We are alleged to have a cover story, on a Bangkok market and neighborhood that we really truly love, in today's Wall Street Journal Asia 'Weekend Journal.'
As this post goes up I'm en route to San Francisco. If anyone can confirm and provide a link, I'll add it once I've touched down.
Update: Find the article, on Bangkok's Nang Leong market, here. (Thanks to Chuck and Cupcake for the link.)
On our last night in Bangkok back in February we rushed from an excellent dinner at an unlikely spot in the Nang Leong neighborhood (more on that later) to the Chitlom BTS (sky train) station so that we could get to iberry before it closed. Alas, we arrived to find that that particular iberry shop (on Thanon Sukhumvit next to the Sogo/Grand Hyatt) is no more. Talk about disappointment! We were leaving Bangkok early the next morning, so there would be no Horlick's or Thai iced tea ice cream for us that trip.
We did, however, fit in plenty of another particular-to-Bangkok taste sensation while we were in town: Soontra fruit juices, sold from kiosks at quite a few (all?) BTS stations. We're suckers for fresh fruit juices anyway, but Soontra's are really something special - the flavors are punchy and sunny, and even though the juices are packaged they taste fresh-squeezed/pressed.
Every Soontra is brilliant, but our absolute favorite is the one pictured up top, passion fruit and beet root juice. An unlikely combination, but it really works; passion fruit's tart tropical fruitiness is strangely and wonderfully uber-ized by beet's sweet earthiness.
When we lived in Bangkok a bottle of Soontra cost about 50 cents, an amazing deal. Now it's closer to 70 cents, but that's still a tasty bargain considering that a bottle of fruit juice as fine as this would probably go for something like three bucks in the States.
On this trip we downed a bottle of Soontra (passion fruit and beet or carrot and passion fruit - hey, what can I say, we love passion fruit) at every single opportunity, ie. everytime we entered and exited a BTS station (and sometimes two or three at one go). But on our last afternoon, heading back to our hotel after wrapping up an interview, I flew down the stairs at the Asok BTS station to find the Soontra stall I'd been patronizing every single morning already closed for the day.
Drat! Disappointed again. Next trip to Bangkok we shall have to place Soontra - and iberry - at the top of our agenda.
Curry and rice - such a pedestrian dish, especially compared with all else that's on offer in the gastronomic playground that is Bangkok.
Sometimes though, it's a simple, old-time favorite like this that really hits the spot. Especially when served up in a simple, old-time shop in one of Bangkok's oldest neighborhoods.
This isn't red curry or green curry or jungle curry or Penang curry, just gaeng kari muu - pork curry. Mild, a bit sweet, loaded with lemongrass, it reminds me of a time way waaaaayyy back when, before I'd traveled to Thailand and begun to cook Thai food at home, when I thought 'curry' was a single flavor derived from a jar labeled 'Curry Powder'. That doesn't mean it's not wonderfully tasty. The pork is tender, the rice fragrant, and it's delicious eaten with a few pickled green chilies.
It's the sort of everyday, homestyle dish that flies under the radar, the kind of dish that culinary travelers to Thailand tend to overlook in their quest for 'real' Thai food. But real enough it is, a dish that, like plain old guayteow nam (soup noodles), locals eat all the time for lunch.
Nothing special, really. Except that, more than five weeks later, I'm still thinking about it.
Pork curry (beef 'stew' on offer too at this place), no-name shop at number 93/9210 Supamiwit Road, just around the corner and up the street from Bangkok's best Isaan restaurant, Nang Leong neighborhood, Bangkok. Morning through lunch. Closed Sunday.
Quite possibly, yes. And it's not even cooked by Isaan natives.
Bangkokian Puang Paka (left, above) opened Benjarot ('five tastes') in Bangkok's Nang Leong neighborhood over thirty years ago. The building in which the restaurant resides (3 tables in the downstairs open-air section, more up, with air-con) belonged to her mother. Relatives wanted to sell it, but she disagreed. To justify keeping the building in the family she started a business on the ground floor.
Why not Isaan food? she thought. She began alone, preparing the menu's two items - nya nam tok (grilled beef salad) and laab - by herself. As she cooked, she asked relatives and friends to taste and criticize, and her skill in the kitchen grew. Over time, she added other dishes: somtam, fried rice, fried chicken, 'exploded' catfish salad. As a boy her son, Thongchai Cheynim (right, above), helped out everyday from 4am. Now retired from government service he, along with his sister, cooks and waits tables and manages the day-to-day while mom keeps a watchful eye over everything.
Our dining companion, the man who steered us here, has lived in Nang Leong all his life, and he's been eating at Benjarot since it opened. We understand why. We've enjoyed - we think, since we've actually never journeyed to Isaan - spectacular Isaan fare. But the food at Benjarot is a cut above. There's close attention to detail here. Ingredients are pristine, of the highest quality. Benjarot elevates this easy-to-like 'upcountry' fare beyond hot, spicy, and filling to utterly sublime.
First up, somtam (green papaya salad). The flavors are clean, distinct - we taste the sugar and the lime juice and the fish sauce, and we can differentiate the acidic tang of the Thai plum tomatoes from that of the green papaya. I ask for 'phet-phriaow' (spicy-sour), and after tasting I suspect the owners go light on the 'spicy' because we're farang. Nonetheless, this is a standard-setting somtam.
Tom yam gung, sour and spicy shrimp soup, is enriched with coconut milk. Is this inauthentic? We've never encountered a coconut milk-thickened tom yam gong.
Who cares? Look at those shrimp (2 photos above) - huge, plump, cooked just long enough but not too long, so they retain just a little crunch. We know with our taste buds that the heads of those crustaceans have totally given it up for the broth, which is complex but not overwhelmingly fiery, silky rich but sour enough to balance the coconut milk. It's so divine that I find myself shredding kaffir lime leave and tough lemongrass stalks between my teeth, just to extract every last drop.
In Bangkok, a piece of fried chicken is a dime a dozen. Not Benjarot's bird, which is better even than that of my late Arkansas-resident great-grandmother. Breast pieces are usually to be avoided at all costs, but this white meat is moist, oozing savory juice, tender. The crispy skin is so devoid of grease that one wonders if there's someone in a corner of the cramped kitchen squeezing the oil out of each piece of bird after it comes out of the hot oil.
Apparently not.
The highlight of our meal is the catfish salad (bplaa dook foo). We've enjoyed many versions, but this one exceeds expectations (after a parade of fine dishes). We appreciate that the dressing is served on the side so the salad doesn't wilt before its time. We love the amazing uber-crunchy, candied-but-not-flossy texture of the catfish, and the toasted cashews are an inspired touch. Is this the ultimate 'Thai-taste' dish? Three kinds of crunch, raw-and-cooked, salty and sweet with a bit of sour and a saucer of chilies to add heat at will. We could eat Benjarot's exploded catfish every day, 7 days a week.
We arrive at Benjarot utterly stuffed, on the heels of a morning of intense snacking. But darned if we don't dip into every dish, and greedily at that.
Bad news for Bangkok-bound weekenders: Benjarot is open only Monday through Friday. But this is one experience worth extending your holiday by a day for. They just don't make Thai food like this outside of Thailand.
Benjarot, Thanon Krung Kasem (almost at corner of alley called Trok Nang Loeng 1), Nang Loeng, Bangkok. Mon-Fri 1030a-2p.
Stick to Bangkok's main streets and this bustling city can begin to look like any other Asia. But venture beyond its shopping malls and office towers, slip down its sois (alleys), and you'll find it has a character very much its own. Small communities and tiny neighborhoods continue on as they long have and traditions - culinary traditions especially - survive.
Every year, in the leadup to Chinese New Year, the residents of Bangkok's Nang Leong neighborhood (near the Turf Club) gear up to produce kanom tien and kanom kaeng, steamed bean paste-filled dumplings. The treats are produced by only two 'workshops' in front of the neighborhood's hundred-plus-year-old wooden cinema, a beautiful old wooden building unfortunately no longer in use.
The dumplings are wrapped in banana leaves. In the shade of the cinema's eaves, four women sit in row cleaning the leaves, which are then carried into the cinema, now empty and stripped of its seats, where a man uses a hand-operated press to cut them into circles.
Outside, pre-soaked soy beans are stirred in woks over a wood fire for at least two hours, until they break down and turn into a smooth, sticky mass. It's hard work; the beans must be kept moving or they will stick to the wok and burn. One batch of beans, destined for kanom tien, is sweetened with cane sugar; the other, for kanom kaeng, is salted.
When the beans are finished the now-sticky mass is carried to another old wooden building perpendicular to the cinema, where a corps of women transforms it into hundreds of little balls that will fill the dumplings.
Then it's back outside, where another group of pastry makers finishes making the dumplings.
First the wrapper, made from dough which has been mixed inside the house with a huge old mixer, is flattened into a circle. A bean paste ball goes in the middle, then the dough is sealed over the ball. The finished ball is dropped into an oil bath to keep it from getting sticky.
Then it's wrapped in two layers of banana leaves. The wrapped dumplings are transported en masse to huge steamers set up behind a fence, to the side of the cinema.
The kanom are made by the thousands in the seven days leading up to Chinese New Year, and sold only on the first two days - a tradition that goes back as long as the neighborhood has been in existence, since the days of King Rama V.
Even in Bangkok, some things stand the test of time.
We're in Bangkok on a short assignment. Less than twenty-four hours we've been here, and my oh my have we eaten well.
Two hours ago: gaeng het (mushroom curry), a big bowl of love cooked up on Thanon Larn Luang by a cart-pushing Isaan native. Her fungi-packed display case (cloud ear and oyster mushrooms, meaty het lom, and various other unidentifiables) stopped us dead in our tracks. A gander at the array of greens on her cutting board decided us on an order.
Gaeng het prep is quick: a couple ladels of broth (slightly herbal, very vegetal) into the pan, followed by handfuls of cubed pumpkin and loofah gourd, a spoonful of pickled something, and plenty of each variety of mushroom. After it's brought to the boil the curry is seasoned with bplaa raa, fish sauce, chopped fresh chilies to taste, and white pepper.
In go plenty of chopped greens - pumpkin vine, something resembling Vietnamese rice paddy herb - and, if you like it sour, copious slivers of a long green and reddish shiny leaf that tastes a lot like lime (but isn't lime leaf). A fistful of chopped cha om and basil finish the dish.
This must is the most restaurant-like street food we've ever had. It made us long for a proper table and chairs, a side of sticky rice, the setting in and time with which to linger over it. Still, standing on a curb, passing the bowl back and forth, we basked in the rich meatiness of the mushrooms, the curry's brilliantly green vegetal notes, its bracing spiciness (we asked for extra chile), the light sourness offset by sweet pumpkin, and the mild little hits of white pepper heat that competed for attention with boldly fishy bplaa raa.
This vendor is ever on the move, but her gaeng het is well worth the hunt. Try the market on Thanon Larn Luang by the bridge, in the evenings.
Chicagolanders love Dtam Makhya, or northern Thai pounded eggplant 'dip'. That according to the Chicago Tribune's food section, which named the recipe for Dtam Makhya from our story on eating in northern Thailand, one of its 'Top 10' of 2007.
Thanks to EatingAsia reader Joan for giving us the heads up on this, and to Carol Mighton Haddix, my editor at the Tribune.
Our mental maps of the places we've been aren't marked with the names of provinces or states, cities or towns, streets or alleys. Our coordinates are local specialties, and our landmarks are the stalls and shops that dish them up.
When we lived in my quang-ville we always welcomed an excuse to visit bun cha. Our first trip to Sumatra was all about nasi Padang, and our last introduced us to babi panggang. From the Philippines we fondly remember our Holy Weekend at halo-halo, about an hour and a half's drive from sinigang. On our last trip to Turkey (too long ago) we drove cross-country, starting at fresh purslane drenched in garlicky yogurt, continuing on to semolina flour halva and then further to bastirma and the country's finest manti, finally arriving at lahana corbasi and Laz boregi. And Kuala Lumpur? Well, most trips to the grocery store take me by Sarawak laksa, just ten minutes from north Indian chaat.
In northern Thailand our plane landed at kanom jeen nam ngiaw, and then we road-tripped from kanom jeen nam ngiaw to kanom jeen nam ngiaw, stopping for kanom jeen nam ngiaw along the way. The northern provinces are one big kanom jeen nam ngiaw sinkhole. Khao soi attracts all the attention; with its combination of crunchy and soft noodles and a gentle coconut milk come-on followed by restrained chile hit, it's easy to love. But observation tells us that kanom jeen nam ngiaw is the region's true noodle superstar. That's just fine with us, because we can't get enough of the stuff.
Kanom jeen are vermicelli-like noodles made from a batter of fermented rice. They're found all over Thailand, topped tasty curries toppings (and, in Isaan, served side-by-side with green papaya salad) like gaeng kiaow waan ('sweet' green coconut milk curry) and gaeng tai bplaa (pungent and fiery fish innard curry) and served with an endless variety of herb and vegetable sides. In the north deep-fried pork rinds, sold in small bags, are part of the sides-show. Local crush them in the bag and then sprinkle the pieces over their noodles.
Nam ngiaw is said to be a Shan dish and is most often associated with Chiang Rai. It is a coconut milk-free curry made with dried chilies, tomatoes, and beef (if the cook is a northern Thai Muslim) or pork and blood cakes. It's thin and soupy and varies from surprisingly light, slightly sour, and tomatoe-y (almost ragu Bolognese-like) to salty, pungent with gapi (shrimp paste) and searingly hot. Every cook has his or her own twist on the dish - which is, I suppose, why we find it so easy to eat kanom jeen nam ngiaw day after day, and sometimes even meal after meal.
Hidden down a tiny soi across from Chiang Mai's Mahawan Temple, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it storefront seats eight at just two tables. The shop's owner (above) has been making and selling her kanom jeen nam ngiaw (and kanom jeen nam yaa - noodles topped with a mild fish curry) here for over ten years; she opens mid-morning and closes by late afternoon.
Her version is hearty: meaty, a wee bit fish-flavored, and full-on spicy. Unlike most vendors, who garnish their kanom jeen with a flurry of crisped garlic, she sprinkles on a spoonful of powdered toasted chilies (opening photo) along with bits of basil leaf. Diners who desire more fire can add prik tawt (crisp-fried dried chilies, above) to taste. We find her blood cakes to be exemplary, with a good bit of resistance (we don't favor soft and wobbly, gelatinous cakes) and a lovely smoky flavor that seems to have leached into the curry.
A week - and many bowls of kanom jeen nam ngiaw - later we find ourselves in Fang, a town about an hour from the Myanmar border. It's a quiet Sunday morning and we're wandering the streets, admiring Fang's old wooden houses and looking for - what else? - something worthwhile to fill our bellies.
A woman operating a kanom jeen stall in front of her house obliges us, dipping up her own version of nam ngiaw from an enormous vat and serving it with a generous spread of blanched and fresh bean sprouts, shredded napa cabbage, blanched and chopped snake beans, chopped cilantro and basil, and slivered pickled mustard (a must with kanom jeen).
Hers is a lighter (both literally and figuratively) version than that served on the Chiang Mai soi, the curry more orange than red, the chile heat subdued, and the flavor of tomatoes almost more prominent than that of meat. No powdered chile topping here (plenty of fried garlic, though), although she does offer us a serving spoon full of prik tawt, suggesting that we eat the crispy chilies on their own, between bites of kanom jeen, rather than mixing them in.
On our way back to kanom jeen nam ngiaw (oops, Chiang Mai) from kanom jeen nam ngiaw (er, Fang), we stop somewhere between Chiang Dao and Mae Rim to stretch our legs and, perhaps, to sit down to a meal of, um kanom jeen nam ngiaw. The stall is decidedly rickety and situated on an unpleasantly busy and exhaust-smoked street and the couple manning it not overly friendly. But we're curious about a vegetable offered alongside the kanom jeen. Its leaves resemble those of cha-om, a not entirely pleasantly-scented, but nonetheless delicious, green vegetable that, in addition to often being served alongside kanom jeen, is cooked into omelets and thrown into gaeng som (sour curry).
The nubbly knobs attached to the vegetable's stem are something new to us. The stall operator calls 'gatin' and advises that it's much tastier than cha-om: 'It doesn't stink like cha-om.' Then he tells us, 'Eat the whole thing.'
Sure enough, the gatin makes a fine addition to the couple's exceptionally meat nam ngiaw, studded with big chunks of greenish tomato and spongy blood cakes. This is the least spicy version we've sampled; the emphasis here seems to be on fresh turmeric and garlic. It's satisfying in its own way (and the gatin is wonderful, sweet and crispy and slightly broccoli stem-like), but we miss the chile hit.
Days later we find our kanom jeen nam ngiaw Holy Grail in a morning market in Lampang. We're drawn to a stall at the back of the market by the gorgeous smells wafting from a huge, bulbous clay pot. It's gaeng om, the vendor tells us, and then instructs us to sit down for a taste. Gaeng om is made with beef or buffalo - that's the most we're able to get out of this otherwise friendly woman who hails from Chiang Rai regarding her specialty. The curry is knock-me-down heady with galangal and lime leaves and, like a good French daube, thick with bits of long-simmered protein; it's easily one of the most memorable dishes of our trip.
When she lifts the lid off a pot of nam ngiaw and asks if we'd like a taste. We don't hesitate.
As fantastic as this woman's gaeng om is, her kanom jeen is better. It hits all the right notes - bold and fatty-rich porkiness tempered by sour from tomatoes, enough heat to zap the tongue in passing but not enough to overwhelm the taste buds. There are dried spices mingling in this curry that we can't even hope to guess at.
Rather than serving accompaniments on the side she piles everything right on top, with the assurance of a woman who' s been eating kanom jeen nam ngiaw all her life and so knows just how much pickled mustard and bean sprouts are required to bring the dish into perfect harmony. After two bowlfuls we're sorry to admit that we don't have room for more. We're even sorrier that we live a good bit of air time away.
We can't wait to go back to kanom jeen nam ngiaw. Lampang, I mean.
In Chiang Mai: Chang Mai Road, Soi 2 (across from Mahawan Temple).
In Fang: Tessaban Road, 2 streets behind Wat Chedi Ngam and 3 blocks from the river. Mornings and afternoons.
On the road between Chiang Dao and Mae Rim: we're sorry, but we have no idea where this place is. We're not even sure we could find it again.
In Lampang: Wisonin morning market, in the roofed section in the back of the market (away from the main street).
Frankly, I just don't like buffets. Walking around with dinnerware in my hand, digging into steam tables, mixing 'International Flavors' on my plate - it rarely satisfies.
Business travel seems to be full of buffets. Especially when work takes me to an interesting place with great food, I can't help but feel the trip has been wasted if I haven't had a chance to create my own 'buffet' at an alley or soi near my hotel.
So when business leads me to Bangkok I rise early, before duty calls me to the office, and make like our rottweiler mix on her morning walk: nose to the ground, I hit the street. Once I stick my snout out the door I'm all about the food.
First things first: COFFEE. I skip the '3-in-1' battery acid and palm oil derivative also known as Nes-crap-e and head for the bagman.
Good Thai coffee - thick, rich, and worthy of a few moments of quiet reflection.
A glass of hot tea on the side to rinse away the too-sweet sweetened condensed milk and I'm good to go. The smog has cleared. Now, what's cookin'?
Ah yes, saikrawk - grilled Isaan sausage. Wake up and smell the pig!
If these pillows of soured porkiness don't say 'good morning', then the stiletto jab of the accompanying raw chili pepper will.
But man cannot live by pig meat alone. He also needs pig parts.
A friendly cat that's the spitting image of a dearly departed, yellow-striped feline member of the family beacons me to this shop house.
After a few obligatory shots of the proprietress running through her paces I'm tucking into a bowl of koey teow with the works.
Knowing glances from other customers tell me that I've stumbled onto a gem. This is confirmed when a long-time Bangkok resident tells me that this is 'the best in the city'. Hey, dumb luck is still luck, right?
I slurp up the last of my breakfast and head back to the hotel.
Thirty minutes later I'm showered, shaved, neck-tied, briefcase in hand, and off to my first meeting of the morning. It will be a long day followed, no doubt, by another hotel restaurant's International Buffet.
But there just might be the occasional break to look forward to...
Isn't it time you got out a bit? You know, did a little traveling?
Bangkok's a perfectly wonderful place, and I know you have lots of fans there. But isn't it a wee bit stifling, limiting yourself to one city? It's been more than eight years, after all.
Kuala Lumpur, for instance, is a fantastic town. It's hotter than Bangkok, and you know what sticky weather does for ice cream sales. You might not be aware of this, but Malaysians have a real sweet tooth. They're crazy for tiramisu and cheesecake - your frozen versions would go over big, I think. I'm betting most KL-ites have never tasted anything the likes of your mangosteen sorbet. Is it fair to share all your goodness with Thais and leave the rest of us out in the cold?
OK, I'll admit it. This message is purely self-serving. After my Thai teacher introduced us five years ago we had a kind of thing going, if you remember. Thai iced tea ice cream one afternoon, tamarind sorbet the next, Horlick's the following evening. I balked at bananas and cheese, but you proved yourself. I never doubted you again.
Then, suddenly, it ended. I begged you to follow me to Saigon, but nothing doing. You've cruelly held out all these years. You know what I think of Swensen's, you know I can't bring myself to pay ten dollars for a pint of Haagen Dazs. You won't come to me, and you know I can't stay away from you. Especially during gooseberry and mango seasons.
It's time, iberry, for you to give something back. I've put way more into this relationship than you have. I'm putting my foot down. Set up a Malaysian franchise, now, or we're through!
Until my next trip up north.
Tearfully yours,
EatingAsia
Iberry ice cream shops, various locations around Bangkok.
