Kap He Chom Khrueang Khao Wan–กาพย์เห่ชมเครื่องคาวหวาน

 

Massaman, a curry made by my beloved,
Is fragrant of cumin and strong spices.
Any man who has swallowed—
the curry is bound to long for her.

The title of today’s post, Kap He Chom Khrueang Khao Wan, means, in English, “A Procession Poem Admiring Sweet and Savory Dishes,” and refers to a poem of lamentation for his dead lover, written by Siam’s (now known as Thailand) Prince Itsarasunthon–later King Rama II–in 1800.

The opening stanza, translated by Heather Arndt Anderson, is posted above.

There’s not much about the poem to be found on the English Web, but here’s a little blurb from Chulalongkorn University which reinforces the Wikipedia mention of the poem as an interesting “source for information on historic Thai cuisine.”  A subject worth exploring, I’m sure.  Even if just for the heavenly aroma.

I’ve written a few times about my journey to Thailand in July of 2018, a trip on which I learned a few things about myself, some things about others, and quite a lot about Thailand and its lovely people.  About the last, at least, I’m eager to learn more, and am in the early stages of planning a post-Covid return trip.

One of the things I learned about myself is that, even at my great age and half-way through my seventh decade on this earth (“for those of you in Rio Linda,” that means I’m in my 60s), I still travel pretty lightly and well, and I still enjoy the travel experience itself, even though the trip from Pittsburgh to Chiang Rai (via Chicago, Tokyo, and Bangkok) takes about 34 hours, end-to-end.  Other than a small debacle at Bangkok airport, where I was stopped for about an hour by the Thai police (hard not to panic a bit when that happens) and refused entry into the country until I gave them the exact address at which I was going to be staying (at least, after phoning my gracious host and giving the cops the information he relayed, I thought it was the exact address–good thing they didn’t come looking for me), and a further hour-or-so delay after I arrived in Chiang Rai while I waited for my host’s landlord to call the taxi stand and cough up the real address, so that my driver would know where to take me, everything went as planned, and smoothly.  Looking back on it three years later, in an exercise that Wordsworth might call “emotion recollected in tranquility,” the little bumps-in-the-road at the time seem quite amusing; I don’t recall being all that entertained contemporaneously.  However, the large gin and tonic, followed by a shower (I do have my priorities straight), which I enjoyed when I arrived at my destination smoothed any ruffled feathers, and even the jet lag (eleven hours forward–is that still a “lag?”) didn’t affect me much.

One of the things I noticed on the journey itself, as I went from American Airlines to Japan Airlines to Thai Smile Airways was how differently they present themselves to the customer in the context of their national culture.  The US airline–bustling, friendly, a bit in-your-face, cheerful, rather shouty, and the standard plastic food.  The Japanese airline–very quiet, a bit distant, extremely polite, delicious food, and a musical, low-pitched, spoken language  (all good things, as the flight from Chicago to Tokyo takes, seemingly, forever.  The one from Tokyo to Bangkok–in itself the equivalent of a flight from the east coast of the United States to Great Britain– seemed like a puddle-jump by comparison).  The Thai airline–super friendly, but loud and a bit disorganized, good snacks (it was only about an hour flight from Bangkok to Chiang Rai), all overlaid with a language that (and this surprised me) sounded very harsh to my western ears.

One of the things I learned, over the course of my stay, about something other than myself is how absolutely delicious Thai food is, how cheap it is to eat “out,” and how much fun it is to shop both the local, outdoor, markets and the westernized superstores for ingredients so fresh and lovely that I can only pine after them now I’m back home.

Full disclosure:  I grew up in Northern Nigeria, and for the first decade of my life it was commonplace for me to walk outside and pluck fresh, ripe mangoes and papayas from the trees.  That’s a taste, and a feeling, from my childhood I thought never to experience again.  But I experienced it in Thailand, together with the feel and taste of the tiny pineapples and little bananas that also grow there.  The word “delicious” simply doesn’t do them justice and I do miss them.

There’s been much talk, in this second year of Covid, of the Chinese “wet market” where the virus is supposed to have launched and infected its first victims (yes, I know we’re finally allowed to question that assertion.  Good thing, too.  After all, Science!)  Still, I know many who live in the insulated, antiseptic West, those who believe that fish is born  boxed in rectangular chunks in the frozen food section of the local grocery store, and that no child labor is used to produce their expensive sneakers or iPhones, who’ll be horrified at the thought of unregulated, unrefrigerated outdoor meat markets, such as exist in many (very warm) parts of the world.

And it is a bit off-putting, all the flies buzzing around.  Maybe less so for me than for many, because I live on a farm with a few livestock, and flies in that environment are unavoidable, and also because I remember visiting Kano Market from a very young age, myself:

My first exposure to Chiang Rai Central Market was the day after my arrival in Thailand, when my host and I had a quick look around and enjoyed a cup of tea and a few snacks at one of the many coffee stands in the inside and outside sections.  But my real experience of the sights, sounds, smells and tastes of the market came on the day we attended cooking school, and our teacher and guide, the gorgeous Miss Suwanee took us out to buy the freshest ingredients possible for the dishes we’d chosen to make.  Gosh, it was lovely.  No bats or pangolins (I don’t think) in sight.

The vendors come from all over northern Thailand.  Regulars from Chiang Rai and its immediate surrounds.  Hill tribes from even further north, bearing the freshest greengroceries, locally-grown and roasted coffee beans, spices, yard goods, gewgaws, and tea.  It’s like suddenly finding yourself in the mid-1600s, on the Silk Road (admittedly with more car fumes and cameras), or just next door to some of the locales described to such good effect in Peter Hopkirk’s The Great Game (but less bloodthirsty).  Really fun, and just amazing.

It was at cooking school (which I’ve written about elsewhere) that I learned the importance of basic preparation and presentation as it relates to Thai food.  So very beautiful, but sometimes very hard work.  Making Thai red curry paste from scratch is a real challenge.  But I was up to it! (That’s what the mortars and pestles are for in this photo):

Suwanee’s website is here.  The recipe for red curry paste is on it, on the “Main Dish Recipes” page.  Honestly, if you ever find yourself in Northern Thailand, I highly recommend you consider spending a day with her:

Red Curry Paste

1 teaspoon coriander seeds
1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds
6 white peppercorns
1 teaspoon shrimp paste
1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric
4 coriander roots, roughly chopped
1 lemongrass stems (pale part only), roughly chopped
1 tablespoon freshly grated galangal
1 long red dried chilli, roughly chopped
4 small red dried chillies, roughly chopped (or use 2 extra long red dried chillies)
2 Asian red eschalots, roughly chopped
4 garlic cloves, roughly chopped

Toast coriander and cumin seeds with the pepper in a wok or pan over medium heat for 1-2 minutes until fragrant, shaking pan to prevent burning. Cool slightly. Grind to a fine powder using a mortar and pestle. Add the rest of the ingredients, pound with pestle to a paste.

Then there was dessert.  We’d decided to make sticky rice with mango.  Suwanee’s mango (top left) is lovely and regular.  My own mango has a bit of a Donald Trump combover aspect, and is rather sloppy.  But the rice!  Colored by hand with vegetable dye I made myself from pandan leaves (the green), and butterfly pea flowers (the blue).  So much fun!

A lovely day. I’ll never forget it.  Nor the refreshments that Suwanee provided–at one point a smoothie made from Thai basil, pineapple pulp and juice, and a little local honey (I’ve recreated this at home: Pretty good, although my presentation, compared to Suwanee’s (below) is rather pedestrian):

And at another time, Lao Khao, the rice spirit beloved of rural Thailand and which resembles nothing so much as (bad) American moonshine.  (Oh, you didn’t know there were “grades” of moonshine?  There are.  I know. Don’t ask.  Just trust me.)  Crimenutely.  Ugh.

But I digress.  Back to more food and entertainment markets, of which Chiang Rai has several.

There’s the Saturday Night Market, which I visited on my first evening in Chiang Rai. I’d been up about 48-hours straight at that point, but it was all good–fascinating, in fact.  A few streets are closed to traffic, and the town is converted into nothing so much as a street fair–food, entertainment, vendors peddling wares from designer knock-offs to locally produced porn videos–you name it; they have it.

Thai “street food.” And yeah.  I’m a bit leery of meat on a stick, at times/places like this.  Call me privileged.  It’s OK.  I’m just not all that up for it, unless I’m perfectly sure I know what it is.

This is better:

Although there’s another “deliciousness alert” coming up for something I ate for the first time at the Night Market (sadly, I don’t think I have a photo).

It’s northern Thai sausage, colloquially known as Sai Oua.  I’ve tried a few Internet recipes in the last year or so, but none of them tastes quite right.  However, I’ve found a local butcher who’ll work to order, so fingers crossed:  Sai Oua, and the “Bangers” recipe I have from my grandpa’s butcher shop have already been discussed, and are on the radar.  Watch this space. And here’s a photo from the Web (click image for link to website):

If you miss Saturday night, or if you’re out and about on a weekday evening, there’s the Night Bazaar, a smaller version of the weekend event, and the one that we got stuck in the night the “soccer boys” were rescued from the Tham Luang caves.  There was so much traffic, and so many news reporters, vans and cameras that several more streets had to be closed than usual, and, as they say, “you couldn’t get there from here.”  It was total panedemonium and there was, for a while, no way home.  Still, eventually, we made it without, I think, appearing on anyone’s “News at 11” nightly broadcast.  At least, when I got home, I know that no-one I know claimed to have seen me.

I also mentioned the western-style supermarkets and superstores.  Even they have a unique Thai flair which extends beyond the ten-kilo bags of MSG that you can haul off the shelf and put into your cart.  I think the largest of the chains are the “Tops Market,” and the “Big-C,” both of which I’ve shopped in:

It was sometimes quite hard, until I ran across really exotic finds (butterfly pea flower and pandan leaf dyed rice were two such things for me, as were the ridiculously cheap (to my eyes) dragon fruit),  to remember that I was half-way round the world from my usual haunts, because the shopping experience was so normal–another “privilege alert,” for those keeping track.

But if I had to pick one “foodie” experience that will stay with me forever, it would be a recognition of  the single, momentary, most joyful experience of what is, perhaps, the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life, Som Tum, or Green Papaya Salad, at a tiny hole-in-the-wall place like this (I say “like this” only because I’m not sure if it’s the exact one, there were so many, all serving up stupendous food for what is, in Western eyes, a pittance):

I’m not exactly sure why my own photos of the dish, (which I’ll describe–in terms reminiscent of those grandiose descriptions of weird or ugly modern art installations–as “green blur on a plate”), are so defective, although I’m inclined to blame the camera fail on inebriation caused by the heady aroma of that peculiar blend of lime juice and fish sauce that permeates the best of Thai cooking, and which is a promise of delicious treats to come.

Gosh, it was good.  And served up by (seemingly) ancient crones who were probably twenty years younger than I.  Another thing I learned on my journey is that it’s sometimes difficult to tell the age of Thai women.  Very many of them look very young, even like teenagers, into their mid or late thirties (an illusion that’s fostered by the Hello Kitty clothes and backpacks so many of them seem to wear and carry well into middle age), and then time and circumstance catch up with them, as they eventually do with us all.  And while the dew of youth seems to outlast that of many Western women, the ravages of old age seem to happen faster and to greater effect. Many reasons for that, some of which may be fodder for another post at some point.  What I do know is that I didn’t see many Thai women who appeared to be of what I’d consider regular middle age.

My trip came to a conclusion on the morning of the July 17, 2018, when, only slightly the worse for wear after drinking breakfast at the little thatched hut at the old Chiang Rai airstrip, my gracious host poured me onto a plane, and I flew home.  (No, I did not empty all these bottles myself):

I hope to return to Thailand soon.  Much left to accomplish, and much more to see!  First, though, I have to negotiate the confirmed itinerary for myself, beloved stepdaughter, and adored granddaughter, to visit Peru and my Nazca cat in 2022.

COMPLETING THE CIRCLE 2021:

Since returning home in 2018, I’ve spent almost three years trying to recreate my “green papaya salad” experience.  Not all that successfully, in terms of local “Thai” restaurants promising an understanding of it.  Marginally more successfully in terms of a not-completely-authentic, but reasonably accurate simulation (thanks, Ricochet member @sawatdeeka, for recommending the cookbook).

But last week, I achieved it for real.

This miracle happened at Maenam Thai, a tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant just on on the other side of Pittsburgh, in Blawnox, PA.  It’s run by “Nee” (short for “Supannee”) Yenerall, a tiny, magical lady who’s married to one of beloved stepdaughter Jenny’s high-school friends, and it exemplifies the best  that the area has to offer in the way of Thai food. Oddly, there are several restaurants of this sort in the area:  The Golden Pig (which I’ve written about before on Ricochet, and which, on entering, feels like it’s run by my Korean Auntie who’s cooking for just me) is one.  Maenam Thai (which feels like it’s run by my younger Thai sister, and which has become an instant favorite) is another.

So.  Jenny and I finally arranged our lives (around much else) last week, and we met up at Maenam Thai.  Nee is delightful.  Holy Cow. I got to use the only two Thai phrases I’m completely confident of:

Sawadeet ka:  meaning–“hello, I’m  a girl, and I greet you.”

and

Kob khun ka: meaning, “I’m a girl, and I thank you.”

After I explained to Jenny that the trailer “ka” on many Thai conversational interactions means “I’m a girl” in a language in which the gendered activity is related more to the speaker than to the subject involved (men tack “krab” on the end of the sentence), she wryly observed that “at least it solves the problems of ‘announcing your pronouns.'”  LOL.  Thailand’s a country with some rather creative ideas on gendering already, so I’m not sure what will happen to the language when they regularize Facebook’s 58 varieties (or however many there are today).

And so I remarked to Nee that I’d been in Thailand.  And that ‘green papaya salad’ was an experience the revisiting of which I craved.  “Yes,” she said.  We have good green papaya salad.”

“Where are you from in Thailand,’ I asked, while telling her I’d been only a casual visitor to Chiang Rai.

I’ve never been to Chiang Rai,” she said.  “I am from north-east Thailand.”

“Oh,” I asked, “are you from Isan?”

“Yes!!” she exclaimed, delighted that anyone would care enough to ask, or know enough to identify her home province.

And that was the point at which I discovered that “green papaya salad” is a dish that’s native to the Isan area of the country.

Glory be!  She nailed it!

That’s when I realized that my journey of almost 13,000 miles half-way round the world in one direction, and Nee’s own journey of the same distance, half-way round the world in the other, cancelled each other out, and that the two of us were, in human terms, one and the same, united by a shared love of a simple and delicious dish.

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step”–Lao Tzu

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  1. Captain French Moderator
    Captain French
    @AlFrench

    You outdid yourself on this one.

    • #1
  2. Percival Thatcher
    Percival
    @Percival

    She:

    Thailand’s a country with some rather creative ideas on gendering already, so I’m not sure what will happen to the language when they regularize Facebook’s 58 varieties (or however many there are today).

     

    I hope the Thais tell Facebook Dein p̀ā (which according to Google Translate is how you say “take a hike” in Thai).

    The literal translation seems to be “roam about the forest.”

    Close enough.

    • #2
  3. She Member
    She
    @She

    She:

    So.  Jenny and I finally arranged our lives (around much else) last week, and we met up at Maenam Thai.  Nee is delightful.  Holy Cow. I got to use the only two Thai phrases I’m completely confident of:

    Sawadeet ka:  meaning–“hello, I’m  a girl, and I greet you.”

    and

    Kob khun ka: meaning, “I’m a girl, and I thank you.”

    I’ve learned over the years that there are a few necessary key phrases in many different languages that it’s good to have up your sleeve in case of an emergency.  My go-to phrase in Polish is one that was a favorite of Mr. She’s “barrel shaped Polish grandma (his description, and he loved her very much), and goes “Rosyjski diabeł” (Russian devil)

    Unlike her, I don’t usually spit when I say it, but I’ve reduced more than one patriotic Pole almost to tears of joy with my spirited delivery and impeccable accent and inflection.

    • #3
  4. She Member
    She
    @She

     

    She: One of the things I noticed on the journey itself, as I went from American Airlines to Japan Airlines to Thai Smile Airways was how differently they present themselves to the customer in the context of their national culture. 

    I think this is true (or it was until a few years ago anyway), of British Airways, as well. My mother always used to say that you could tell which airline you were traveling by way the stewardess (this was a while back) conducted herself, and whereas the BA lady would stop by your seat and quietly ask, “would you care for some tea, madam,” the American girl was likely to drop the peanuts in your lap (this was when they still had peanuts) with the words, “Wanna snack?”

    I think I’ve only seen a disconnect in this respect once, the only time I’ve ever flown Lufthansa, the German national airline. Crimenutely. Visions of timeliness, ruthless efficiency, not-a-hair-out-of-place, nothing-would-dare to go wrong. Amirite?

    The flight was dreadful. Disorganized. The flight attendants were rude, and–when we hit a bit of turbulence–panicky. The food was cold by the time we got it. And when we arrived in Frankfort (on the way to Venice), we had to land on the tarmac because all the gates were full. The staff refused to help a passenger who needed a wheelchair to disembark, and several passengers had to help her off the plane.

    It was appalling. I’ll never fly Lufthansa again.

    • #4
  5. OmegaPaladin Moderator
    OmegaPaladin
    @OmegaPaladin

    I remember my first dinner at a Thai restaurant.  I did not know you could do such awesome things with noodles.   Outside of large cities, Thai cuisine is pretty rare in the US.

    • #5
  6. She Member
    She
    @She

    OmegaPaladin (View Comment):

    I remember my first dinner at a Thai restaurant. I did not know you could do such awesome things with noodles. Outside of large cities, Thai cuisine is pretty rare in the US.

    Yes, I think that’s true.    Pittsburgh has quite a few Thai restaurants, and I’m a particular fan of the Spice Island Tea House in Oakland by the university. It features more general, SE Asian cuisine, but the soups are particularly good.  And noodley.  I had a nice lunch at one of the Thai restaurants in Oakland with James of England a few years ago.

    That’s what makes The Golden Pig so unusual.  Gorgeous Korean food.  But if you don’t know where you’re going, you’ll never find it. (Lord, looking at the photos of the food in the linked piece and I’m almost drooling….)

    • #6
  7. Captain French Moderator
    Captain French
    @AlFrench

    OmegaPaladin (View Comment):

    I remember my first dinner at a Thai restaurant. I did not know you could do such awesome things with noodles. Outside of large cities, Thai cuisine is pretty rare in the US.

    In the Pacific Northwest they’re everywhere. Astoria, where I am presently, population 10,000, has a couple.

    • #7
  8. sawatdeeka Member
    sawatdeeka
    @sawatdeeka

    Mmm, som thum.  

    • #8
  9. She Member
    She
    @She

    sawatdeeka (View Comment):

    Mmm, som thum.

    It’s good, isn’t it!

    • #9
  10. sawatdeeka Member
    sawatdeeka
    @sawatdeeka

    She (View Comment):

    sawatdeeka (View Comment):

    Mmm, som thum.

    It’s good, isn’t it!

    Believe it or not, I make it with cabbage out here in NW Montana, and it works.  It’s just hard to find red peppers that are actually spicy. 

    • #10
  11. Hang On Member
    Hang On
    @HangOn

    Have you tried durian? 

    • #11
  12. She Member
    She
    @She

    Hang On (View Comment):

    Have you tried durian?

    I haven’t.  Isn’t that the one that smells awful?  Have you tried it, and how does it taste?

    • #12
  13. Charlotte Member
    Charlotte
    @Charlotte

    Smashing.

    All I want in my life is to eat one of those mangoes.

    Mr. Charlotte and I always make a point of checking out markets and grocery stores when we travel abroad. Hours of (usually) delicious, or at least weird, fun.

    Exceptional post, She.

    • #13
  14. Hang On Member
    Hang On
    @HangOn

    She (View Comment):

    Hang On (View Comment):

    Have you tried durian?

    I haven’t. Isn’t that the one that smells awful? Have you tried it, and how does it taste?

    It is the one that smells terrible but the fruit is supposed to taste great. I haven’t tasted it. But am intrigued by the idea. Have never been to Thailand or anywhere in that part of the world. 

    • #14
  15. She Member
    She
    @She

    Charlotte (View Comment):

    Smashing.

    All I want in my life is to eat one of those mangoes.

    Mr. Charlotte and I always make a point of checking out markets and grocery stores when we travel abroad. Hours of (usually) delicious, or at least weird, fun.

    Exceptional post, She.

    Thanks @charlotte.  I think a lot of it is the perfect ripeness of the fruit, unforced by any artificial means.  So much of what I find at the supermarket is 1)hard as a rock on Monday, 2) somewhat softer by Tuesday, and 3) rotten by Wednesday. The fruit of my childhood, whether it was mangoes in Nigeria or peaches from the Vale of Evesham in England, didn’t work that way.  I do like the local farmers markets for that reason.

    • #15
  16. Flicker Coolidge
    Flicker
    @Flicker

    I’ve got to say.  Mango has always been one of my favorite fruits.  And it’s mango season here, and two or three times a week or so, my wife collects the ripe mangos in the morning from a Hawaiian mango tree that she planted as a seed, brings them in still warm and cuts up enough for two full plates as a pre-breakfast.  We’re hungry again by the time 8 o’clock roles around, but it’s a wonderful eye opener.

    • #16
  17. Hang On Member
    Hang On
    @HangOn

    The thing about mango trees in Cameroun was the tops were perfect nesting spots for cobras. So getting fruit from them was dangerous and I didn’t want them in my yard . Buying them in the market was cheap anyway. The mangoes i can get here are from Mexico, are expensive and not that good.  So I don’t bother. I did used to buy them in London. They came from India, were expensive but delicious.

    • #17
  18. She Member
    She
    @She

    Hang On (View Comment):

    The thing about mango trees in Cameron was the tops were perfect nesting spots for cobras. So getting fruit from them was dangerous and I didn’t want them in my yard . Buying them in the market was cheap anyway. The mangoes i can get here are from Mexico, are expensive and not that good. So I don’t bother. I did used to buy them in London. They came from India, were expensive but delicious.

    Ugh.  Snakes.  Spitting cobras are the worst.  (Those are the snakes the bad guys put in our beds when they were trying to kill us….).  Vipers aren’t so great to have around, either.  Scorpions were much more of an everyday nuisance, though.  We had to put our slippers in bed and under the mosquito net with us, otherwise they’d be full of scorpions by the morning.

    • #18
  19. Charlotte Member
    Charlotte
    @Charlotte

    Hang On (View Comment):
    The thing about mango trees in Cameron was the tops were perfect nesting spots for cobras. So getting fruit from them was dangerous and I didn’t want them in my yard

    !!!!!

    She (View Comment):
    We had to put our slippers in bed and under the mosquito net with us, otherwise they’d be full of scorpions by the morning.

    !!!!!

    • #19
  20. Clifford A. Brown Member
    Clifford A. Brown
    @CliffordBrown

    This mouthwatering travelogue is part of June’s theme: “Journeys.” Stop by now to sign up for the July group writing theme: “We Hold These Truths (or Fictions).

    There are two major monthly Group Writing projects. One is the Quote of the Day project, now managed by @she. This is the other project, in which Ricochet members claim a day of the month to write on a proposed theme. This is an easy way to expose your writing to a general audience, with a bit of accountability and topical guidance to encourage writing for its own sake.

    • #20
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