Postcards from Thailand

A few days ago I was in central Bangkok for a bit of shopping and as I exited Siam Paragon I noticed a long, long queue snaking out of the department store, onto the street where it doubled back on itself twice, constrained by barriers and then trailing as far as I could see. Hundreds and hundreds of people patiently waiting – but what could they be waiting for? Tickets for a movie premier or some sporting event? To catch a glimpse of some celebrity? No. They were queueing to buy doughnuts.

A new store had opened a few days ago – a Krispy Kreme. (KK’s an American purveyor of doughnuts – or perhaps I should write “donuts” – of extraordinarily high calorific value.)

Such mania will quickly die down. There was a similar palaver when a Singaporean bun shop opened in Bangkok a couple of years ago.

That said, the Thailand Krispy Kreme franchisee (the daughter of a very wealthy family) did a pretty good job of publicising the launch, with loads of coverage in the newspapers, magazines, on the radio (and possibly on TV, but I rarely watch Thai TV).

I must confess that a few months after the launch of Krispy Kreme in the UK I did try one of their offerings – I was a tad curious after all the media hype. The doughnut was vile, sickly sweet – almost as bad as a cupcake. They probably don’t say “life’s too short to glaze a doughnut”. I don’t know about that, but my life will never be so long that I will ever want to eat another Krispy Kreme.

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A few years ago, shortly after I moved to Ayutthaya, I drove a friend to hospital after he’d been attacked by a dog. At the pharmacy, half joking, he asked the pharmacist whether she had any medicine to deal with dogs. The pharmacist wouldn’t oblige, but an elderly woman in an adjacent queue piped up: take some minced meat, add some powdered soap, and get some medicine from a particular stall in the market.

Of course, my friend, a dog-lover himself, didn’t follow up on the advice. However, sadly, many people do, and many dogs die in terrible agony from having been poisoned by neighbours. One particularly upsetting incident happened in Ayutthaya recently.

A local policeman, Somyos, owned a one year old macaque named Taew and a dog, Suea. They were best friends. Taew used to like to ride on Suea’s back. Such was the sight that local TV stations had broadcast footage of Taew the dog jockey.

A neighbour (also a policeman) resented the couple’s fame, and was particularly enraged when one day Taew and Suea climbed into the back of his pickup. In retaliation, it appears, he poisoned Somyos’ two cats, so Somyos took to chaining up Taew and Suea to protect them. The neighbour, however, apparently still managed to poison Suea. And so the newspapers showed a heart-rending picture of Taew clinging to the back of the dead Suea, Taew not realising that his best friend was dead.

So, so sad.

(Both photographs from The Bangkok Post.)

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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.

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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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