Searing Memories
On the occasion of the 15th Annual 'Austin Chronicle' Hot Sauce Festival, some chile-pepper reflections
By Mick Vann, Fri., Aug. 26, 2005
Yippee Thai Yai Yow!
When you go to Thailand for the first time, you'll probably be shocked that the majority of the food isn't as hot as you expected it to be. We're all conditioned by the multi-chile-pepper icons that American Thai restaurants proudly display on their menus to signify how spicy their dishes are. Some of those restaurants pride themselves in presenting items as hot as they can make them, suckering in the poseur macho numbskulls in our midst. If food hurts you to eat it, it's a sign from your brain that you should stop. The brain hates pain, but loves chile endorphins even more.
That's not to say that you can't expect some of the food in Thailand to be spicy: Trust me, there are peppers there that are pure evil. Of the 10 main types of chiles used, the most sinister is the prik khii nuu or "mouse dropping" chile. It didn't get the name from flattening a mouse who consumed it; the name comes from its resemblance to rodent droppings. And as if that heat weren't adequate, Thai cuisine utilizes an herb which has the ability to intensify the effect of chiles: bai yee raa (Ocimum gratissimum), which they call "cumin leaf." Combine the two, and every bite you take will get hotter and hotter. It's capsaicin alchemy!
The spiciest dish that you'll encounter in Thailand is also one of the most popular: som tam, or green papaya salad. It originated in the Issan region in the northeastern quadrant of the country, spread with the street vendors, and is now loved nationwide. It's a dish of the poor originally, but today you're as likely to see suits eating it as you are tuk-tuk drivers.
We were under the coconut palms on the beach at Ang Sila, on the coast just southeast of Bangkok, dining at Tarae Restaurant. There was a cooling breeze, and the Singha beers were ice cold. In the corner was a som tam vendor whose motions were effortless. A large stone mortar and wooden pestle finely crushed garlic, peanuts, lime, palm sugar, tamarind water, fish sauce, and five prik khii nuu chiles into a thin paste. A few cherry tomatoes and pieces of long bean were added and crunched with the pestle. In one hand a large green papaya, in the other a mini-machete. With a series of rapid but precise vertical cuts, followed by a downward shaving motion, she released exact juliennes from the fruit. They fell into the mortar, where she added pristinely fresh raw crab meat (in other regions, it might be dried shrimp, pickled land crab, or fermented fish). A final mashing, and it was turned out onto the plate, accompanied by a small ball of sticky rice to sop up the dressing.
The first bite was exquisite, the next sublime. By the third bite, beads of sweat were popping out; by the fourth, tears were in free-flow mode, and by the sixth, the sinuses were in full defense form. It's so good, but the battle in our brains between pain defense and endorphin release rages on. The mouth is afire; all sensation of taste has vanished in a chile-fired maelstrom. The single remedy that can douse this heat is a glass of chaa yen: iced Thai black tea mixed with tamarind, topped with sweetened condensed milk. The acid from the tea and the fat from the dairy instantly cut through the oily capsaicin, soothing the burning buds. It works so well that the only thing to do is order another som tam, just like the first one! We love this place ... this food ... these chiles!
