Postcards from Thailand

After a night of fasting, I’d had my blood drawn at the hospital and was permitted to eat and drink again. It was too early for lunch. I wandered along the hospital corridors, past the pseudo-French bakery, past Starbucks, past 7-eleven. Nothing appealed. Then I saw it: a stall selling cupcakes and coffee.

I’d never tried a cupcake before, though almost every week Martha Stewart practically orgasms on screen over them, so I knew they must be something truly wonderful, a delicacy on a part with the first asparagus of the season, truffles, foie gras and the finest caviar. I had to have one.

Judging by their appearance, they are some sort of mutant bastard offspring of British fairy cakes. The colours – lurid pinks, fluorescent greens, vivid mauves – have no counterpart in nature. I didn’t let that put me off. I just knew from Martha that these were something amazing.

I chose one of the less gaudy offerings: mutant caramel flavour. It came in a little plastic cup with a domed lid. Remembering that this is an American delicacy, I realised that it was meant to be eaten with one’s hands, just like hamburgers, pizzas and almost everything else. (Well, that plus the fact that no knife and fork was proffered.) Emulating a snake, I dislocated my jaw to take a first, tentative bite. I could feel my teeth turning to black, rotten stumps as they sank their way through the two centimetre-thick frosting – frosting of such sickly sweetness that surely even the most sugar-crazed hummingbird would be repulsed. The sponge underneath crumbled shamelessly over my lap.

They say “life’s too short to frost a cupcake”. I don’t know about that, but my life will never be so long that I will want to eat another one.

[471]

Guess who I found on my doorstep this morning:

To explain, this is a land crab. They live in paddy fields and are salted and fermented to make a tasty addition to somtam (green papaya salad) – not that I have such a fate planned for this particular crustacean. There are paddy fields abutting my moobaan.

And yes, I know that Pinchy was a lobster, not a crab. Now, if I did have lobsters grazing around the house I couldn’t guarantee them safe passage.

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“One love
One blood
One life
You got to do what you should”

In my early teens I attended a grammar school in Kent that had a traditional rivalry with a nearby school. Occasionally there would be set-piece fights, and a handful of students would return to the classroom after lunch bloodied and bruised.

“We came out of it, naturally the worst.
Beaten and bloody. And I was sick down my shirt.
We were no match for their untamed wit.
Though some of the lads said they’d be back next week.”

I didn’t get involved; I abhor violence in all its forms, plus I’m allergic to pain.

Such rivalries in Bangkok don’t always end with just a few cuts and scrapes.

A nine year old kid died earlier this week not far from where I live. He was caught by the random spray of bullets intended for students from a rival college. The bus he was on was packed. (Aren’t they all?) The driver (and all credit to him) sped to a nearby hospital. Jatuporn Polpaka was already dead.

“Not like Buddha, not like Vishnu
Life wouldn’t rise through him again.”

Rest in peace, dear Jatuporn.

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Fermentation is perhaps the ultimate proof of the existence of a loving God. For what would life be without sparkling wine, malt whisky and fine ales? And then there’s cheese – rotten, putrid milk at one level, but ambrosia, nectar of the gods, at another.

A couple of days ago I visited a small supermarket that had a modest selection of western foods, including a tiny sliver of Roquefort. It was exorbitantly priced, but I couldn’t resist. The creamy texture, the stench of decay – wonderful.

And what about yoghurt, smetana, crème fraiche?

Then there’s bread. One of my upcoming projects (as soon as I get an oven) is to try making sourdough bread. I’m hoping that the wild Thai yeasts are up to the job!

Ah, the delights of decay and corruption!

Strangely enough, almost all the above foods are “difficult” for Thai people; I could be confident that none of my friends would want to try a piece of my Roquefort so I didn’t need to conceal it within my fridge.

(Many years ago I was working with a group of senior Japanese managers from Tokyo who were visiting London for a special project. I was sent out to buy sandwiches for lunch. In my total naïveté my selection included both blue cheese and cream cheese (another no-no). They weren’t impressed, and most of the sandwiches were left uneaten. Of course, not a word of reproach was spoken.)

The mutual distaste for fermented foods from a foreign place works both ways. I (and most westerners) find the rotten offerings of Asia somewhat challenging.

In Thailand there’s fish sauce – the liquid which drips from rotting salted fish over a period of months. It’s almost ubiquitous in the cuisine – the local equivalent of salt.

A more intense version is plaa raa – the actual decaying fish itself. The smell is beyond belief, and that is but a minor hint as to the actual taste. It’s particularly popular in the north east.

And what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. Or rather, it’s not just dead fish that suffers the indignity of sweating in the sweltering climate in a large pot for months to produce the virtually inedible: you can also ferment raw shrimp into a foul, sticky paste, in this case known as gapi in Thailand. But it’s popular throughout SE Asia. In Burma it’s known as ngapi. In Malaysia it’s belachan. In the Philippines it’s bagoong alamang. And there are similar substances in Indonesia, Vietnam, southern China. In fact, everywhere throughout the whole of the region has a version.

But then Asian fermented food isn’t limited to decomposing seafood. Korea has its kimchi, and Japan its natto and miso (both fermented forms of soy beans, as is soy sauce). Whilst miso and soy sauce are pretty accessible, natto, with its overpowering smell, vile flavour and slimy texture is an acquired taste I’d rather not acquire.

Stinky tofu and hairy tofu are evidence of both poor refrigeration techniques and a bizarre palate in Taiwan and the PRC. Tempeh (which I associate with Indonesia, but may have started elsewhere) is somewhat less offensive to those of us with … refined sensibilities.

The primary purpose of fermentation, it is said, is to enrich the diet through developing a diversity of flavours, aromas, and textures. It’s just that some of those flavours, aromas and textures are just a little too diverse.

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In England local government imposes stupid regimes upon its subjugates. They are required to separate their refuse into various categories such as paper, food waste, metal, glass and, if they’re lucky, the authorities will arrange an occasional collection at whatever interval most successfully ensures that the food waste is thoroughly putrid and attracting a suitable number of flies and maggots. Woe betide the man or woman who fails strictly to obey its ordinances, for he or she will be deserving of the full penalty of the law.

Things in Thailand are a bit more relaxed. My maid has trained me to put my used glass bottles, cans and cardboard in a particular cupboard. She then takes this away each week to sell to supplement her modest income.

Yesterday I gave her an old computer, monitor and scanner that I no longer needed. She was pleased.

And today I needed to get rid of a couple of electric heaters. (It sounds crazy having electric heaters in Thailand, but in parts of the north they are useful for a few nights each year.) And there was an old lamp and motorcycle helmet. As soon as I’d turned my back one of the security guards (and older chap who is really friendly and smiles a lot) was approaching. He asked if I was throwing the things out. Five minutes later they’d gone.

(Normally my thrown out things disappear overnight, so it was a bit of a novelty to be asked.)

In England it’s only the tired slogans of the hair-shirted environmentalists that are efficiently recycled. Here in Thailand it’s a way of life.

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I’m pretty sure that Billie Holiday had other things on her mind when she sang Strange Fruit. But then I guess she never encountered sapodilla (in Thai, ละมุด [pronounced “la-mut”] – and for my Latin readers, it’s Manilkara zapota).

The fruit, it is believed, originated in central America and was brought to SE Asia by the Portuguese.

It contains four or so inedible seeds, and the flesh is a strange brown colour. The texture is slightly sandy – rather like an over-ripe pear – and the taste is sweet with a slight hint of acid. It also has a distinctive smell, rather fermented. Some say it smells like malt, but I think it smells like liquor.

***

And lest anyone suspect that I have shown any disrespect to Billie Holiday, here are a few interesting (to me at least) facts about her song:

• The original poem was written by an American Jew who subsequently adopted two sons of the Rosenbergs, murdered (the Rosenbergs, that is) by the American establishment for disagreeing with its fascistical politics.
• Holiday had great trouble getting the song recorded, and eventually (in seach of a record company) performed an a cappella version to Billy Crystal’s uncle. He (the uncle, that is) was brought to tears by the performance. (And who wouldn’t be?) He was eventually able to arrange for a special release of the song.
• In 1999 Time magazine declared it the “song of the century”.

***

I doubt you’ll find sapodilla in a supermarket near you any time soon, but if you do, give it a try.

Durian is not the only fruit.

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Once a year I wear a long-sleeved shirt. It’s the day that I have to renew my visa. The renewal is always at the whim of the immigration officials, so it’s best to look smart and act humble/polite. Of course, I also dress up because I won’t want to be confused with the flotsam and jetsam of Western society (society?) that wash up on Thailand’s shore.

The day started with a visit to the government bank where I’ve deposited a substantial sum of money to secure my visa. I simply needed two letters from them, one to show that I’d transferred money from abroad, and the other that I’d invested said substantial sum in a fixed term account. To make things easier I brought copies of last year’s letters. But nothing here is easy…

To start with, there were about 20 university students in the queue ahead of me who were opening accounts. Their tight shirts, stretched across their breasts and gaping at the gaps, were quite a distraction, as were their tight, short skirts. Heaven forfend that any one of them should ever have to bend over.

After waiting about 20 minutes one of the staff approached me to determine my business. She took my documents and spend ten minutes in a discussion with three colleagues about what needed to be done, to no avail.

Then my turn in the queue arrived, so I had to explain everything again to someone else.

To cut a long (and tedious) story short, I eventually got my letters having spend an hour on business that should have taken but a few minutes.

In the afternoon I went to the Immigration office. Hurrah! There was no queue. Less Hurrah! The official had never encountered my type of visa before and didn’t have a clue what to do. She made numerous ‘phone calls and eventually gave me the necessary stamps.

So, here I am, legal for another year.

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Andrew Zimmern is a minor American TV personality who’s primarily known for travelling around the world and eating strange food for the camera. (He’s also a chef, author and teacher.) Admittedly, when he visited Swansea market in Wales he didn’t exactly impress me with his boldness. To quote from a supposedly authoritative TV guide (the atrocious punctuation and misspellings are all from the original):

“In Swansea, Wales, the hometown of the poet Dillon Thomas, Andrew visits the Swansea Market and reveals bones, heart, kidneys and pluck used in recipes. The market also has wild game such as partridge, wild pheasant and pigeon. Joined by Carol Watts, Andrew tries a dish called faggo consisting of pig heart, liver and fatty meat as well as cockles, a type of mollusk, laverbread, toast with seaweed paste, and whelks, a sea snail served with pepper, vinegar and sea salt.”

Anyway, he was a bit more adventurous recently and visited Isaan in the north east of Thailand. Unfortunately, he belied his reputation as a man who will eat anything. Whilst he was happy to chow down on roasted rat, dung beetles, grasshoppers, raw (still warm) calf liver and silk worm grubs, he baulked at raw cow placenta and the partially digested contents of a cow’s stomach.

However, the food that produced in him the greatest revulsion was pizza, with fake cheese, fake seafood and fake hot dog. Earlier in the week I had a pizza from Pizza Hut with a similar fake cheese (possibly the same recipe as was used in the USA by Domino’s [Polydimethylsiloxane – yummmy!]) The base was impossibly sweet, and the imitation crab sticks impossibly vile. However, I managed to force down a few slices. Perhaps Travel Channel should ditch the overweight balding guy and employ another overweight balding guy (i.e. me).

[459]

In Tesco-Lotus (as in most supermarkets) there’s a quick checkout – no more than 10 items, and baskets only – not that the rules are enforced. It’s most convenient to take through a basket of 15 or 20 items, as I have done many times. And unlike the UK, there won’t be anyone behind me in the queue quietly tutting disapproval. The checkout staff certainly won’t comment or refuse service. Admittedly, I’ve never had the cojones to take a trolley through the confined spaces of the quick checkout, but I’ve seen in done on many an occasion.

Thailand is not a free market economy, with many items subject to retail price controls – items such as oil, fish sauce, sugar, rice, condensed milk, flour (and non-food items such as fuel, school uniforms, medicines and music CDs). Whenever there is in impending price rise the shelves of Tesco-Lotus are stripped bare. Today it was oil that was in demand. People with baskets piled high with the stuff were queuing at the quick checkout. Now, Tesco-Lotus imposes a limit of three bottles of oil per customer under these circumstances. So, what do the checkout staff do? They ring up three bottles of oil, then accept payment before ringing up the next three bottles. And so on. Thus a single customer can (as happened with a customer in front of me in the queue) equate to 8 transactions.

Thailand: a country of non-confrontational scofflaws.

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