Its a long entry, but it was a long meal

‘The Chinese, they are like our brother,’ says N, a colleague and our impromptu guide for the evening. We have just finished a harrowing ride through Bangkok traffic in a tuk-tuk, an open air cart powered by what sounds and smells like a lawnmower, and against all odds arrived in the sprawling Chinatown south of the old city.

It’s the mosquito hour and the gold stores have closed with today’s final price per ounce still chalked in their windows. Men are rushing to set up plastic tables and stools, huge vats of water, and entire movable kitchens; each cart scrambles with umbrellas and frantic shouts to claim sidewalk space for the night. A tiny old lady scurries past, hunched under the weight of two buckets of soup on a yolk over her shoulders. Pickup trucks suddenly screech to a halt and pull back their tarps to reveal spontaneous fruit stalls. ‘Big Thai community in south of China too’ yells N over the furious sound of culinary genesis surrounding us.

N’s brother (of the non-metaphorical kind) and another man join us with the traditional nervous smile and head shake that means ‘no English’, and we attempt the near-impossible task of winding through the newly erected barricades to dinner. ‘Sharks fin soup,you like? You try?’ questions N. We demure- it’s a bitter coincidence that last night’s expat paper was full of dire warnings about mercury in shark fins. We continue on past racks of ducks- de-boned, smoked, and stretched into diamond shapes with shafts of bamboo, and truckloads of spiky Durians, a fruit that technically is illegal within city limits.

It’s a dim sum storefront that we end up at and the last seat fills even as N hands us special ‘English menu’, which we decline. We go through this ritual every meal; perhaps the elaborate show of deference is politer than him saying, ’alright you silly white tourists, I know you don’t know what any of this stuff is so here’s what you’re eating’. I chug my cup of waxy chrysanthemum iced tea like it was a Yuengling and gesture for some more, much to amg’s amusement. Even at night, it’s hot and dusty out there.

Ceramic dishes start arriving, each no bigger than a saucer: slim green vegetables with garlic and chilis, traditional spring rolls, some kind of deep fried mashed tubor. Then waves of steam baskets, each piled five high like an edible tower of Pisa. There are shrimp in cocoons of florescent green noodles and dumplings of six different meat types, beautiful buns filled with sweet yellow bean paste, and mini corns encased in shrimp, a dish I recognize from the heating tray of our local 7-11.

As we gorge on the bounty in front of us, N turns to us with a manic grin. ‘Is appetizer!’

I am faint from food, but he is completely serious. With a flourish of check and money, we are crowd surfing down the sidewalk again. This time we fetch up against a street restaurant, chairs spilling over the sidewalk and deep into traffic, huge boxes of wiggling prawns crowding the tables. ‘Oysters! You eat?’ N demands.

A few moments later a large plate of crushed ice arrives, presumably with some mollusks under it. I murmur the traditional travelers blessing under my breath: ‘Please let it be factory ice’ and load mine up with chili paste and lime juice. The ice seems to be good, but the oyster is not. Panicked, I try to detect if it’s ‘bad’ bad or ‘bacteria’ bad as the last of it slips down my throat. ‘Amg’, I hiss, ‘you may be taking care of me tonight’. The man across from me smiles down at his plate; apparently he knew more English than he’d let on.

If you’re gonna go, better go full, so I dig into a huge dish of baked glass noodles with prawns and pork skin. A giant fish wrapped in tin foil is set down. I eat that with less gusto; a week ago, nearby, I watched a family throw nets into the same brown river that much of city’s semi-processed sewage likely dumps into. They scooped out creatures that could probably only be described as ‘fish-esque’. Tiny children thread through the tables with huge straw plates of flowers balance on their heads. At one point the sky opens up for our nightly reminder that it’s still the wet season. A huge tarp is unrolled over our heads, weighted down with water bottles, and the eating continues.

I am catatonic and groaning from food and amg is polishing off the last of the fish cheeks, but there is one more ritual to partake in: The wallet dance. The highest status person at a table is traditionally supposed to pay, but close friends or family often split the bill. Both N and his brother gesture towards their pockets and lock gazes, their eyelids flickering madly as they mentally toss the facts back and forth. N has a more permanent job. But his brother is older. But N is with guests. But his guests look like little kids. Finally, his brother drops his gaze and N triumphantly hands the cash over to our server. 1010 Baht: 25 Bucks.