What to do in Pattaya

Here is the city of Pattaya, a small strip of sand and two thousand open air bars devoted to a single purpose: allowing morbidly obese American businessmen with comb-overs to penetrate the 12 year old of their choosing; Presumably having her refrain from laughter during the act is an additional fee. Amg and I are here for the Infamous drag shows, the kind of spectacle that reminds you that it takes a real man to be the perfect woman. But first... ‘Maybe we get some dinner first, yes?’ says our friend S, a line she has used before to magnificent results. We make her promise that this time we pay, and then allow ourselves to be steered into the huge storefront of Nang Nual on the water.

The entry area is made entirely out of what could only be bathtubs, each holding its own formidable school of fish and rubber air-feeds which dangle over the side like hospital IV tubes. The giant back patio is a mess of Thai families, European couples, and the ubiquitous American businessmen sweating in the sea breeze, their young acquisitions wordlessly tearing into plates of fish besides them. You can tell the Americans by the southern accent, ill-fitting khaki shorts and sacred Buddhist shrine offerings some are wearing around their necks like Hawaiian leis.

We know the ritual by now. S hands us the menus and chants, ‘What would you like to eat’. We intone back ‘What do you suggest?’ She retrieves the menus and has an in-depth chat with the waiter while we sit there trying to look like we understand a word they’re saying. As a result, we are soon presented with iced coffees (factory ice) and a plate of huge raw oysters each bigger than my hand. There are a number of small bowls filled with unknown powders and pastes. I wait till no one is looking and stick my spoon in a particularly scary one, only to find out that is in fact, fried garlic. The oysters are so meaty that each has to be cut in thirds, then covered with fish paste, chilies, lime juice, and garlic to make a perfect briny muskiness.

Next up, a rich cream soup filled with sushi-grade prawns, muscles, and a whole crab claw still in the shell. It’s superb, but soon eclipsed by some chicken satay (malaysian, actually, lectures S) served with a chunky peanut sauce and a salad of pickled cucumber chilies. Dishes then have to be reshuffled to make room for fresh scallops covered with a fragrant white cheese melt, and then reshuffled again for a huge cauldron of Tom Kha Gai- lemongrass and coconut soup filled with shrimp and lovin’.

By now amg and I grinning like idiots and having trouble speaking, but the waiter just keeps on bringing stuff. We are served two huge pre-cracked crabs, reminders of the little presents many a virile midwesterner will shortly be bringing home to his beloved along with the fake Japanese swords and kimonos sold along the boardwalk for the tourists who have their Asian countries confused. This would be like selling models of the Eiffel tower to appreciative tourists in Croatia. But back to the crabs. They’re sweet and fibrous, and good. Behind us, a couple tucks into a lobster that, if stood on its tail, would come up to my thigh.

Over crepes with ice cream we teach S how to tell Brits and Aussie’s apart (taller, better dressed). We ask for the check and she giggles, apparently she snuck away and paid it when she pretended to go to the restroom.