Jay Pui

Excuse me if I don’t make a lot of sense today. America broke up with me this week, and I’m only now beginning to make sense of it.

They talk about the five stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance), but I am unsure of where I stand. Mostly I just feel numb. I feel like I should have known better. There had been so many signs. There were all the times you questioned my English, or tried to explain to me my own culture. Or the time you came over to my house for dinner and asked if we were eating dog. The couple of times you mistook me for Lisa Ling, or automatically assumed I could fix your computer. And so many times you told me I was overreacting to jokes you had made or things you had done, that I was too emotional, being too touchy. I needed more things to do, you said. Was it that time of the month? After all, America doesn’t see color, and everyone knows America believes in women’s equality, everyone says so.

I should have seen it coming. You told me yourself, that no one understood what you were doing with me in the first place, that you could do better. You made sure I knew that. You said I was cute, and “pretty in my own way”, but there was no way I could ever be a 10. Oh sorry, you said it would be “very hard” for me to be a 10.  There I go again, misrepresenting you, but what do you expect? My English will never be as good as yours, and going out with me in public always embarrassed you a little bit. “Why her?” your friends would ask, and you would shrug and tell them that it was a good year for small town girls. You thought I was lucky, for a while. But it’s time to go back to the Courtneys of the world. Doubtless you think I’m overreacting now, at this very moment. SAD! You should have known better, too.

When you are dumped, you want to eat the whole world. I am saying this, just a few hours after having inhaled 3 pieces of broccoli-and-sausage pizza and some pillow-soft pappardelle in duck ragu. Also, I an gluten- and dairy-intolerant, so my stomach will feel like exploding any minute now. But I feel like it will be worth it. I have been eating and drinking so much lately, never feeling full, always so ravenous. Maybe a case of indigestion is a good thing, when you are hell-bent on eating your feelings.

But if your stomach is always empty and your face always in need of stuffing into a silent mask of despair, a great big bowl of noodles is probably a better bet, in the long run. So if you find yourself at Guaythiew Moo Jay Pui, also known as “Moo Deng”, on Prachatipatai Road in Banglamphu, and you feel like there is a bottomless hole in your gut that you cannot fill, well, this bowl could go a ways towards helping a little bit. Sweet pork broth, two different types of meatballs (one smooth and bouncy, the other sweet), a heaping helping of rice noodles and a generous shower of deep-fried shallots and fresh coriander? You can’t always get what you want … but a bowl of pork noodles does go a long way.

(Photo by @seenyc)

I used to be afraid of watching horror movies. I remember watching “Aliens” (not even the scary Ridley Scott original, but the James Cameron action flick) and having to sleep on the floor of my parents’ room for three nights straight (this was in 1986, and I was 14 years old). At slumber parties, I would cower in the kitchen at crucial parts of “The Exorcist” or “Halloween”. Now, I don’t know whether it’s my advanced age, or my own cray brain, but I love horror movies. I prefer the slasher and home invasion genres to supernatural or demonic possession, simply because they are usually scarier and nothing is worse than a scary movie that isn’t scary. As I write this, I am watching “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” (the remake, because I can’t get the Tobe Hooper original). It helps me concentrate. That said, I won’t go anywhere near the zombie genre or French horror, because that is *still* straight-up terrifying, even in my deadened state.

There are foodie versions of horror movies too. They are the restaurants you go to, lured by a glowing review that grabs at you like the promise of an idyllic summer camp experience (“Friday the 13th”) or a whirlwind marriage to Taylor Swift’s ex-boyfriend (“Crimson Peak”), thereby forcing you into the dodgy situation in which you currently find yourself. There, like Morgan Freeman opening up that box in “Se7en”, you are confronted by the very worst of what you could expect to find in a restaurant — food that is contrary to everything that drew you there in the first place (the horror!!)

Under these circumstances, it would make sense to head for what is known and proven, culinary security. And in Thai cooking, there are few choices that are safer than the Southern Thai dish of kanom jeen (Mon-style fermented rice noodle) in Phuket. A bowl of this is the Thai equivalent of the slam dunk: rice noodles slathered with nam ya (fish curry, thickened with coconut milk, heady with grachai or wild ginger) and accompanied by a battery of fresh, blanched and pickled vegetables.

Kanom jeen nam ya at Kanom Jeen Ji Liew in Phuket

(Photo by @seenyc)

Kanom jeen is ubiquitous on the island, and the dish’s identity — like khao soi in Chiang Man — is inextricably linked with its home. Because of that, it seems churlish to single out one of the many fermented rice noodle places that dot the island, but I’m going to do it anyway. Kanom Jeen Ji Liew Phuket (Thep Kasattri, Thalang District, Phuket 83110, 081-256-9615) has the culinary chops to back up that impressive-looking sign:

(Photo by @jiminspace)

But perhaps the best reason to visit this place is not even in the name … or even in any photos, for that matter, because it was devoured immediately before anyone could take any photos of it. I’m writing of the fried chicken, crispy nuggets of drool-inducing savor hiding tender morsels of flesh that actually  melt in your mouth, for real. So OK, I love fried chicken anywhere (I just had some fabulous stuff in Malaysia, for instance), but this really was good, I’m not joking, I’m not playing you like Pazuzu in “The Exorcist”.

Pickled garlic, one of the many accompaniments to southern kanom jeen

(Photo by @jiminspace)

Bottom line: you can’t lose with kanom jeen when you are down south, especially in Phuket. Don’t take this advice lightly. The sure thing may be just what you need to get you through any crisis, especially at a time when every day brings threats of more horror stories just around the corner.

I try to post something every two weeks or so, but with the passing of King Bhumibol Adulyadej last week, it seemed silly to natter on about noodles while the country was still newly mourning. Don’t get me wrong, it is always silly to natter about noodles, but sometimes that is all that we (I) have.

One of the great silver linings about taking taxis in Bangkok is the opportunity to listen to whatever the taxi driver is listening to during a traffic jam. What we were listening to was a very long, involved radio interview with a royal palace cook hailing from Suphanburi, because Thais are fascinated by what royalty like to eat. What I learned was that the King was partial to a nice piece of steamed fish paired with Hollandaise or a lemon sauce, simple Thai culinary standbys like gang som (Southern-style sour curry), and childhood favorites from his time in Switzerland, taught to the cook personally by Princess Srinagarindra, the King’s mother. It was nice to know that the King was fond of dishes from his childhood, too.

If you’ve read this blog for a while, you will probably know that I like to wax poetic on my own childhood favorite, kanom jeen nam ngiew, a Northern Thai noodle dish that my father used to call “Thai spaghetti”. In the North, it is typically made with the fermented Mon-style rice noodles found all over the South called kanom jeen, but you can also find it served with rice noodles, just like they appear to do in Laos (where, to make things more interesting, they call it “kao soi”): a stew of minced pork with tomatoes, chilies, shallots, and garlic over a base of fermented soy beans and topped with bean sprouts and coriander leaves.  In the North, they add well-stewed pork ribs, cubes of congealed pork blood and the requisite dok ngiew, witchy-looking blossoms that resemble broomstick ends and bring a chewy texture and floral taste to the brew. If one is lucky, the ribs have been cooked until the bones have nearly disintegrated into the sauce, the blossoms are thick and plentiful, and the dish comes to you with a generous dusting of deep-fried garlic. And if you are really lucky, the chef has been liberal with the tua nao, the fermented soybean discs that form the basis for flavor in Northern Thai cooking, much like gapi (shrimp paste) in the Central region and pla rah (fermented Thai anchovy) in the Northeast.

Eating the namesake dish at roadside vendor Nam Ngiew Nua Sud Sud

One reason I find a lot of the Northern Thai food lacking in Bangkok (especially with this dish) is that no one wants to bother using tua nao, thinking the Chinese yellow bean sauce (thao jiew) is good enough. I am here to tell you that is not true. And at Raan Nam Ngiew Nua Sud Sud (meaning “Northernmost Nam Ngiew”, Soi On Nut 12, 081-741-8917) … they also do not use tua nao, rendering the sauce just-ok-but-good-enough-because-there-is-nothing-better-in-Bangkok. But their larb kua (a minced beef dish cooked Northern-style with plenty of liver and a heavy chili paste base) is off the hook, the best I’ve had outside of the North: properly ponderous, slightly bitter from the deep-fried garlic, thick with the deep dark flavor you would expect to find in a place like Chiang Rai.

What my dad calls “larb muang”

Of course, they also offer khao soy, because what is a nam ngiew stand in Bangkok without the ubiquitous curried noodle dish? Through my Wikipedia research, I have just learned that Northern Thai khao soy most corresponds to the Burmese dish ohh no kao swe. 

Khao soy

And, in a shoutout to my brother Sutree, the all-important Northern Thai accompaniment of nam prik ong, a chili relish most like Bolognese sauce in the Thai culinary lexicon, except with a fermented soybean base:

Nam prik ong

Is this stuff going to change the life of a Northern Thai food lover whose best memories center around eating these dishes? No, of course not. It’s hard to compete with one’s childhood, and to prepare for the change that inevitably lies ahead. It’s good enough for now, though.