Cooks' Tour Page 3

  The hour was still morning while the atrium floor and all levels were already busy but with the patrons of the various establishments heavily weighted toward native Thais rather than tourists. While Nolan led Mrs. Maguire through the crowd of shoppers and Tahm – laden with packages – brought up the rear, Sarah paused several times as a half-familiar word or phrase in the hubbub of languages caught her attention.

  By the time they had reached their destination, Sarah had – tentatively – identified not less than seven languages, only three of which she could really understand. Two of those three – German and French – she could understand well enough to identify. The third was indisputably English but the speaker’s accents – rhythms and tones really – suggested that the language she spoke was not her milk tongue.

  Bemused, Sarah smiled and shook her head, then hurried to rejoin her companions.

  The bar suggested was at the rear of the building, offering a wide view out across the rooftops of smaller buildings beyond. There was no door – instead, collapsed grills were folded back, opening the entire front to the balcony / walkway.

  Inside, Jack’s only slightly resembled an American bar. A bar proper did stand along one wall but was faced with tall, comfortable chairs rather than bar stools. And the rest of the room – open, well lit and airy – was furnished with low tables, couches and cushioned chairs, all of bamboo and rattan and all in casual groupings more suggestive of a comfortable living room than a bar.

  Entering, Nolan wai’d to the lady behind the bar, offering a cheerful “Sawat dii kahp!” before steering his companions to a couch. Once the ladies were seated – and Tahm persuaded to join them – Nolan stepped over to the bar for converse with the hostess cum bartender.

  “Well, this is different,” Joan looked around. “I think I like it. Why are so many bars so dark? So people feel more comfortable about getting drunk, maybe? I often think that must be the reason. This is so much nicer, don’t you think?”

  The shelves behind the bar held the usual assortment of bottles – and some which were less than usual – and there were signs for Singha and Kirin beer as well as something called Sang Thip … if the English neon rendering was accurate. Other than these almost obligatory signs, however, the walls were adorned for the most part with travel posters. The exception, catching Joan’s attention, was an elaborate gilt sprit shrine.

  Joan rose and crossed the room with Tahm following a few steps behind. Approaching the shrine, Joan admired the phoenix-winged gables, each a riot of gold and red accenting the dark teak walls of the miniature structure. Inside, there was more gold – or gilt – lit by tiny lights in reds, greens and yellows. The lights revealed miniture furnishings – low tables, tiny cushions like enlongated pyramids, petite dishes sized to match the table and cushions and, among these, four small figures in a rough semi-circle facing outward.

  Toward the front, there were more small dishes – small but not minitures; one holding an orange, another a mound of colored rice capped with an intricate silver cone and a third displaying two cookies. The cookies looked suspiciously like cream-filled Oreo’s.

  In one corner, at the rear of the fantasy dollhouse, a tiny television set was lit from inside. The image on the screen was immobile but colorful but also too small to distinguish clearly. As a finishing touch, each of the winged gables was festooned with a string of fresh jasmine blossoms.

  “It’s quite lovely,” Joan decided. “But what is it? Not a dollhouse? I’ve seen these other places. Not exactly like this, of course, but sometimes in Singapore, I think. Or was it Hong Kong? Not that I was going to go there after the Take Over – I really thought the British should have stayed – but maybe things are working out anyway. The tail wagging the dog, don’t you know?”

  More than a little confused by Mrs. Maguire’s ramblings, Tahm fastened on the one element he felt relatively sure he had understood. “Is spirit house,” he explained. “Have place for sprits to live. Nice place, then spirits not bother people. This very nice shrine, see tohrapahp? Mai, television, kahp?” he corrected.

  “Like the one on the tree?” Sarah asked. “At Baan Orchid?”

  “Banyan sacred,” Tahm agreed. “Very good place for spirit house. Make offerings, keep spirits happy.”

  “You’ll find them everywhere,” Nolan commented, returning to the group with a bowl of dark-shelled peanuts. “Like that one,” he nodded toward a second shrine on the aerial walkway outside. “The idea is that there are spirits belonging to the land – the property. If you don’t provide a place for them to live – a spirit house – they’ll live in the main house. And,” he added, “they can be mischievous. So, to keep the spirits happy, people try to make the shrines as nice as the real houses. If they improve their property, they improve the spirit houses to match.”

  “Chy laaoh, kahp,” Tahm agreed, nodding and gesturing behind the bar. “Have television, spirit house have television. Have lights, spirit house have lights. Spirits happy, no trouble.”

  “Nice if everything were that simple,” Sarah smiled.

  “James’ grandmother,” Joan remembered, “used to talk about putting out milk – with a little whiskey – for the ‘little people’. This is much nicer really. Oh,” she turned as the hostess placed four glasses on the table, “you ordered for us?”

  “Lime juice and soda,” Nolan explained. “A light pick-me-up. And boiled peanuts – try some.” He glanced at his watch before adding: “We should get back before long. Lunch will be ready soon.”

  “And that is the reason we’re here,” Sarah agreed, reaching for the peanuts. “So, what do you have for us today?”

  “Wait and see,” Nolan smiled, avoiding any further answer by turning to an explanation of the prevalence of copyright and trademark piracy, the opportunities for bargain-hunting and a few comments on haggling across a language barrier. “Not,” Nolan offered, “that Thais’ are going to let a language barrier get in the way of anything. Particularly,” he added, smiling, “not in the way of a good joke.”

  A short time later, after the group had finished their drinks, Nolan led the way down to the street to demostrate his advice by bargaining – with mute gestures – with a vendor for a selection of pastries.

  Then, once the sale was consumated, Nolan further startled the seller by complimenting him – in flawless Thai, spoken with a northern accent – on wares, commenting on the cool weather and asking the man which team he favored in the upcoming soccer playoffs.

  The driver’s acceptance of the jest – even though he was the recipient rather than the perpatrator – needed no language to convey.

  And, finally, with Nolan’s impromptu lesson concluded, Tahm drove the group back to Baan Orchid where the remaining members of the group were gathering on the lanai in anticipation of lunch.

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  Chapter Five:

  Chapter Five:

  Baan Orchid, Chiang Mai, Monday, February 5th, 12:15 PM

  “Some of you have already met,” Nolan addressed the group around the table, “but a number of you haven’t. Since I assume, of course, that everyone knows me and because I’ve met each of you, perhaps I should begin the introductions. Don’t worry,” he added, “no secrets and I’ll keep it brief – lunch will be ready in a few minutes.

  “Anyway,” Nolan surveyed the assembly, “so I don’t slight anyone, maybe I could begin our newest arrival, Mrs. Joan Maguire. While I did announce this as a culinary tour for chefs, I have to explain that Joan is not a chef, does not manage a restaurant and I can’t actually speak for her qualifications to boil water.”

  “That’s a requirement?” a young man across the table asked with an affectedly querulous expression.

  “Originally,” Nolan ignored the interjection, “Joan joined the tour as a guest of Phillip Thornton from The Greens in San Francisco. As most of you know – since several of the trades have carried stories on Phillip in the current issues – Phillip was killed in an auto accident
a few weeks ago.” Nolan paused for a moment before nodding to Mrs. Maguire. “Joan, would you like to introduce yourself? Say a few words?”

  “Say too many is more likely,” Joan smiled at her own self-depreciation. “But when Phillip suggested I should join him on this tour, it was a marvelous thought. I was just saying to myself that one more Princess Cruise trip and I’d look like a blimp. That’s all you do on those ships anyway – eat, eat and eat. I mean, what else is there when you’re at sea except eat and play games? And they serve meals all the time. Except when you’re in port and then it’s shopping ... and I refuse to buy one more silly straw hat. Still, good food is one of the few pleasures left in life at my age – I’m not looking for another husband – and so I thought your little culinary tour would be ideal. So deliciously re’cherge, don’t you know?

  “Anyway,” Mrs. Maguire scarcely paused for breath, “the next time dear Debbie starts talking about the handsome man who swept her off her feet – and it would take a weight-lifter because she is such a blimp – at least I can talk about something more intelligent. You know, something exotic ... and those orchid silks are just fantastic ... much better than silly straw hats or fake scrimshaw – probably made in Taiwan, don’t you know? The fake scrimshaw I mean. Or maybe the straw hats too. There, I’m doing it again, aren’t I?” She stopped suddenly, reaching for a glass of tea.

  “Ah, thank you,” Nolan smiled. “Well, let’s see. Greg Pocolos,” he nodded at the young man who had interrupted a moment before, “arrived last night, on the same flight as Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” he indicated the older couple sitting to his left. “Greg is a recent graduate from the California Culinary Academy in San Francisco. Greg?”

  “Uh, well, uh, I can boil water anyway,” the young man stood, looking awkward. He was tall, his height accentuated by his slim build and his curly blonde hair – worn relatively short – made him look younger than he probably was; more like a high school student than a college graduate. “Uh, this trip was a kind of present from my folks. For finishing school, I mean. Uh, I’m – I have been, I mean – working at Le Cheval in Carmel for the past few months. Breads mostly but they let me do some pastries sometimes.” He sat down abruptly, blushing vaguely.

  For Greg, who hadn’t previously traveled, the trip was an adventure of the first magnitude … even if he did feel rather intimidated to be in the company of several acknowledged and successful master chefs. And the blush – he could feel his cheeks reddening – was just one more reminder of how out of place he really was … even if everyone was being very nice about it.

  “Mr. Bob Maxwell and Mrs. Rosalyn Maxwell,” Nolan gave no notice to the young man’s embarrassment, continuing by introducing the couple. “Rosalyn? Would you like to say a few words?”

  “Well, I can cook, of course,” Rosalyn stood up, smoothing her dress. Rosalyn was probably in her sixties, her hair a mixture of blonde and silver, her figure ample but without fat. “But I haven’t professionally for years. When I married Bob, I was a chef with a small place in Austin – the River Grill. I’m afraid it’s not there any longer, however.” She nudged her husband before sitting down again.

  Bob stood, taking a moment to look at his audience. “Bob Maxwell,” he introduced himself easily. “CEO of Valley Plastics, Austin, Phoenix and San Jose. Retired a year ago – time for a younger man to step in.” He passed a hand, self-consciously, over his bald pate. “Reason for joining your tour? I’ve been writing cookbooks – with Rosalyn’s help, that is – and I’d like to host a TV show on exotic cuisine. Thought the tour would be ideal research. But,” he nodded toward the house, “I believe the food is here.”

  “Ging kow, ka!” Mam sung out cheerfully, then repeated in the same lilting tones, “Sooop song, ka!” Carrying a large patter, she was followed by a second woman with tray bearing a tureen.

  “I’ll continue the introductions later,” Nolan offered. “For the moment, for lunch, I’d like to introduce you to Kaeng Joet Wun Sen – a soup made with mungbean noodles, local mushrooms and prawns. Unlike many Thai soups, this is a clear soup using fish stock rather than coconut milk. The mushrooms …” Nolan paused for a moment to address the lady with the tureen, conversing with her in Thai. “The mushrooms,” he resumed, “ are cloud ear mushrooms. Rather difficult to obtain stateside and dried they lose their flavor. Still, a number of other varieties – such as tree oysters – serve well in this preparation.”

  The soup tureen was donut-shaped with a conical chimney rising in the center and a small candle, below the chimney, to keep the contents from cooling. A large aluminum dish next to the soup tureen, covered and decorated with an intricate embossed design, held rice. A third dish, a ceramic platter supported by a short stand, held wedges of fresh cabbage surrounding a heaping meat salad.

  Already on the table, a small glass-lidded jar held something similar to a salsa while a second was filled with sliced peppers in vinegar. A bottle with a sprinkler cap offered a clear brown fluid.

  “The entrée,” Nolan indicated the heaping platter, “is Lahp Ghai. Lahp means ‘fortune or luck’ while ghai is chicken. This is a very popular northern Thai dish, served at parties and celebrations. One caution, this is a rather spicy salad and any resemblance – as you may already know – to a western chicken salad is in name only.”

  As Nolan introduced the dishes, Mam and the cook were filling bowls with the steaming soup while Tahm supplied a spoon and fork for each of the guests. No knives were included in the cutlery.

  “No chopsticks?” Greg queried. “I thought this was supposed to be authentic?”

  “It is,” Nolan chided the younger man. “Chopsticks are used in Thailand but mostly for Burmese noodle dishes. And, of course, in Chinese and Japanese restaurants. Here, it’s the spoon which is the principal dining implement. And,” he continued with a warning as Greg reached for the condiments, “be gentle with the peppers. These can make habaneras taste mild by comparison. Also,” Nolan indicated the bottle of clear brown sauce, “this is nam blau – a salty decoction made from anchovies. It’s the Thai equivalent of a salt shaker.”

  As Nolan introduced the condiments, Greg had sniffed first the peppers and then the salsa concoction, wrinkling his nose and making a face at each.

  “Capsaicins – they’re what make peppers hot –” Mr. Maxwell suggested, “are like drugs. Once you become accustomed to them, it takes more and more before you taste them. If you don’t eat them regularly, it doesn’t take much to burn like the devil.”

  “Mai phet,” Mam assured the assembly. “Only little spicy. Cook know farahng not like phet mak, ka.”

  “Thai spicy,” Nolan interjected, “can be many things, not just peppers. Unlike Indian curry or many Mexican dishes, where the spices are blended, Thai dishes depend on many different spices but each one remains distinctly separate and individual. Ah, I’ve asked Plah – our cook – to be gentle with the peppers.” With that, Nolan abandoned explanations and reached for his soup, cupping the small bowl Japanese style and drinking it, rather than using a spoon.

  Several of the assembled tour members followed his lead although most preferred to use utensils.

  As lunch progressed, the conversation – between filled mouths – became partially an attempt by the diners to identify the various flavors and spices and partially a matter of professional comparisons and evaluations.

  “Something in the rice,” Bren rolled the grains in his mouth, inhaling the aroma as if it were brandy. “Very pungent. Nice.”

  “Not basmanti,” his partner agreed. “But … not just rice either.”

  “In this case, its jasmine or fragrant rice,” Nolan offered. “When we go to the local market, you’ll see dozens of varieties of rice for sale – not all of them readily available in the U.S. Jasmine, of course, can be found at most oriental stores.” He concluded with a smile as he scooped a generous helping of lahp ghai into a piece of cabbage leaf.

  “But that’s not all?” Sarah guessed.


  “Kaffir lime leaves.” The speaker was young – late twenties – with her blonde hair worn in a long braid. “Cooked with the rice for fragrance, then removed. Yes?”

  “And the oil?”

  She shook her head.

  “Jasmine rice cooked with kaffir lime leaves and coconut oil,” Nolan supplied. “You’re familiar with kaffir lime then?”

  “Grew up in southern Florida,” she hesitated. “On a farm. We grew limes and lemons. In the orchard, I mean. We didn’t cook with them though – the leaves, I mean. Interesting flavor. I’ll have to try it.”

  “Ladies, gentlemen, Tanya Mygent,” Nolan raised his glass in salute. “Tanya is a pasty and dessert chef at Rusterman’s in New York. Tanya?”

  Rising to her full height of five-six, Tanya was nicely curved but – wearing a loose blouse and slacks, both in a light tan – showed her figure more by suggestion than statement. Her blonde hair was worn in a long braid, her eyes were invisible behind tinted lenses. “Well, Nolan’s already given you the highlights,” she smiled. “Except that I’m interested in tropical desserts and friends have told me … Well, I hear that the Thai desserts are healthier than the usual items.”

  Her introduction was honest enough even if she was omitting a few details. Such as the fact that the trip was a gift from her parents who had suggested she should ‘get away for a while’. Or that she had agreed, wanting a chance to think things over. Still, personal matters aside, her interest in tropical desserts was quite legitimate.

  “I’ll introduce you to a variety of them,” Nolan promised. “The night markets abound with interesting conome. Now, who’s left? Bren Thorne and Jeffery Watts,” he indicated the couple, “are the wunderkind behind the Chez Watz chain. Bren?”