Light Snacks Will Be Served

A Quick Note on Service in Paris: New Versus Old School

There is nothing so intimidating as a Parisian waiter glowering at you as you fumble through a menu.  I find myself lucky; I speak a few languages and so my mind is more malleable than those who speak one. Four years of Latin, and a career in the food industry helps too. I can read French menus -- I just can't make them come out of my mouth with any measure of grace.

Many overworked Parisian waiters seem to enjoy the pain visitors feel when ordering food. It's like a sprikling of schadenfreude in their mundane workday. I can sympathize to a certain extent -- many waiters are working eight or ten tables at once, far too many, and most of those tables are populated by foreigners. But then my mind turns to my own servers in Bangkok, who do the same job with mostly foreign clientele, without a hint of pretension, or worse, disgust. C'est la vie.

But I saw signs of change in Parisian service, and it was directly related to the age of those running the restaurants. In old-school brasseries and bistros with repute, the service was brusque at best and downright scornful at worst. The food allows one to (mostly) forget. But at two of Paris' newest and most promising restaurants, my wife and I were welcomed with the sort of casual grace that defines great service today. At Septime and Agape Substance we were greeted, served, and soothed by a kind of conviviality that was almost unnerving after eating elsewhere in town. 

I think that both of these places should be commeded for that; they are fashionable, they are modern, they are hard to get into, but they are also respectful of customers and mindful of the language gap. This seemed to me like a great departure from the old-school scowl and 'pffft!' that one often encounters.

It was a mark of prefessionalism and a desire to make people enjoy not just the food and the wine but the philosophy at work behind it. And today, no matter where you are, that's exactly what it takes to make it.  

 

La Cagouille

Before travelling, I ask people whom I trust where I should eat. Especially when going to a place like Paris, which is so dense with restaurants one might never know. And at the end of a friend's email on that subject, there were a few lines that went something like this: "Near Montparnasse there's a fish restaurant called La Cagouille. Unassuming. Very good seafood. And it's open on Sunday."

La Cagouille was then forgotten.

But two Sundays past, in Paris, my wife and I found ourselves wandering around hungrily. The cheese shop I had found the day before was shuttered, scrapping our plans for a picnic. And then I remembered the email, and the seafood restaurant that was open on Sunday. And so we jumped in a taxi and zoomed across town on a crisp, clear afternoon. 

La Cagouille is unassuming. There are understated nautical touches in the dining room, there's a simple patio, and it's located in a recently constructed apartment building on a quiet residential street. It does not magically transport you to the Paris of accordions, roses and cobblestones. In fact, it feels more like a chain restaurant somewhere in Boston. 

Then the first course comes. Cockels, swimming in Breton butter. You scoop the tiny shellfish up and slurp the sweet, tiny pieces of meat. If you're me, you then use the shell as a ladel to pour butter in your mouth. 

After that, the mussels arrived, which were thrown on a hot iron plate to ease open, then simply dusted with sea salt. They were tender and sweet and as we drank a bottle of white wine from the Rhone that was perfectly complimentary my eyes started to roll back into my head.

Then the Fines de Claires were thrust in front of us, freshly shucked, and as I squeezed a half lemon atop them their edges slowly curled up in the sunlight.  The oysters were so rich and briny, so expressive of a cold, clean sea, that I shivered as they slid down my throat. "That's the most intoxicating thing I've ever eaten," muttered my wife. I smiled at her, gulped more white wine, and grunted affirmatively.

The final thing we ate that afternoon -- an afternoon meal which neither of us will forget because of the perfect combination of summer sun and tastes -- was a plate of grilled sardines. Each table of middle-aged Parisians was picking at the little fish and so we followed suit.

The rich, oily fish slid of the bone and melted in your mouth. The fish were also, gleefully, slicked with butter. There was smoke and sea and salt that was about it, and it was about the best thing one could ever eat. And we did, hushed, scraping meat from the feathery bones. And as we finished the meal I felt a rush of sadness, because I knew that I wouldn't eat anything so elementally good in a very long time.

Then we left the restaurant and walked through a market where painters sold bright canvasses and odd sculpture and moody photographs. But my mind was still spinning from the beauty of the food. 

Stuck inside of Bangkok, with the Paris blues, again.

So the story goes like this: 

You don't go on a lot of vacations when you work in the food business. Since I hung up the writing spurs and did this thing, I left exactly once for a four day trip to China for a (beautiful) wedding. There was a pipe-dream escape to Spain in May that never happened, for several reasons. And it all began to build up, the frustration and the heat and wet of Bangkok and the hours and the fact that I haven't left Asia in two years. And then I had a dream. My wife and I were eating oysters in some unknown Parisian brasserie, out on the sidewalk, and it was all so perfect in my intangible, dreamy belief, until I woke up and opened my eyes and saw the heavy rain falling on the palm trees outside.

I booked tickets that morning.

"Fuck it, you gotta go sometime," I thought. "And now you don't have a choice."

And so we went. And it was sublime.

And there were oysters.

(More to come on what we ate and where, and also a bit about my new little project at Soul Food Mahanakorn)

 

A Quick Note on the Patpong Sex Show

This note is for readers of this blog who might visit Bangkok someday, and might be tempted to indulge in that strange ritual that is the Patpong ping-pong show. It has become part of the Thailand tourism 'experience,' so much so that almost every friend that swings through town believes they ought to see this bizarre sexual theatre. I try to talk them out of it, and if that doesn't work they end up going on their own. But last night I went with guests. And it was the worst 15 minutes I have ever spent in Thailand. Period. 

In a dingy, blacklit room that smelled of piss and cigarettes, we watched 5 disinterested women well into middle age do strange things with eggs and needles and glow-in-the-dark rings. It's boring and rather sad, but that's not the worst part. 

The place that we happened upon was not a safe place to be, evidenced by the shouting matches between clients (usually foreign tourist couples, sometimes with kids) who were getting ripped off to the tune of $250 (Yes, that is 8000 baht) for a couple beers. If you don't pay, you're surrounded by shouting women who don't let you out, as well as a few thick-armed thugs who glower and guard the door. It's pure intimidation and extortion, in a dark, strange, disorienting room. Police are not allowed in (they carded my Thai friend to make sure he wasn't police) and you really have no legal or personal protection once you're inside. I assume most people pay and get the hell out. 

After about 10 minutes of watching this, and getting dripped on by a leaky air-conditioner (liquid in a run-down strip club ain't cool) we decided to leave. There was a glass on our table of orange soda with a straw in it. It wasn't ours and I moved it to an empty table. In that glass was the scam -- that orange soda cost 3200 Baht, or about $98. After arguing with a Thai woman who spoke to me with a ferocity that gave me goosebumps, we paid for what we drank (400 baht for 4 beers) and left. A bouncer shoved me around a little bit on the way out for good measure, and that woman told me to 'shut my mouth' about her scam. They attempted to charge us eight times our bar tab for that single orange soda. I was sober throughout, which made the visit even less pleasant.

To all who think this is 'part of the Bangkok experience' I assure you it's not. There's nothing Thai about it, actually: Thais don't scream at guests, they don't intimidate tourists, and they certainly don't pull sharp things out of their private parts. The only thing that's Thai about it are your own preconceived notions (which some unsavory characters will happily indulge for financial gain). It's also disgusting, and can be dangerous. 

If you want to experience the rougher side of Thai culture, go to a kickboxing fight and sit high in the stands at Lumphini Stadium. Place a bet or two with the bookies if you want, drink some cold Chang from plastic cups, dig the old music and watch the rats scurry beneath rickety stands. You'll lose a lot less money, and have a lot more fun.       

Southern Markets

I quickly snapped this image while wading through one of the most interesting markets I've seen in Thailand, in a small town just outside of Nakhorn Si Thammerat. The market was beside the highway there, and inside an even mix of Muslims and Buddhists traded in meats, an amazing array of fish, and fruits and leaves and flowers. But this shot of hooves stood out, and so I share it with you. Much more on my culinary adventures in the south of Thailand coming soon.  

 

The Twilight of the Trishaw

There aren't that many trishaws left in Thailand, anymore. Motorbikes are simply too cheap and too convenient, and are widely used as taxis these days, forcing out the hard working pedicab drivers. But whenever I see one, if I'm not in a hurry, I flag it down. The slow ramble of a pedicab is probably the best way to see a small Southeast Asian city (not Bangkok... I wouldn't wish that on anyone). You have time to take in the scenery, make mental notes, take photos, and smell the flowers. Seriously. You can smell flowers when you ride in a trishaw. 

Some of my fondest memories of my time in Chengdu, Sichuan, were late nights spent wobbling across potholes with a Snow Beer and good friends, in the back of these three wheeled bikes (bet you don't remember, AGP).  They also remind me of Penang, and the south of India, and what is probably the most interesting trishaw town of all, Lhasa. High in the Himalaya, trishaw riders have their own language of whistles - one means 'I'm passing from behind', another 'turning left, or right.' In a trishaw, you have time to whistle where you're headed. 

Above is a photo of my latest trishaw driver, Pit, who pedaled us around Nakhorn Si Thammerat this week. He is 74-years-old. As we slowly rolled through the charming provincial city, dotted with temples and mosques, he waved and smiled to almost every person we passed. You also have time to make friends, when you drive a trishaw.   

Ramen and Green Curry? Nah

In this otherwise great article on ramen in Tokyo, the NYT's frugal traveler Matt Gross writes: 

"Basanova specialized in green curry ramen, a clever adaptation of Thai flavors to Japanese tastes. It was fascinating to slurp, at once vibrant with the heat of chilies and the aromas of lemon grass and kaffir lime, but at heart a classic Japanese ramen. You won’t find this in Bangkok."

I'm not a stickler when it comes to fusion, but green curry soup noodles aren't found in Bangkok because they're not a very good idea. Green curry, in fact, isn't found in any soup whatsoever, because it is a thick coconut-based curry, and not a soup. A small amount is eaten atop rice, because it is rich with coconut cream and very spicy. Trust me, if it was tasty to eat a whole bowl of it, the Thais would be eating green curry soup noodles all over the place; this definitely isn't a cooking culture bound by orthodoxy or health concerns. 

Green curry is found atop kanom jeen noodles, though, which are soft and sweet, cool and springy - not unlike soba - which, dare I say, would make a much better medium for a splash of green curry than a huge, steaming bowl of ramen.  

Sweetbreads, Fish Heads

 

Last night, in Singapore's Durian-inspired Esplanade Theatre, I saw Andrew Bird put on a show. Bird is one of those rare performers that sounds almost exactly the same live as he does on albums, which might have to do with the fact that he's playing all of the instruments both live and on his albums. 

So Bird's up there punching pedals with his feet, looping tumbleweed whistles with staccato violin plucketry and mournful pulls on his bow and guitar chords and all sorts of other noises into what finally evolves into something like a band's wall of sound. It's pretty fascinating to watch. 

And then he played a song called Gray Matter, which he originally wrote as a song called Sweetbreads, and he sang it as it was on the original. Which has chorus that goes like this: "They call them sweetbreads, I could taste what you were thinking, ooooh, sweetbreads, that's the taste of neurons blinking."  

But before the song, the shy and sort-of-awkward performer said something (I'm paraphrasing here) like this: "This song is about tasting the brain, and, well, I rewrote it because I thought it was kind of upsetting. But, you know, we eat animal's hearts, and brains, and places where the soul is said to reside, and don't really talk about the implications of that very much. But we probably should, you know?"

I love eating sweetbreads, which come from the thymus or the pancreas of hoofed mammals, but that's not why I kept turning Bird's words over in my head. It also wasn't because I was stoned, because I was in a concert hall in Singapore. 

As he plucked his violin strings and sang of sweetbreads I thought about all the hearts and brains and feet I've eaten, and how even when you're eating them you don't really consider what that thing was doing a few hours or days before. And I made a note to think about it the next time I ate something in which "the soul was said to reside." And I did, at lunch, the very next day. 

I'm not crazy about Singapore's food like some people are (I find much of it is greasy, one-dimensional,  and sort of overrated). But I'm hip to the fact that there's some great cooking going on here too. And when I come to Singapore, the first thing I want to eat is curry fish head. Today, at the famous Banana Leaf Apolo I got my fix, as Bird's words fluttered around in my head. Looks like Mel Gibson has too.

But I digress. The fish's flesh was firm and sweet, the sour tamarind curry was fiery and complex, and really I couldn't imagine a better lunch. And as i plucked off the fatty, tender cheek of the fish, I considered it swimming around in the deep, scarfing up so many small creatures. I felt great privilege to be eating such a formidable looking fish's head; a head that would probably go to waste in the West. It just might just be where that animal's soul resides, I thought, because it's definitely the most delicious part of the fish. 

So, anyways, that's the taste of my neurons blinking.

  

Jump and Jive

The first time I ate goong tem, Northeast Thailand's 'jumping shrimp' salad, I was in a public restroom. Well, actually I was on my way to the toilet, in Bangkok's Chatujak Market, paying the attendant 5 baht to use her facilities.

Before her was a bright, shiny salad of krill-like shrimp, dices of crimson and emerald chilies, chives, mint, and cilantro. It was beautiful. She saw my hungry eyes, laughed, and thrust her plastic spoon in my face. I chewed on the crisp prawns, and they burst in my mouth, still wriggling. Then the herbs popped, and the chilies exploded. It was the best thing I've ever eaten in a toilet, and better than most things I've eaten in fancy restaurants. That was six months ago.

Last week I found myself on the Mekong, just outside of Chiang Khan, as fisherman drifted just above the fast water at Kaeng Kood Koo, a swirl of river currents and restaurants that draws tourists. They were casting small mesh nets into the water, fishing for tiny prawns. I was in the perfect spot for a plate of goong tem. 

  

We sat under a thatch sala, on cushions in our bare feet, and stared out at Laos on the other side of the stream. I thought about how many majestic trees there were in Laos, and wished there were more on our side. Then a dish arrived covered by another plate. It was speaking to us. 

'Thop, plop, dunk!' it said, warning us of the action inside. A few determined little prawns wriggled their way out the sides, making a run for the water (sadly for them, the Mekong was an unhoppable distance away - maybe 200 yards). As I removed the lid, prawns popped like grasshoppers out of the dish - one flew up about two feet, and landed right in the middle of my spoon, like an acrobat. I gobbled him up, like an acrobat-eating ogre. They were sweet and fresh - not muddy or fishy - but most of the flavor from this dish comes from the lime juice, herbs and the roasted glutinous rice that, when ground, holds Isaan's salads together. 

Better than the bathroom!      

 

New Year Country

I was going to make a list of all the delicious things I ate last year and tell you how awesome it was eating them, but then I thought that, well, everybody's probably done that already. But I did have a great year of eating on the road. It started brilliantly with a feast in Nahorn Si Thammerat in the south of Thailand, and ended up on the banks of the Mekong in Nong Khai, in Isaan. In between, I married my wonderful wife and started a new life here. 

I also scoured Goa for colonial Portuguese food and sausage, got sick in Java, ate great Chinese food in Kuala Lumpur, gambled for pork links in Taipei, cooked hairy crabs with my grandmother in Shanghai, made tofu in Lombok, got silly in Seoul, learned what its like to dine in exile in Taiwan, headed to Dharavi for a little Oscars celebration, roasted water buffalo and set off rockets in Yasothorn, and got straight up gluttonous in Sydney. 

That's just a sample. A lot can happen in a year.

One thing I did do that most people probably didn't this New Year was kick it with some tobacco farmers in Isaan, who happened to be cooking a boar in a thicket on the side of a dirt path. Isaan is a remarkable place to get off the road and explore, as the people there are some of the most generous on earth. And they like a good party... See?

So we're dancing a little, and we have a few swings swigs of rice whiskey, and they invite us for a bite to eat. From, um, there:

Which was an enormous pot of bubbling water filled with tough bits of boar. Which, when washed down with warm whiskey, felt like an especially festive treat on a hot winter's day.

 And in the end Chris and I even got kisses for the road...

 

Here's to happiness.