Chiang Rai

Crossing my own trail of a year past, I find myself back in this Northern Thai city. I had promised myself a return visit after that too brief time.

Chiang Rai is a provincial capitol more interested in farming than tourism, but there is a small and vibrant guesthouse and food scene here. There are outstanding markets and food stalls selling northern specialty dishes like Khao Soy noodles.

After settling into my guesthouse, I lounged about the lush garden until my tummy heard the call of the food stalls. Past the bar street I did go, ignoring the farang. I paused only briefly at the beautiful clock tower to say hello to my new Canadian friends and then hied myself the few blocks to the market.

First, papaya as a walking appetizer. There just is no real papaya in the USA outside of Hawaii. I do love it and miss it so.

Appetizer in hand, the work begins. First, a hunk of BBQ fish. Entree purchased, I found just the right bag of cooked rice. Now is when things get tricky.

Rice and fish, however lovely, do not a Thai meal make. What is missing is curry. I found my stall, the typical Thai curry stand replete with small plastic bags of different flavours, red, green, panang, or in this case, northern Thai.

I held up my fish, pointed at the various curries, and in my best Thai asked which curry paste would they recommend. Through the use of Thai, English and pantomime, it was established that the red curry paste, a deep, pungent and awful red, would be best on fish.

My good Thai curry mongers also conveyed, through the same means, that I was ill-advised to purchase this beauty of a curry paste. A curry such as this, they indicated, was the gastronomical province of Thai persons and not consumable by farang. The gauntlet had been thrown down.

Commerce at the two adjoining stalls stopped. Five Thai food mongers waited to see what the outcome would be. There was a brief pause, as just before a gunfight in a Sergio Leone film, and then I said "Dii, chob!" Good, I like it. The gauntlet was picked up. A special single serving was bagged up and for five baht my dinner purchase was complete. The Thais were smiling, but dubious. I was smiling and hungry.

Back to the guesthouse I scurried with my precious take away. I spread my repast out on the garden table in front of my new mates, American and Austrian. As they drank their wine, I placed my fish and rice on a small plate and then broke open the bag of curry. The soft evening air became immediately redolent with pungent spice and fire. I smeared the dark, blood red paste on my rice and set to.

The curry inhabited my senses. The frenzy of flavour blotted out all other sensations. Any thought or feeling beyond the riotous tumult of taste and smell was rendered impossible. I was, literally, knocked back in my chair. Those around the table marveled. I offered bites to all and all declined save one brave American. One taste was sufficient for her.

It was heaven mixed with the fires of hell. My sense of what is gastronomically possible has been greatly expanded. And, as I slowly and lovingly finished my meal, I realized that I would live to eat again, and to eat well and better.

Until next time, be well, live well, and eat daringly. It is so worth it.

Sent from the Borg Device