EatingAsia

Best. Beer Snack. Ever.

Beer Lao accompaniment par excellence: dried mushrooms fried with chilies, garlic, and lime leaves

We're back in Kuala Lumpur unpacking suitcases full of goodies purchased during our trip, including:

• a particular style of thin, cheap hammered metal bowl that we became obsessed with early in the trip, searched for at every market we visited, and finally found in plain sight on our last day in Chiang Mai at Warorot (I'm now wishing I'd bought more than 4).
• three types of tua nao (pressed and sun-dried fermented soybean cakes), a northern Lao and Thai kitchen essential
• many varieties of chilies, dried and left whole and ground.
• a bundle of dried branches of the northern Thai variety of prickly ash, berries still intact.
• a thick slab of artisan brown cane sugar.
• a kilo of nicely tart and exceptionally flavorful mango leather (about U$3.50).
• an 8-pack of mung bean vermicelli -- not a particularly exotic ingredient but one that is for some reason hard to come by in Kuala Lumpur.
• kai pen, Luang Prabang-style river algae that's pounded into a sheet, sometimes seasoned (ours has bits of garlic and tomato and lots of sesame seeds), and dried in the sun -- eaten toasted or deep-fried, usually with jaew bong (a lovely sweet-spicy dip made with dried buffalo skin).
• an amazingly delicious sort of 'preserve', of het lom (a meaty brown mushroom seen in northern Thailand and Isaan, especially around September/October) fried with whole dried peppers and prickly ash in a pool of oil, picked up last Friday at Chiang Mai's Cin Haw market. (The seller recommended eating them with khao tom/congee but I'm also envisioning them tossed with stir-fried minced pork, scallions, and good noodles.)

Also, speaking of fungi, the treat pictured above: slivered dried mushrooms fried with garlic slices, lime leaves, and dried chilies till crisp.

Spied at the morning market near Luang Prabang's National Museum (and then subsequently at other markets around town), it's reminiscent of Thai-style fried peanuts and cashews -- but oh so much better.

When those already intensely fragrant dried mushrooms hit the oil they lose whatever moisture remains and become nothing but carriers of pure mushroom essence. A single spindly crisp delivers a punch of mushroom flavor to which the fiery dried chilies and grassy-limey lime leaves are the perfect complement.

This isn't a snack to be eaten by the handful but slowly -- one piece at a time, one after another, preferably with an ice-cold beer Lao to sip as a chaser.

Who Needs Plastic Bags?

Southeast Asia is drowning in plastic bags.

This is the land of carry-out meals and, in some parts of the region still, twice-a-day ingredient shopping. But once upon a time prepared foods purchased to go were wrapped in leaves (banana, predominantly) -- or at worst, newspaper -- and fresh fruits and vegetables were carried home in market baskets.

Today one might come away from a trip to Warorot evening market in Chiang Mai with charcoal-grilled chilies, eggplant, and garlic to take home and pestle into a nam prik (dip), a couple of fiery gaeng (curries), fresh greens to eat alongside, and a slab of sticky rice.. Each item, purchased from a different vendor, will be placed into its own clear plastic bag --, and each of those bags slipped into another, larger one. Customers leave the market with their fingers dripping yellow, pink, black, red plastic bags.

(Casual observation suggests that perhaps less than 5% of the market's customers eschew larger plastic bags in favor of a something they've brought from home to carry purchases in.)

Most of those bags will never see a second use. If you live or have traveled here you've probably seen where they can end up: alongside roads, strewn over hillsides, on beaches, blanketing land resting between crops.

I've been as guilty as other consumers. Until this trip I've not thought to bring along something reusable to carry foods I've purchased at a wet market or the cans of Diet Coke I buy at the 7-Eleven (hey - we all have our vices).

But having seen too many ugly rubbish mounds in remote northern Lao villages and biking through plumes of smoke rising from piles of burning plastic I vow to make a cloth market bag part of my travel kit from now on.

 

Morning market, Luang Namtha province

One bright spot: in Laos, at most markets that we visited (granted, in a very small slice of the country), plastic bags were but one means of food conveyance.

Fresh leafy greens and herbs accompany every Lao meal and pak salat, or lettuce, is the leafy green we saw most often. Several bunches strung together with a strip of bamboo or rattan (opening photo), hung from bicycle or moto handlebars, arrive home in much better shape than if they were crammed into a plastic bag.

(And how easy would it be to wash a bunch of strung-up lettuce? A good dunk and a swish in a bowl of water, or a thorough rinse under the faucet of a pump, and the bunch can be hung up to air and drip dry. Ingenious.)

 

The same minimalist packaging works for cabbage and cilantro,

mint (these dainty little bundles, photographed at a noodle stall, are tied into individual servings but large bunches are similarly strung up at markets),

a delicious tart/astringent leafy green that I know from China as zhu er gen (left), and another (right) that I'm not sure of.

The same goes for bamboo tips,

and strips of sun-dried fish.

But ultimately in Laos, as elsewhere, the allure of plastic is difficult to resist.

Over Easy

Yes, that is an omelet. And no, this is not me backing down on my 'in praise of unfamiliar breakfasts'  manifesto of a couple weeks ago. This is a Lao omelet, and it was eaten in Luang Prabang, while sitting streetside on a wee wooden bench. 

But that's not what makes it worthy of mention. This ethereally fluffy egg pancake was lightly folded over its contents like an envelope made of air. It enclosed a mixture of bean sprouts, green leaves, and herbs cooked barely past crisp-tender, and discs of local white sausage that boasted a rich porkiness. That's what makes this omelet a memorable one.

If you've traveled in Vietnam you may have had similar -- beaten eggs are mixed with a batter of rice flour and water, then swirled to paper thinness over the surface of a large wok. In go beansprouts and leaves.

 

 

A lid placed over the pan for a couple minutes softens the greens, and then the eggs are carefully folded over.

 

Taken with a dip of fish sauce, lime juice, fresh chili paste, and peanuts, it's one of the best omelets you'll ever eat.

I must admit, however, that the foreigner in me was imagining what this vendor could do with mushrooms and a wedge of goat cheese.

Lao omelet vendor, on street outside Talat Dara (Dara Market) near intersection with old hospital (now Amantaka resort). Excellent fresh spring rolls are also sold here. Caveat No 1 -- she's not entirely dependable but when she does show up it's around 1pm or 1:30. Caveat No 2 -- her sister (larger, rounder), who sometimes fills in, makes an equally tasty, if less finessed (torn in places, perhaps not quite as deftly folded) omelet.

Just Don't Call It Lao Som Tam

I've noticed some Laos wince if I order som tam (green papaya salad). That was before I managed to master the Lao name for this dish (which may or may not have originated in Laos -- can't find definitive information on this but if you have some feel free to weigh in): dtam mak huhng.

Dtam mak huhng (please don't call it Lao som tam) has a few elements in common with its Thai cousin: green papaya of course, garlic, peanuts, and chilies.

 

Lime juice plays a minor role in Lao green papaya salad; in some versions that we've eaten here in Luang Prabang it's barely detectable.

Tomatoes are in there, often two varieties -- larger, pulpy and sweetish, much like Italian plum tomatoes...and petite, super juicy orbs sold on the vine. The latter boast a sour bite.

Whereas Thai som tam is sweet, sour, and spicy, and a little salty, Lao dtam mak huhng veers toward favoring spicy and salty. The saltiness comes from bpadek or fermented fish sauce, which is a close relation to northern Thai blpaa raa.

To be honest, bpadek can be rough going at first. But it lends an incomparable depth to every dish it's added to. Much like shrimp paste (kapi in Thailand, trassi in Indonesia, belacan in Malaysia, and mam tom in Vietnam), it's an ingredient that, while initially quite repellent, is well worth making the effort to get used to. 

We reckon that Luang Prabang's best green papaya salad is to be found at Papaya Salad Restaurant, which is unfortunate enough to occupy a shop lot next to the much lauded (and justifiably so) Tamarind. (When we revisited Papaya Salad today the owner was keen to confirm that we understood we were not at Tamarind -- presumably he's had guests get up and leave after comprehending this fact.)

If you're looking to go street style, Papaya Salad prepares its dtam mak huhng at a stall outside the restaurant, and you can order sticky rice to eat with your salad outside.

What makes Green Papaya's version special is the way they prepare the papaya: it's shaved into wide, thin strips rather than grated, so that the fruit-vegetable retains quite a bit of texture and crispiness after it's pounded in the mortar with the other ingredients.

 

You'll find vegetal and slightly astringent slivers of green globe eggplant in there, and lots of bpadek. (If you just can't take bpadek's sublime stench, say 'Mai sai bpakek/ My Sy Bpah-Dehk' -- and they'll add Thai fish sauce instead.)

It's a truly fantastic plate-full, tomato-y and salty and, if you request yours to be 'Phet phet', very very spicy.

Consider ducking inside the restaurant for a full lunch. The 'fried sour in banana leaf', aka nem (fermented chopped pork) is absolutely heavenly, crisped in a pan and tart with lots of porcine flavor (and admittedly, fat -- but it's pork after all). With a large basket of sticky rice and a serving of dtam mak huhng you're looking at 35,000 kip (about U$4) -- more than reasonable for a lunch for two, by Luang Prabang restaurant standards.

Papaya Salad Restaurant -- one street in from the Mekong, next to Tamarind Restaurant. Green papaya salad stall out front. Daytime.

Miang Can

Miang can be pretty much anything you want them to be. That's my conclusion anyway, after our latest encounter with street miang.

In from of the wonderful morning market in Lampang, a sleepy town about an hour south of Chiang Mai, we found two versions of classic Thai miang kham (peanuts, lime, ginger, sweet chili sauce, et all wrapped in wild pepper leaves) -- one made with blanched leaves, the other with fresh.

Three hours east of Lampang in Nan, capital of the Lao-bordering Thai province of the same name, we ate miang made with pickled cabbage leaves filled with fried pork skin, chilies, peanuts, and cilantro. The vendor called them miang Lao.

 

And here in Luang Prabang we've discovered yet more variations on the miang  theme.

On a corner two blocks from the Post Office (heading away from the peninsula) a vendor sets up her miang takeaway stall every afternoon around 1:30 or 2. After covering her low table with a plastic tarp she lays out a plastic basket filled with soft pillows of rice vermicelli and a mound of slivered banana blossom mixed with sliced purple globe eggplant and mint.

Next to that she places a plastic bowl of jaow makhyaa -- a dip made of grilled eggplant pounded with chilies and herbs -- and then a smaller plastic bowl of a sweetened paste made from glutinous rice and brown cane sugar. The surfaces of both the eggplant and the rice paste are covered with crispy caramlized shallots.

After placing two white enameled platters at the front of the table she pulls up a tiny chair, sits down, and gets to work.

Blanched cabbage and wild pepper leaves receive a peanut or two and a few rings of sliced lemongrass, each pulled from a plastic bag sitting on her lap. She dabs sweetened rice paste on top, then tucks the leaf around the filling to form a neat triangle and places the finished miang on the platter to her right.

 

The first time we stopped by she was making fresh miang with curly green leaf lettuce and cashew leaves, wrapping the greens around a few strands of noodle and spoonful of eggplant dip.

 

The next day she used pakkat (vegetables of the mustard family -- in this case flowering yellow mustard) leaves instead of cashew leaves. In other words, whatever is good and fresh at the market is what ends up in her miang. 

We'd been hoofing about in search of lunch for 30 minutes or so by the time we found her stall. Ravenous, we ate her miang as fast as she could make them, popping them in our mouths one after another, adding a little heat as we went with nibbles from crispy roasted dried chilies pulled from a plastic bag on her table (help yourself).

Each miang cost 500 kip. Twelve thousand well held us to dinner.

Miang vendor, main road two blocks up from the Post Office. From 1-1:30pm (but perhaps not everyday). If you arrive after 2:30 you'll also find a kanom krok vendor (highly recommended). Around 3pm a grilled banana and sweet potato vendor sets up as well.

In Praise of Unfamiliar Breakfasts

Garlic cloves, chili sauce, and vinegar. Yes, at breakfast.

A few weeks ago I read something that got my ire up: this article for travel site WorldHum , in which travel writer and author Eric Weiner argues for sticking with what you know for breakfast when on the road.

For the traveler, breakfast grounds us in our home culture so we can work up the gumption to explore a new one. It also reminds us that however adventurous our spirit, however global our citizenship, we’re still products of a particular culture. At least once a day, preferably at the start of the day, we need to reconnect with that culture.

It's a great piece of writing. But I couldn't disagree more.

Let's start with the last bit. I travel not to remind myself of where I come from, but to immerse myself in where I don't; the last thing I want to do when on the road is to actively 'reconnect' with my own culture on a daily basis. Besides, for me the simple act of being abroad is in itself an ever-present reminder of where I come from. I never feel so 'American' as when I'm not in America.

As for the foodish aspect of Weiner's article -- it is true that, for many otherwise food-focused travelers, breakfast is the 'Last Frontier'. But getting past that is one of the best things you can do for yourself as a traveler.

Why?

Well, it's a bit like street food. Avoid it, it and you're closing yourself off from not only from a whole class of flavors and dishes but also opportunities for unique experiences and encounters. By the same token, no matter where in the world you are, breakfasting locally will expand your culinary horizons and afford an entree to bits of local life that are lived only in the wee hours.

This was brought home to me in Hoi An almost a year and a half ago, as Dave and Iwalked to the morning market. We passed a traveler's cafe just outside the old town, where four young tourists drank Nescafe (the tell-tale jar sat on their table) and ate toast made with floppy bread from a packaged pre-cut loaf . In a land of fantastic local coffee and bread they were, essentially, eating and drinking garbage. Not only that, they were missing Vietnam's morning-only self.

Dave and I walked on, stopping by our favorite fruit shake stall for a small plastic bag of kumquat 'marmalade' (meant to be eaten with shaved ice I think, but we surmised it might have other uses as well) and then continuing on to a touristy waterfront cafe that until 8am serves Viet-style iced coffee to locals at low tables out front. Dave ordered cafe sua da while I bought a baguette, split in half and warmed on a grill, from a mobile vendor steps away. We drank our coffee and ate our toasted baguette halves with the marmalade squeezed from the bag -- all with a bird's-eye view of the lively comings and goings to and from the market.

I'm not unsympathetic to the impulse to take the easy route when it comes to food, especially first thing in the morning. But we breakfasted on coffee and toast, just as those young travelers had -- yet ours was so much tastier (not to mention cheaper), and came with a slice of Hoi An's a.m. culture (the nature of that street leading to the market changes quite drastically between 7-8am and 9:30 or 10, when guided tour groups begin showing up).

Perfect boiled dumplings with plenty of chili oil. For breakfast.

Some of you reading this might be thinking, 'Easy for you to say. You eat everything.'

It's true, I do eat almost everything. Moreover, I'll eat almost anything at any time of the day. Which makes eating whatever for breakfast, wherever I am, easy. But it hasn't always been so.

When Dave and I lived in Chengdu I was an adherent to the Western breakfast. Every morning Dave left extra early, to pick up a couple of garlicky pork and Chinese chive-stuffed steamed buns before class; I stayed in our apartment, eating instant oatmeal that I'd brought from the U.S. Some days I cycled into town, to the Jinjiang Hotel, for their 'Western breakfast': awful, fluffy bread toasted and served with stone-cold fried eggs and really, really bad coffee.

What can I say? I was 22 years old, not yet grown into my now rather food-obsessed skin. All I know is that now I wish I could have all those mornings -- and all those uneaten steamed buns -- back.

My breakfast breakthrough came 6 years later when we returned to Sichuan for a holiday. In Leshan to see the world's largest buddha statue, we arrived at the dock early only to find that the 7am boat had become the 7:30am boat. Dave went in search of breakfast and I tagged along with no intention of eating.

He ordered boiled jiaozi. Big as coin purses they were, and emitting a Chinese chive reek that might have turned my stomach. But as I watched Dave eat, lips leaking a drop of chili oil and blissfully happy, something gave. He offered his chopsticks and I accepted. As soon as the first dumpling hit my mouth I was ravenous. I ordered my own bowl.

I think of that morning in Leshan as my watershed. From then on anything has been fair game for breakfast. I never afterwards pined for toast and jam or went hungry until lunchtime for the lack of it. That breakfast gifted me another opportunity, every single day, to sample local specialties. I would never again miss out on dishes, or the often memorable -- and irreplaceable -- experience of being part of the local breakfast scrum because of an insistence on sticking to the breakfasts I grew up with.

So -- yesterday at Luang Prabang's morning market we sat shoulder-to-shoulder with a gaggle of local women and tucked into nem kao, then moved down the block for a fantastic bowl of soup noodles made with ragu-like spicy pork mince and our pick of veggie add-ins. To my knowledge neither of these dishes are sold here outside of breakfast hours.

In a village on Java our morning hungries led us to a lone mobile cart, where we watched children tromp to school and women carry goods to market while warming our hands and stomachs with perhaps the most delicious rice porridge I've ever eaten. We exchanged some conversation with locals, and ate well. The latter took on extra importance when we found that evening how limited (and of limited appeal) post-breakfast dining options were.

In Saigon a grilled pork and rice breakfast gave us a ringside seat as a neighborhood woke on a weekend morning. In George Town a dish of noodles topped with gloppy five spice-infused sauce and thick slices of crackly-skinned pork belly gave us a reason to investigate a storied coffee shop we'd walked by a hundred times.

 

Breakfast noodles, with mutton and mutton parts.

If not for my openness to noodles first thing in the morning we might have left Langzhong, an ancient river town in northeastern Sichuan, without ever realizing that many of its residents are Hui.

Though there are a couple of Muslim bakeries in the old city there appear to be no restaurants (at least not that we could find). There are, however, a whole row of Muslim noodle shops on the street leading to the market. Open only in the morning, they all serve the same thing: za mian ('mixed' noodles), made with mutton and mutton parts.

Quality varies among the shops; the most atmospheric also serves the most delicious version of za mian, with a rich meaty broth and very substantial pasta. It's also run by a woman -- the only shop in the bunch -- with a big voice (she can really bark orders) and a friendly smile. (Note the glass jar next to the wall -- it holds meizi jiu, a not-too-sweet fruit wine with more than a bit of alcoholic punch.)

When I travel I aim for the tastiest morning meal rather than one that will remind me of home. So in Chengdu, when I spotted an 8am crowd at a tiny shop in Xiao Jia He district I made sure to return the next day.

I found wonderfully fresh doujiang (soy milk), crispy fried crullers with barely a lick of grease, porky steamed buns, and a characterful crowd.

 

We ate in close, steamy quarters against a backdrop of bellowed orders, chatter around mouths full of dough, the clang of metal ladle against doujiang pot. In other words, we ate immersed in China -- as much a great experience as a delicious one.

I was quadruply thankful for my tendency to eat outside the breakfast box on our last day in the city.

I'm a jiaozi (boiled dumpling) lover, and we tried many during our 3 weeks in Sichuan. But none quite measured up to the best we ate at least 4 times a week in 1985, or even to my liberating bowlful in Leshan.

It was 10am, we were strolling down one last narrow lane, and we had to get back to our hotel to pack. And there she was: a lone vendor, stuffing and crimping wontons and dumplings. Her set-up -- a folding table and chair piled with dumplings, a single table surrounded by stools for customers, one pot boiling over a charcoal fire -- told me all I needed to know: this was going to be the jiaozi I'd been looking for.

 

And it was. It really and truly was, with skins thick enough to boast a chew but with enough elasticity to keep from gumming up in the boiling water, a porky filling heavy on Chinese chives, and a sauce made with fragrant sweetened soy with a hint of anise.

 

Her homemade pao cai, tart and garlicky and made with slices of fresh mustard tuber, was icing on the cake.

And if I still turned my nose up at anything other than my own country's breakfast food for breakfast, I'd have missed it all.

Back to Luang Prabang

Two days days ago we flew from Chiang Mai to Luang Prabang. We were last here in 1995. As might be expected, things have changed.

Perhaps the biggest shock is the town at daybreak. Almost without exception, in Asia rising before dawn has guaranteed us peaceful near-empty streets. Not so here. By 6:30am Luang Prabang is buzzing with tourists, alone and in guided groups, many toting cameras and stalking alms-collecting monks like hunters in a wild game park. Not a pretty sight.

But the small morning market in the center of town is much as we remembered it: gaggles of shoppers-with-a-purpose choosing from such a plethora of fresh ingredients that it makes me ache for a local kitchen to call my own. Happily, for the kitchen-less among us there are also plenty of tempting foods to eat on the spot.

On our first morning in town we identified two stalls that will be regular stops in the coming days.

The first is operated by a mother-daughter team (cool and unsmiling, but hopefully that will change in a day or two) who make and serve Vietnamese banh cuon-like rice flour pancakes rolled around a filling of chopped pork and mushrooms. They're topped with crispy fried shallots and eaten with a dipping sauce of fish sauce, lime juice, peanuts, and chilies.

Called nem kao in Lao ('nem' means spring roll and 'kao' means white), they're larger than their Vietnamese cousins but, aside from the lime juice and peanuts in the dipping sauce, quite similar. Their combination of easy textures and bright flavors makes them just right as a first taste for a still-waking stomach.

And then there's the Lao coffee spot, operated by a meticulously made-up and manicured (but camera-shy) auntie with a generous smile. It is somewhat hidden by greenery, but we knew it by the wood-fueled boiler supporting two stainless steel pitchers of black gold.

An order of kafe Lao -- and you must specify kafe Lao, or else you'll end up with Nescafe (you might add 'mai sai Coffee Mate', while you're at it; the white powder has become a staple at stalls serving traditionally made coffee here and in Chiang Mai) -- starts with a hefty dollop of sweetened condensed milk, followed by a pour of thick brew from one of the pitchers and then a ladle of hot water from the boiler.

 
Hers is by far the best Lao-style coffee we've yet found here in Luang Prabang. In fact it's some of the best coffee we've had in a long time, anywhere -- hefty and full-flavored, with a bit of smoke and a hint of sourness. The sweetened condensed milk makes barely a dent.

(If you're a Lao coffee fiend, another worthwhile stop is Apsara Hotel. Their Lao coffee isn't made traditionally, but it's fantastic nonetheless -- beans freshly ground and brewed in a stove-top espresso pot.)

Nem kao and kafe Lao, Luang Prabang morning market. Look for the nem kao vendor -- there's only one. If you are facing her the coffee lady is at the next corner to your right, same side of the street. Mornings, obviously.

In the Most Unexpected Places

Memorable food in unexpected locations -- this is something that Thailand seems to specialize in. Stalls by the side of the highway or tucked in the bowels of a market, dull looking shops with dour-faced staff, restaurants that appear to entertain rarely more than a table of customers at a time -- here, all of these are potential sources of darned good dining.

Case in point: Khao Soi Mae Jam Bpaa, an out-of-the-way (but not unreachable, from the city) spot off Chiang Mai's Mahidon Road.

We stopped here nine days ago on the way out of town with friends. The taxi driver turned off an ugly stretch of road at an unattractive yellowish concrete building into a vast, dusty parking lot. We got out of the car, squinted in the sun. Our friend pointed and there it was, as if conjured out of nothing -- a squat little wooden restaurant hunkered in a patch of greenery beside a trickle of a klong.

 

It's a pleasant place to while away an hour or so. The decor is classic Thai country-casual: open-air, lots of timber, bench and stool seating around family- sized wooden tables. Across the street, a sundries store but not much else. A little oasis of deliciousness in an unlikely location -- but on a Sunday around noon nearly every table was occupied.

 

The specialty here -- no surprise -- is Chiang Mai's mascot dish khao soi (read about the dish's history, or one version of it, in this post from last year). I chose chicken, and it rivals the version served at my favorite spot in the city, Lamduan Khao Soi. Mae Jam Bpaa's soup boasts the perfect ratio of meat broth to coconut milk; it's satisfyingly rich but not enough so to leave you wanting.

Each sip of soup is a firecracker burst of chili heat soothed by sweet coconut milk augmented with warm dry spices -- cinammon and star anise especially. Together the ingredients set a fine stage for the squeeze of lime, tart pickled mustard, and sliced shallots you'll add from your condiment dish. 

In addition to chicken, the restaurant serves pork and fish khao soi as well. Purists will no doubt label the latter blasphemy, but it's wonderful: meaty fillets swimming with noodles in a piscene coconuty-spicy soup that's rather lighter, but no less satisfying, than that served with the meat versions.

Come to Mae Jam Bpaa not for a snack but for a meal (and preferably with friends) because the place does much more than khao soi. There's somtam (green papaya salad) which, if you order it with crab (bpuu), arrives crowned with a gorgeous cooked-to-order crustacean.

I wasn't up to tackling the claws but the meat was deemed sweet and fresh by our fellow eaters. The salad itself was -- in the northern (as opposed to Isaan) style -- spicy and salty, a welcome counterpoint to our opulently soothing coconut milk-based mains.

 

Also recommended: yam khaw muu, or pork neck 'salad', a medley of pounded tomato and snake beans tossed with sliced shallots, phak kanaa (gailan or Chinese broccoli) leaves, and fatty crackly-skinned strips of grilled pork neck in a tart, fish saucey dressing. The sprinkling of crisp-fried tiny fish  on top of the dish is a nice touch, and a wisp of shallot, a strip of fire-kissed pork, and a crispy fish together make for an inspired mouthful.

Mae Jam Bpaa is probably 15 or 20 minutes by tuk-tuk from Wat Ket (across the footbridge from Warorot Market) -- well worth the effort if you're a serious khao soi connoisseur.

Khao Soi Mae Jam Bpaa, Mahidon Road near intersection with Nong Hoi Road. There's a big parking lot behind Waree Chiang Mai School -- the restaurant is right across the small road. Daytime only.

All I Have to Give Is Fish

I've spent the last couple hours wrestling with a couple of posts. I throw up my hands. It's just not going to happen today.

So I give you this instead: a lovely mosaic of light and shadow -- and fish -- taken by the photographer this morning at Chiang Mai's Muang Mai market. Click the image for a larger view.

It's evening now, finally cooling down, the light is perfect. We're out the door.

Grilled Pork. And Plenty of It.

We're in Chiang Mai. And this is what we had for our second lunch on Monday.

According to our local guide Fern it's the city's best grilled pig (an opinion seconded by our fellow eater, a pretty fervent pork fan herself).

 

Our porky feast was cooked up by a mother-daughter team (spitting images of each other, don't you think?) on the stretch of Muang Samut Road just south of Dalat Kamthieng, the city's large plant and flower market. They're there Sunday through Saturday (mom occasionally takes a day off -- "When I feel tired") from 10am to 6pm, except for when they sell out by 3pm, which according to our friend Fern is pretty often.

 

If you look closely you'll see that mom has her nostrils plugged with wads of tissue paper. For good reason -- she's continuously wreathed in a swirl of roasting porcine fog. A lovely thing to immerse yourself in for about a minute, after which it starts to sting the eyes and the back of the throat. Thus the wads of tissue paper.

As customers we could dip in and dip out of the fog, visiting mom and her smoking grill to order a bit of this and a bit of that. We started with some plain old sliced pork -- not sure which part of the animal -- that was sublime in its simplicity.

Much of the grilled pork you might get on the street here has been marinated in fish sauce and sugar. Don't get me wrong -- it's a great and tasty thing when that sugar caramelizes on the meat and does a sweet little duel in your mouth with the fish sauce's saltiness. But sometimes you just want to taste the meat, unadulterated. That's just what mom's grilled pork delivers.

 

The meat is fatty and the skin impeccably crisped. Before slicing up our serving she tapped a piece with her tongs - tock, tock, tock -- to demonstrate how crispy the skin was.

She's precise with her cleaver. There's no hacking going on here -- she slices it up just so. I suspect she'd tell you that the way you slice the meat affects the way your tongue receives, and tastes, it. (If she wouldn't tell you that, I would.)

Our pork was served with a classic dried chili-tamarind-sugar dip. I can't think of a better way to cut through, and at the same time complement, a tender and unctuously fatty piece of meat than with tartness and a pinch of heat.

Our virgin foray into the land of mom's grilled pork past, we moved onto muu nam tok ('waterfall' pork -- so named, I was once told by my Thai teacher, for the way the meat's fat falls like water onto the coals below as it cooks). Perfectly executed, it featured more of that stunning grilled pig, plentiful mint and cilantro leaves, finely sliced red onion, dried chili, and lots of roasted rice powder. After we'd finished the meat the roasted rice was a delicious, saucy sludge in the bottom of the plate -- ready to be scooped up with bits of sticky rice.

 

We thought we were done. It was our second lunch, after all.

But Fern ordered up some khaw muu yang or grilled pork neck (a cut from the animal that is seriously underrated in the US; once a celebrity chef figures out how great it is I predict Pork Neck Everything will sweep the country the way Beef Cheek Everything did years ago) -- more wonderfully crispy, with its intact skin, than even our first slices of pork -- and somtam (green papaya salad).

Mom farang-ized the latter a bit (we couldn't find a single chili) but it was a minor misstep when taken in consideration with the overall greatness of the meal.

 

She'll have the opportunity to make it up when we return. We're dying to try the grilled pig intestines (opening photo). And the catfish looks pretty darned good too.

Grilled pork stall, Muang Samut Road just south of the plant market (Dalat Kamthien). It will be on the left side of the street as you approach the plant market. Look for a smokin' stall and a couple of tables under a tree.