Gone tropo, Thai and Mongolian cuisine...

22 Nov 2004, An island in the Andaman Sea.

Hmm, DEET, Diethyl tolamide, the manly smell of the tropics. To be honest I think it's starting to affect me in more ways than one. At the start of the trip I'd just been using it on my ankles in the evening to stop the damn mosquitoes biting in the
windless void under the terrace dining table. Unfortunately, my trousers were made of a super hi-tech fabric recommended for it's high wicking capability, a high sun-protection factor and a high thread count that supposedly stopped the airborne buggers from poking their proboscis through; nethertheless the fabric did tend to dissolve somewhat when exposed to this lethal bug-killing C12H17NO cocktail. As a result my trousers had been trimmed several times and were now at the 'Bermuda' stage. Any shorter and they would offer so little protection I'd have to be using the bug-repellent rather too close to home for comfort, and one of the warnings on the back of the little orange bottle specifically mentioned not to use the stuff on underclothes... Now, were I here with a close companion then, after making sure she was wearing synthetics, I'd certainly suggest a moderate application of DEET to prevent any bites where they were least wanted. Twenty minutes later I expect the chemicals to start performing a slow panty disappearing act - self-removing knickers
- how wonderful. Many years ago I heard a talk by a chemical engineer who was famous for getting a girl's pants off from right across a parking lot with an invisible chemical cloud (at the time this almost sealed the direction of my career, why I ended up doing rocks is totally beyond me). Somehow I think my bug-repellent wouldn't quite live up to that but it would be a fun experiment anyway.

For some reason this trip I've ended up in a collections of beach bungalows on an island in Thailand populated by a whole band of thirty-somethings. Now I've no problems with those in their third decade on this wondrous planet, I'll even admit to being there myself, but I have survived so far without the baggage that all my neighbours seem to have brought along with them. At this particular moment I seem to be surrounded by free-living Swedes and their multitude of loud, gregarious offspring who need to be controlled by loud voices from mater and pater alike, who choose to sit twenty metres away at the bar while the kids make raucous play on the adjoining terrace to mine. All I can currently think of (apart from the odd persistent mosquito) is the Swedish chef out of The Muppet Show.

Actually, the mosquitoes and the Swedish muppet chef are not the only things on my mind at the moment. A few nights ago a moonlit swim seemed a good idea after a few relaxing beverages sourced from the beachfront bars adjacent to my current abode. I should however, have remembered that apparently I secrete a chemical unknown to man but extremely attractive to jellyfish. I've never been too good at sexing jellyfish, as usually I'm swimming in the opposite direction exceedingly rapidly and additionally I don't have a very biological background (apart from obviously being the product of one), this time it was also dark to boot. But I seem to have something that does it for either mister or missus J. Fish. Now that is exceedingly worrying, as a friend I used to work with was also a Mr. J Fish but as far as I know I never had this effect on him. Rather the contrary I would guess by some of our later late-night discussions fuelled variously by eastern-European pivo, Turkish bira and far-flung cocktails Mr Fish was in the habit of bringing back recipes for from his latest travels - but harsh-words can be forgiven when previously there were such delightful evenings as dreaming up half of a screenplay for the as yet unwritten film 'Blodwen - Daughter of Darkness'. We were going through a Tom Jones episode at the timeֹ fantastic days! But I digress, to get back on track - jellyfish. Yes, mosquitoes, a damn loud load of Swedes and an arm full of pockmarks from my latest jellyfish encounter. These are currently the things on my mind.

Now I'm getting hungry, it's time to go eat and I have no idea where this article is leading. Looking back I realise I didn't really have much idea where it was going form the startֹ I blame Hunter S. Thompson. Why? Well, firstly he's dead so he ain't going to complain about it, and secondly, I've almost just finished his first volume collection of 'The Gonzo Papers' and am following a train of consciousness thing here. Reading the book, it would have helped knowing more about Nixon and Watergate for a chunking middle section of chapters but his off-the-wall, yet all the same spot-on observations, of politics and social issues at that time have a relevance that still applies to the world today. I'm still not tying things up am I?

Okay. Now I've eaten, a perfectly spiced mango salad and prawns in chill and sweet basil, lets move to food. I hate to say it, but Mongoliaֹ What the heck went wrong? In summertime the wheels on my jeep act as an automatic herb-press and the smell of sage is almost ever present when I leave your rutted dirt-tracks and decide to place two parallel tracks of my own across your vast open, and smoother, steppes (slightly worrying this, as sage-brush is a sure sign of over-grazing in the American prairies). But in your cuisine is there one single herb or spice? Dammit, your people were proud raiders of the silk-road, which also carried caravans of spice from Asia to Europe. With all that pillaging and eventual conquest didn't you get even a slight taste for flavour? Was no slave-girl captured who startled you with her ways of cooking that didn't involve either boiling or steaming? The often unpleasant aroma in my block's stairwell would suggest otherwise. The tiny island that I'm on off the south-coast of Thailand only has a resident population of around 5000 human heads, and I can go into 90% of the beach-shack restaurants here and get a better meal and better service than anywhere in the whole of Ulaanbaatar, a city of over one million (the 10% of places that are not better are the ones that serve meals 'designed for the tourists' rather than just national dishes ׀ in fact I had a plate of cucumber and carrot salad that was advertised as cucumber and ginger the other night in one such place, somewhere I shall not be frequenting again). There used to be one moderately decent Thai restaurant in UB, it wasn't fantastic but it was good enough to warrant a visit at least once a week and I believe it used to have a Thai cook. All of a sudden, about a year or two ago, it changed staff and obviously no longer had any true pretence of being Thai. Meals came on personal plates with the main and rice already combined in set amounts and out of the blue all the soups and curries developed an almost impenetrable half-inch thick layer of nasty oil on their surface. That much oil is a sure sign that some local intervention was now involved directly in the cooking process. Anyhow, when I get back to UB later this month ׀ restaurants had better be prepared. This blog is going to feature a regular, no holds barred, restaurant review. You'll be judged on the quality of meals, the choice available (instant point deduction for all places with vast menus of 'sorry, no have', especially if you take my order and don't tell me until twenty minutes later, eh Dolce Vita?), service, ambiance (they'll be a lot of places looking that one up), location and a host of other things I'll be adding as I think of them. Name and shame is the name of the game and if you try and deliberately poison me I'll know where to send the boys round to. Of course, golden stars and brownie points will be awarded for a job well done, fine food, good value
(unlucky the French Bistro) and comedy evenings (everyone say hi to Basil at Flowery Twats, oops, sorry, Faulty Towers).

On that note, and blatant threat (it's a fairly safe threat with the number of hit's this blog getsֹ) I'm off to sleep.