Thailand's Tom Yum Kung
The aroma initiated my fertile mountain lungs after spending the past weekend hiking in the Appalachians trails of North America. The first thing to hit me were the colorful wardrobes, the coat of clinging humidity, and the open embracing arms of toxic tuk-tuk diesel exhaust welcoming me back to this mystical little treasure in Thailand. I had been here previously, and had lost all the stereotypes I had of the people, the food and of course, my wallet.
Travelers I met had come from all over the globe to seek a new profound meaning to the reason for their mundane lives through the night scene in Bangkok or perhaps to seek an adventure on prearranged route. They sought enlightenment through the numerous temples glittering and towering in its magnificence while nestled in every which corner of the expansive city of Bangkok.
I, however, came here to reach enlightenment by the pathway of my belly. I would find out that there was nothing that was lightened when it came to Thai cuisines, having tried to eat myself into nirvana during all my previous visits. I knew that the food was always good somewhere when to me, sightseeing was just to relieve boredom and a full stomach. I listened to the urgency of the beckoning calls of the maiden beaches, the caressing breeze whispering from the forests of the north, or my big toe twitching in impatience to be dipped into the blue green tranquil oceans. However, I came here with one purpose in mind; on this trip, I would find myself seeking out and determining the secret of what I thought was the essence of all Thai food, the tom yum kung.
My first exposure to this remarkable soup was when I purchased an instant tom yum pack from the Thai section of the Asian grocer. The taste was a combination of flavors: a myriad of limes that must have been picked from same tree as those used to make lime-scented dishwashing detergent, the aroma of succulently pan fried slices of freshly canned Spam, and the two month old gingerbread cookies I remembered having devoured and getting ill from when I was 10. I put the tom yum out of my mind unless it came up in conversation, where I was proud to announce my expertise and warn people to stay away from the vile concoction as it would only bring ill fortune of a thousand years to your belly.
Little did I know that years later I would be on Kao-San Road in Bangkok, picking out a tie-dyed sarang, and eating anything that was remotely Thai. It wasn’t until the first week or so that I finally had tried all the items in most of the stalls near Kao-San Road, working my way from the furthest stall to the closest one to the guesthouse where I was staying. It wasn’t until I looked on the menu that I realized that I had eaten almost everything that was on there at some point during the past few days in Bangkok; almost everything but the tom yum kung.
I flared my nostrils wide, grimaced and grinned like a chimp as I ordered the tom yum kung. The lady grabbed various greasy unmarked bottles while making stabbing motions at the soup with whatever was in those bottles. Oh Nelly. All I saw were two small cherry tomatoes with some shrimp with red chili oil swimming on top. It looked like the massacre and demise of an entire chili plant’s fate had been met and condensed into the bowl that sat before me, steaming and beckoning me to test my soul. My lips rose to meet the soup spoon, and what occurred was the thunderous applause of the monkey gods rejoicing in my salvation in addition to the start of my love affair with tom yumkung.
Like all trysts and affairs, I would find myself in the next few years trying to rekindle that magic that I felt the moment my lips touched the caressing warm curved spoon. There was never anything else that could describe the essence of Thai and Southeast Asian cuisine. Emotions ran wild through me as I tasted the heat of fresh little wicked chili peppers, mildly sour tomatoes and lime juice, milky and rich coconut milk, zesty galangal, and the distinctive aroma of the subdued lemongrass. That, in combination with huge plump shrimps deviled and peeled up to the head with the fat of the shrimp flavoring the soup. The vendor cast a dubious eye at me while I winked back in pain under the blistering summer sun soaking and drenched in sweat, then eagerly asking for another bowl. After my third bowl and sitting there in my undershirt, I remarked that I must have been happy as the tears shed were from the joy of having discovered the tom yum. It could have also been that my fingers were covered with dried chili powder. I would eagerly stop by this lady’s little stand several times in the following days I spent in Bangkok. I would try everything she had on the menu, but would never remember anything other than the tom yum.
I watched her as she grabbed those curious bottles and add a dash here and there. I smiled at her and greeted her everyday until the last day, before traveling north. This was going to be the day when I had promised myself that I would find out what was in the bottles, how this combination of sour, slightly sweet, spicy, bowl of fragrance exemplified was made. As I approached the pillar to her wok, I felt that the answers to Thai food would be finally answered. I ordered the tom yum as usual, but stood there instead and watched. Smiling, I asked about the bottles and what was in the stocked soup. She smiled back and said, “ingredients.” I smiled and asked, “what ingredients.” “Shrimp and soup, you want another order?”
As I traveled through from Bangkok to Chang-Rai, Chang Mai, and down to Southern Thailand during the following few weeks, I would ask for a bowl of tom yum kung in every town I stopped by. The presence of kaffir lime leaves would be stronger sometimes, the shrimps and the amount of lemongrass would differ, and sometimes there would be other kinds of seafood tossed in. I was determined to note down the best tom yum kung I would find in all the places I visited in Thailand.
As I left Thailand to travel south to Malaysia and eventually to Singapore, I would think about the tom yum that I had left behind. Her glowing presence and warmth. Her loving embrace as I would partake in the sinful pleasure of savoring her every move. I finally got my wish while looking at places to eat at the central bus station in Singapore. I was dumbfounded when this one was broken. The owner came and asked if I wanted it spicy, to which I glared and declared without hesitation that it would have been inconceivable to do otherwise, while my belly sank thinking that there must be some sulfuric battery acid in what they were planning to serve me. I couldn’t stop eating and felt the veins in my forehead pulsating while I tried to put down the spoon. The fragrant lemongrass rose up to coalesce with the chili oil. The waiter came and asked if it was too spicy and if was okay. My face was beet red from the painful pleasure as I grimaced an affirmation to his question. Finally, I got to the bottom and left the chili pods and ginger. I stared at the bowl and wondered about the likelihood of the chilies dissolving through the ceramic bowl. I no longer felt a burning sensation as it went down the hatch; the local anesthetic effect of the rest of the bowl had spread to most of my lower face. Perhaps this could be a newer administration of a natural anesthetic for the dental community that had yet to be discovered. While panting for breath and beads of sweat rolled down my face, I flashed a maniacally victorious sneering smile at two natives across the other side of the restaurant, and realized that they had shared a bowl of the soup and had carefully added it to their bowls. I knew that they must now carry the weight to a thousand generations.
I would never quite discover the secret of the tom yum during this trip. Finding the perfect tom yum kung in Thailand would be the same as looking for the perfect gumbo in New Orleans, best kimchee in Korea, or the best Madeleine in all of Paris. However, I suppose that gives me all the more reason to return again and again.