New Year's Eve in Chiang Mai

    Had I had the energy, I could have done an entire photo essay on backpackers consulting their copies of the Lonely Planet guide. It's a heavy volume to cart around, in fact, heresy, but people have been known to --shock, horror--just tear out the pages they want and leave the mangled remains at home.

   We didn't so we were able to duplicate, in a small way, the experience pictured on the cover of the current edition which shows the lighting of paper lanterns on New Year's Eve. Not sure if it's in Chiang Mai but that's where we found ourselves on December 31, 2010.

Armed with a dozen paper lanterns, we made our way to the riverside and, at intervals, set one alight and launched it into the air. 

  

    Across the water, we could see literally hundreds of them, like fire-flies, soaring across the night sky. Someone told us that you package all your negative thoughts from the waning year and send them into oblivion. It was magical, all of it, unfolding your lantern, and the growing excitement as you lit it, and let the hot air inside expand the paper to the point where you could safely send it aloft.
     Not my video so thanks to the person who posted it on YouTube. P.S. Those fireworks were magnificent.

    We saw the New Year in, then made our way through the crowded streets, five of us crammed into a single tuk-tuk.
    The next morning the streets of Chiang Mai were littered with what looked like giant bats that had run afoul of the electric wires overhead: the tattered and burned remains of all those lanterns.

The search for the perfect bowl of khao soi.

    Complex, fragrant and often fiery, Thai soups are extraordinary. While tom yum has conquered the world, less famous, and by far my favourite is a soup from northern Thailand called khao soi. Describing it as curry chicken noodle soup make it sound ho-hum which it definitely isn't. Imagine a bowl of thick, creamy soup, dense with soft noodles and, on top, a crown of deep-fried noodles which makes for some interesting textural contrast. On the side, to add at will, are shallots, coriander leaves, pickled mustard greens, chilis and limes.
   Absolutely the first thing I order when I get to Chiang Mai is a bowl of it. And, during the time we were there, I managed to down more than a few versions. Here in France, it's hard to find the right kind of noodles and fresh coriander (cilantro) is something you grab when you see a bunch. But I've nailed the secret ingredient: the little packets of curry powder that I bring back from the market in Chiang Mai. Recipes? Plenty are on the Internet. The one that comes closest to the real thing is from the author of Real Thai: The Best of Thailand's Regional Cooking, Nancie McDermott. http://www.food.com/recipe/chiang-mai-curry-noodles-kao-soi-192829

This version came without the usual additions but with hefty amounts of chopped cilantro and green onion,

Someone getting inventive in the kitchen here. Check the straightness and stylish positioning of the fried noodles.

Think Pink

Famous fashion diva Diana Vreeland once described the colour pink as "the navy blue of India." She could have said the same about Thailand. To start off this blushing little post, some candles at a Chiang Mai market and floating blossoms at the Jim Thompson House in Bangkok.

 One of our stops was in a small village about five hours train journey north of Bangkok where I met up with a long-lost cousin. The hotel where we stayed delighted us with these very pink mosquito nets. No, we didn't add the sunflowers because we were homesick for France. Someone had beaten us to it.

 Every Sunday in Chiang Mai, they close off a main road in the old city and it becomes a "walking market". Also an eating market--I'll post separately about that. One of the desserts available was a crèpe given a swirl of chocolate syrup and then a liberal sprinkling of pink-dyed cocoanut.

Seen earlier, but they are so deliciously pink, that they deserve a second look: The invariable quartet of sweet, salty, sour and hot optional additions to add to your noodles, rice or stir-fry. Here kept under control in pink plastic containers.

I spotted these at a market in Chiang Mai. The reference to equine urine is that this was allegedly once used to create what are more commonly known as "thousand year old eggs."

 

What You'll Always Find on A Thai Restaurant Table...

You order a plate of pad Thai, I do the same and, out in the kitchen or right in front of you, the cook stir-fries them, noodles, bean sprouts, egg, shrimp to his or her usual recipe. But don't dig in when the plate comes to the table because what you, the customer, then do is tinker with the flavours. Your aim is to create the right balance of heat, sweetness, saltiness and sharpness. Where western restaurants limit you to salt and pepper, even the most modest Thai restaurant sets out four different condiments. 

For heat, you have dried crushed chilis. 

Sugar gives you sweetness. 

Fish sauce--nam pla--provides the salt element. 

The sharpness comes from vinegar, often with thinly sliced green chilis floating in it. 

Lift the pink cloche...

And there you go...

A slightly posher presentation.

And one that acknowledges the Thai passion for pink (photo essay coming up).

Christmas in Bangkok.

   Apologies for the long silence--and very belated good wishes for 2011--now well underway. Anyhow, here's what we've been up to...
   Soon after my last post, we took off for Thailand, a long, long flight made extra exciting by snowed-in airports in Paris, missed flights, I won't bore you with the details except to say that Air France has my vote for keeping its sang froid when confronted with hundreds of delayed travellers.
    A couple of months there, and in Laos, went by in a flash...but now we're back in France. The jet-lag is conquered, we've become used to cold weather again, and also used to reaching for a glass of vin rouge instead of a Singha or Beer Lao.
    I won't do a day-by-day travelogue, just take you through the high spots, and throw in a few photo essays, and then, mes amis, back to life in France.
   Flashing back to December.... It felt very, very peculier spending Christmas in a warm climate. In fact, it didn't remotely like Christmas at all. Instead of putting on winter coats, hats and boots, and going for a frosty walk, we got into what would we would end up wearing every day: flip-flops, cotton pants and T-shirts or tank tops. We didn't eat turkey or Christmas pud. Lunch was noodles and stir fries, and dinner was outdoors on the roof of a smart hotel. Steak frites was what we ate, oddly enough.
  

Thai people may be mostly Buddhist but that doesn't stop them putting up Christmas trees, lights and--in the case of the colossal MBK shopping centre, a full-size helicopter with ascending Santas. 

The staff at the little restaurant where we ate lunch were definitely in the mood too.

La Soupe de Noel

     Right now, stores around here are groaning with food. I had a stack of supermarket flyers all ready to scan and post--but they've gone missing or, more likely, I've recycled them and they're in the giant bin up on the road to Aigues Vives next to the bottle bin to which we've contributed more than our fair share in the past couple of days (annual party not excessive personal drinking).
    But those flyers...it seems to me that, when I lived on the other side of the Atlantic, turkeys featured and maybe hams. Here, I'd say 80 percent show foie gras and if it's not that, it's oysters or smoked salmon or scallops or champagne or any other luxury food or drink you'd care to name. Even Aldi (a bargain supermarket) has--or did last Thursday--the following impulse items next to the check-out:
1) Cans of foie gras
2) Packaged brioche slices (to spread the foie gras on)
3) Half bottles of Sauternes.
     Christmas is very much less commercial here. Where the money goes is on food.

     I didn't know about La Soupe de Noel but I did pick up the requisite cheese and recipe a week ago. Unfortunately, due to social craziness, the soup (layers of baguette, layers of cheese) never got made but the cheese was delicious.

What a difference a day makes.

Less than twenty-four little hours separate these two shots.

Sunday afternoon

Monday morning.