Bangkok Glutton

Our two-day masterclass with Chef Ying at Somrom Space on Samui started inauspiciously, to say the least. Having taken a taxi from our hotel, we found ourselves — driver included — stumped on where exactly the cooking space was located. Having turned down a dirt road, we were faced with a sharply steep slope that our intrepid driver, replete with Burmese-style sunscreen and enormous sun visor, had serious reservations about driving down, but did so anyway.

What turned into a slight patter of rain turned into an all-out downpour. Trapped on a muddy dirt road at the bottom of a hill, our little white Honda became inundated with mud. Before long, its wheels were stuck in like Moo Deng in her mother’s food bowl. By the time we had finally reached Ying on the phone, we were trying to push our car backwards out of a big, juicy hole as the wheels spattered mud onto our pants.

Needless to say, we extricated ourselves, just as I was getting nightmare visions of having to buy this woman a new Honda. We even found our way to Ying, whose place was just beyond the muddy road, right on the main road. We were greeted by a platterful of ingredients that we would be using that day, some lovely pandan-scented water, and the baleful glares of three improbably fluffy cats. It ended up being a great start to two days and seven new (to us) dishes.

Now, those of you who know me, know that I’m not really much of a cook. That is because I am incredibly lazy. I like to throw things into the oven as my main method of providing food for a crowd. Sometimes I will make pasta.

Thai food is not the kind of cuisine meant for that kind of cook. When done correctly (as Ying does), it’s painstaking, laborious, and detailed. You don’t just throw a bunch of torn-up makrut lime leaves into a stewing pot, willy-nilly; you select the best ones (not too old and green, and not too young and yellow), remove their spines, and then throw them willy-nilly into your soup. You don’t just dump coconut milk and curry paste together; you break your coconut cream, making sure it looks like a white doily before adding your paste (needless to say, this paste is hand-pounded) to mix carefully before adding the thinner coconut milk later on. Clams are opened and their meat pried out for use, but not the raggedy ones that are torn at the edges. Ying is as exacting as any 3-Michelin-starred chef.

We started with a yum of local Samuian seaweed (rai kor), crunchy and salty like samphire. This would be blanched and added to slices of fresh fish cured with lime juice, then mixed with quality shrimp paste and not one, but two local green leaves (tree basil and sea paracress (bai sab suea)), both of which resemble each other and almost every other leaf hanging from a tree in Thailand (I am not a tree person). The leaves added a nice bitter counterpoint to the deep, earthy flavors of the seaweed, fish and shrimp paste. Needless to say, we thought it was a hit, and I even mustered up enough courage to try a hand at my own (too much lime juice).

We then made a Southern Thai-Muslim-style chili dip (nam chup) made of flaked fresh coconut toasted until it turns a deep, later-stage-Donald-Trump-at-a-rally dark chestnut (greesae). Greesae is an ingredient that we encountered before with Mon on Koh Lanta where it was used to add a subtly sweet, nutty flavor to curries. The truth is that you can find this in many dishes throughout the South, where it usually ends up as a supporting player to other ingredients, but rarely takes center stage.

The greesae is mixed with dried chilies, garlic, shallots and more shrimp paste, deep-fried in oil before they are pounded (a Malay technique). The result in salty, fatty, sour and slightly sweet-and-spicy, a combo that Ying says is perfectly offset by fresh produce like guava, sator and Thai eggplants as well as something bold and meaty like prawns grilled with turmeric, garlic and peppercorns.

We finished with a Southern Thai-Muslim curry called “gang dtomae“, which boasts many different variations throughout the South. Even so, it’s a disappearing dish, pushed aside in favor of more “glamorous” dishes like massaman and penang. This is a mistake, because this dish — particularly Ying’s version — is a revelation for me personally. Not only did I get over my fear of cracking coconut cream (look, everyone has to start somewhere) but I also got to stuff my face with the result: unctuous and rich like butter chicken but so much better, festooned with a fat tranche of giant trevally, okra, and curry leaves from Ying’s garden. I am ashamed to say I do not have a good photo of this dish, because I ate it all, coupled with rice steamed over a charcoal brazier in an earthenware pot as the flames were fanned by hand (because of course).

The next day, we did not get lost, and there weren’t even any sudden downpours. We got to work washing our hoy klang (blood cockles) with the leftover dried remnants of yesterday’s rice, putting new meaning into the phrase “leaving nothing to waste”. From the coconut trees in the yard Ying cut some fronds and we fashioned skewers out of the frond’s spines. Then we made a marinade out of coriander seeds, dried red chilies, ginger, shallots, garlic, salt and brandy (it was Thai Regency brand and no, I didn’t drink from the bottle) before lightly blanching the cockles, threading them on the skewers and coating them in the sauce. After marinating for a couple of hours, they were grilled in the yard as Thumee the cat watched nearby, jealously.

We then did a local variation on the soup “tom som” using toddy palm vinegar and honey from Songkhla province. Although toddy palm is an ingredient very much associated with Petchburi, it can be found throughout the southern half of the kingdom, likely brought via migrating elephants who pooped half-digested toddy palms everywhere they went, fertilizing the land as they traveled.

I’ve always thought of “tom som” as a sweeter version of “tom yum“, but Ying says it’s closer to “tom kloang”, a positively ancient soup flavored with tamarind juice and leaves that some argue predates tom yum. Here, it features the very Chinese addition of vinegar alongside tamarind, as well as honey instead of palm sugar. There’s also plenty of turmeric (this is the South, after all), which turns the broth and fish a lovely golden color.

We then moved onto a dish that I’d been eyeing since the beginning of this year, the reason why I contacted Ying in the first place. It’s called “pad lorgor” (“lorgor” is the Southern Thai word for papaya) and I can’t really explain exactly what made me so eager to learn how to make it (so that I could eat it). It features half-ripe papaya, glass noodles (“sen nohm“) and pork belly; the mix seemed so incongruous when I first saw it (kind of like cleaning out the refrigerator) that I had to taste all of those things together.

All of which is to say, it is utterly delicious. There are also wood ear mushrooms and garlic, palm sugar, dark soy sauce, fish sauce and ground black pepper, and it’s typically served at big events like funerals or house warmings alongside water buffalo curry (which we did not learn how to do).

Finally, we ended our class with another soup that Ying learned only last year while shopping for ingredients at her local market, where many of the vendors are Thai-Muslim. They taught her their version of “tom yum”, made with dried chilies, shallots and garlic that are deep-fried in coconut oil before they are pounded into a paste. The soup also includes greesae and holy basil, plus what you’d expect from tom yum (lemongrass, galangal, makrut lime leaves, chilies, lime juice, fish sauce). The featured protein was a super-fresh barracuda that Ying had found in the market only that morning. The result knocked our socks off in more ways than one: big on dried chilies and holy basil, sour and salty, with a spicy kick. I called it “assertive”, but Ying preferred “fiery” because “assertive” sounded like Jane Fonda playing a put-upon secretary in the movie “9 to 5”.

All in all, we had a really great time at Somrom Space, if only because our efforts immediately yielded the chance to try all of these incredible dishes. If you are interested (and I mean really interested) in Southern Thai food, I’d suggest you find your way to Samui as well.

(Photos by Lauren Lulu Taylor)

If you haven’t heard of Sweet Life Lanta and are a fan of 1. Thai food 2. Thai islands 3. humorous YouTube videos and 4. achingly cute families, then you should get yourself acquainted. Not only do Mon and Maayan have a YouTube series in which they explore the intricacies of being a multi-cultural couple, but they also run a thriving cooking school in which Mon manages to teach different recipes that each student requests ALL AT THE SAME TIME. Through staying at their properties, they also give visitors the opportunity to truly enjoy the best of what the island has to offer, whether it’s via cooking and eating the food (duh), gawping at the stunning views, meeting the friendly people, or by frequenting the artisans that make Koh Lanta the special place that it is.

Obviously, Lauren, Gen and I took advantage of this grand hospitality, staying in a fishing village on the edge of the ocean at the beautifully renovated Wooda House. What it doesn’t have in air-conditioning, Wooda House makes up with in ocean views, generous neighbors, and the general feeling of being immersed in a small island community in Thailand, replete with early morning rooster crows, calls to prayer from the nearby mosque, and the typical sounds of a village brushing itself off after a good night’s sleep to get back to work plying the waters for food.

Although Mon doesn’t run his cooking school during the low season (which, in case you were wondering, is right now), he did generously show us a couple of his childhood favorites, lugging several armfuls’ worth of fresh produce and fish into the Wooda House kitchen one afternoon. Hence began an exciting day spent making an entire Southern Thai meal from scratch (and we mean from scratch), culminating in a delicious lunch eaten at 4pm (it was worth it).

When you make a Thai meal from scratch, of course you have to begin with the coconut milk.

Like many people who are used to the craziness of making things from scratch, Mon says this is an easy affair, taking roughly 20 minutes from conking the coconuts open with a well-worn machete to slipping the hard-won coconut milk into a waiting curry. Sadly for everyone, with me at the krathai (a coconut grating utensil on which you sit to supposedly allow for easier grating), it took quite a bit longer, even when I sat astride the krathai man-style (a lady never spreads her legs). Eventually, 6-year-old Manu took over for me and we eventually had enough coconut meat (about 4 coconuts’ worth) to make coconut milk.

The next step is to put the coconut in a basin, add a pitcher of water, and basically scrunch the meat around with your hands to extract the milk. Manu, with his tiny hands, also did this chore for us. In case you accuse us of utilizing child labor for our food, please know that Manu readily and cheerfully volunteered for every single task in the kitchen, which was good for me since I was bursting into menopausal flames from the afternoon heat.

Finally came the food, and what food it was: grilled local fish brushed with turmeric and coconut milk; sayo, a stew of local fresh vegetables and coconut milk flavored with a chili paste of flaked fish meat; a delicious shrimp paste dip with even more fresh vegetables; and, possibly my favorite of all, a stew simply known as “Mon’s Mom’s Dish”, thick tranches of local tuna simmered in coconut milk with mellow banana peppers.

The next day, Mon and Maayan en famille braved a temporary monsoon and took us on a small fishing boat to visit nearby Koh Por, home of the charming (and popular) Malee Homestay , where Malee herself treated us to a grand meal of freshly steamed crab, battered local stingray and vegetables, grilled local fish, sweet stir-fried chicken, and, my favorite of all, grilled turmeric-marinated squid. After the meal, we waddled back to the boat in order to watch young fishermen dive for the sweet mussels that blanket the underwater rocks (and try our hand at prying some loose ourselves). We (and when I say “we”, I mean everyone except me) came up with mussels, a couple of clams, and a regiment of hoy thachai, a big flat shellfish that can be hallucinogenic if not properly trimmed.

Maayan proved to be especially adept at prising hoy thachai from the depths, so much so that she has a great future ahead of her as a deep-sea shell diver if she ever chooses. And Malee has a great future ahead of her as a magician, defying the rocky ocean waves to open shells with a large chef’s knife over a simmering wok set on a gas burner held in place by her bare feet.

After returning to dry land, we bid Mon, Maayan, Manu and Mili adieu, adamant that we would return again to explore even more of Koh Lanta. Until then, we have Mon’s mother’s recipe, which we share with you below, in case you, too, want a taste of the sweet life.

Mon’s Mother’s Coconut Soup with Fish, Turmeric and Big Chilies

Prep time: 20 minutes                Cook time: 20 minutes

Serves 4

• 4-6 shallots, peeled and sliced
• 1 1-inch knob of fresh turmeric, peeled 
• 1 teaspoon of salt
• 1 2-inch knob of galangal, peeled and chopped
• 1-2 Tablespoons of tamarind juice (nam macadam piek, or the cooking kind)
• 1 cup of coconut milk
• Any kind of whole fish (but the fattier the better, like tuna), cut cross-wise into four tranches (or four skin-on filets)
• 3-4 banana peppers (you can halve and de-seed them if you are concerned about spiciness)

In a mortar and pestle, pound shallots, turmeric, salt and galangal into a fine paste.

Heat up coconut milk in a wok until it starts to gently bubble. Add the chili paste from the mortar and stir to incorporate. Add tamarind juice and taste. It should be a little bit spicy, salty and a teensy bit sweet/tart.

Once the curry starts to bubble again, add fish pieces and banana peppers. Allow to poach in the coconut milk until the fish meat turns white and the banana peppers soften, about 5-10 minutes depending on the thickness of the fish. 

Decant into a bowl and serve immediately with rice as part of a great Thai meal.

Some people go through life with certainty and purpose, their upheavals mere blips in the grand scheme of things. Others live their lives in search of the same certainty, only to realize that they have been ants scurrying on a sidewalk all this time, mere fodder for a big old foot that has descended down upon them from out of nowhere. I recently came to encounter this big old foot myself, and as tempting as it’s been to wallow in the “why?”, I find it far more useful to figure out a way into the “how?”

Part of the “how?” A trip to America that I can no longer afford! At the very least, I could gorge myself on fattening American foods, revel in the summertime bounty of Western tomatoes and corn, and ferment on foreign couches while watching heretofore-unheard-of reality TV shows. There was also the lure of the Pine Tree State — I’m talking about Maine, of course — land of L.L. Bean, abundant lobster, and improbably cold lake water in the height of summer.

Chronic Maine summer-er Gen invited friends Trude, Felice and me to an impeccably planned tour of what she called the “three sides of Maine”: the “big city”, aka twee, charming Portland (what you would get if Wes Anderson and a seagull had a baby); the islands further north along the coast close to Acadia National Park; and the deep Northern woods close to New Hampshire and Canada. After this, we would know Maine as well as anyone can possibly expect to, after only a week there.

But first, Portland. As touristy as it is, it also harbors (get that?) a great dining scene, full of earnest waiters in suspenders and tasteful lighting with wood-burning ovens. After a lobster tour where we snacked on an “afternoon tea” of $10 lobsters, we enjoyed elaborate cocktails al fresco before heading to Fore Street for dinner, when a game of “fuck, marry, kill” over rice, pasta or bread became unexpectedly heated. The next morning, we broke our fasts at a place where everyone in Portland, be they tourist or local, inevitably ends up: Becky’s, home of the lobster benedict and mammoth blueberry pancakes.

Next stop, further north along the coast, we enjoyed yet more lobster near Bar Harbour at Archie’s, where my credit card was declined:

Much is made of Maine lobster, but it is in fact not hyperbole. Unlike Canada’s attempt to claim maple syrup and Singapore’s attempt to claim all fried noodles ever made, Maine truly is awash in lobsters at summertime, when the water stays cold (believe me) and the rocky seabed and kelp keep the crustaceans well-fed and hidden from would-be predators. Even better, summertime is when these guys shed their usual carapaces for their version of “white summertime capris”, by which I mean larger and softer shells, making them easier to crack to enjoy the sweetness within. We ate them with drawn butter, but the Thai seafood sauce I had brought with me (Dek Somboon brand) was too sweet for my tastes.

That night, instead of enjoying our rented cabin’s fire-pit for which I risked my life by darting across a highway for $5 firewood, we watched “Fifty Shades Darker”, a movie that moved Trude to tears because she “couldn’t believe anyone would watch this unironically.” Needless to say, we did not do justice to Acadia National Park.

On to the next cabin, this time in Rangeley, set next to a sparkling, clear lake carved out by a glacier millions of years ago. We did not have wifi or television. How did I survive, you ask? Well, I napped, snoring my afternoons away while the others went paddle-boarding, fishing (I wasted $25 on getting a fishing license), and shriek-swimming, a novel way of navigating the icy waters and slippery rocks of Rangeley Lake.

We roasted lamb shanks and sausages, downed more ridiculously sweet corn, drank whisky like pirates and even made som tum out of a semi-green papaya obtained at Whole Foods. We cooked home fries and more pancakes for breakfast, dotted with an ample supply of the wild Maine blueberries which grow naturally in the mountains and are far sweeter than the blueberries found in Thai markets.

In the end, did I forget that I had been squashed by an anonymous giant foot from on high? No, of course not. But I did enjoy some bit of what must have served as ant heaven, at least before returning once more to reality back in Bangkok.