Around The World In 80 Dinners Part 6

"WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT A PICNIC SUPPER?" Vithi asks Bill.

Bill had been hoping for a more rousing way to kick off our first night in Thailand-maybe something like a curry feast at a special restaurant known only to local connoisseurs-but it seems rude to say so to a volunteer guide we've just met. Going with the flow, Bill replies, "Sure, great idea."

Before we left home, a Thai chef and friend put us in touch with Vithi, an art professor at Chiang Mai University who is a friend of hers. "He'll be very helpful," she said, "if he has time for it, because Vithi is an expert on Thai culinary traditions, ingredients, and techniques. He also did undergraduate and graduate work in the Los Angeles area for seven years, so he speaks perfect English and knows American inst.i.tutions and customs."

Bill called him at home, as our friend suggested, and Vithi said, "My schedule looks fairly open during your time in Chiang Mai. I'll put together a plan of activities and take you around whenever I can," which turns out to be most of the time. He appeared a perfect match for us, at least before the picnic proposal.

Vithi extracts his car from the crammed parking lot of our downtown chain hotel, the Royal Princess, and the three of us take off to buy some provisions, the only thing he explains in advance about what we're doing. The first stop is a supermarket with a surprisingly large wine department, where Bill chooses a couple of bottles of a Languedoc red from the extensive selection of French, Australian, and Chilean imports. Vithi leads us through a few aisles in search of snacks to eat with the wine, saying, "Expats love the variety in this place, both local and international. Check out the different kinds of Cheerios, more than I ever saw in Los Angeles."

"Wow!" Cheryl exclaims. "Six types. I wouldn't want any of them here or at home, but I'm amazed to find so many choices."

Two aisles over, Vithi says, "Here we go," picking up a package of sausage. "This is a Chiang Mai specialty made with fermented pork." Then, commenting, "We must have this," he grabs a plastic tray of ingredients for meang k.u.m. meang k.u.m. (Note that we give the Latin alphabet spelling of some dish names, though you seldom find these in Thailand, where the names usually appear only in Indic-style Thai script except on tourist menus that take the extra step of providing translations into English and other languages. No telling what a menu would call meang k.u.m in English, perhaps Lots of Goodies Wrapped in a Strange Leaf with a Tamarind Dipping Sauce.) (Note that we give the Latin alphabet spelling of some dish names, though you seldom find these in Thailand, where the names usually appear only in Indic-style Thai script except on tourist menus that take the extra step of providing translations into English and other languages. No telling what a menu would call meang k.u.m in English, perhaps Lots of Goodies Wrapped in a Strange Leaf with a Tamarind Dipping Sauce.) Vithi drives us next to a nearby neighborhood open-air market, a place so unused to Western visitors that everyone stares at us. He gets a kilo of sticky rice-the style favored in the north-that the vendor scoops up hot from a bamboo steamer three feet in diameter. With us in tow, Vithi hops from there to a stand with prepared curries, picking out a traditional version combining bitter and herbaceous greens, spooned like everything else into its own plastic sack. Then he's on to a stall featuring steamed vegetables tied in pretty bundles. "What do you want?" Vithi asks Cheryl.

"The young eggplants look good, and so do the cuc.u.mbers."

"Okay, we'll get them with several kinds of greens, and also these fresh bamboo shoots, which taste a little like hearts of palm or artichoke hearts." Finally, he stops for nam prik, nam prik, a distinctly Thai chile paste that takes many forms depending on the specific ingredients used. "I'm going to get us two local favorites," Vithi says. "This one is flavored with small field crabs and the second one with ground water beetles," maybe more information than the two of us need in advance. a distinctly Thai chile paste that takes many forms depending on the specific ingredients used. "I'm going to get us two local favorites," Vithi says. "This one is flavored with small field crabs and the second one with ground water beetles," maybe more information than the two of us need in advance.

Vithi stashes the food in the backseat and heads to the campus of Chiang Mai University, where he suddenly pulls off a central avenue into a field with no discernible tracks or trails for vehicles-or pedestrians, either. Bouncing up and down over ruts and holes, he pulls the car up to a small house, which we soon discover is a caretaker's cottage for a living outdoor cultural museum, a collection of traditional houses brought here from various parts of Thailand. A young couple greets Vithi, their boss who oversees the museum, and hauls our groceries inside. The professor, still explaining nothing, leads us through the dark over to the large terrace of a historic teak home, lighted beautifully with rice-paper lanterns, candles, and a stunning full moon. Cheryl says in awe, "Absolutely magical!" and whispers to Bill, "I feel like the governess in The King and I The King and I."

The host seats us on woven-rag cus.h.i.+ons on the wooden deck, elevating us an inch or two above the floor to make cross-legged sitting more comfortable for a longer period. As we marvel at the surroundings, he tells us about the house. "It belonged to a country squire, who needed a s.p.a.cious terrace for entertaining, always done outside." Pointing to the two high peaks of the roofline, he says, "Unglazed terra-cotta tiles cover the roof, but the construction employs no nails, gla.s.s, or stone. Wood pegs hold all the joints in place."

The elaborately carved lintels, representing the genitals of a water buffalo, ward off evil, Vithi indicates. Curious, Bill raises the logical question, "What's the correlation between gonads and goodness?" The professor ducks the details as the caretaker couple reappears with large banana leaves to serve as a table setting for us.

The pair spreads plates of food on top of the foliage and gives us, for napkins, a roll of toilet paper, also used for the same purpose in many homes and simple restaurants. Vithi demonstrates how to eat the delicious meang k.u.m, wrapping bits of ginger, shallots, chile, toasted coconut, roasted peanuts, lime on its rind, and dried shrimp into a betel leaf, then dunking the package into tamarind sauce and downing it in one bite. He then ill.u.s.trates how to roll the sticky rice into small b.a.l.l.s, and tells us to dip them into the curry or one of the two nam priks, also used to flavor the vegetables and sausages. Always eager about food eaten with the hands, we dive in.

The chile pastes stun us with their unusual tastes, way beyond the realm of our experience even as dedicated chileheads. "Do you notice the hint of menthol in the beetle version?" Vithi asks. "That comes from the insect and adds a wonderful counterpoint in flavor." Both nam priks go well with all the food except dessert, which features langsats, a tropical fruit unfamiliar to us that resembles a leathery yellow fig. Vithi cracks open a sh.e.l.l to reveal teardrop sections of fruit with a lycheelike flavor that provide a luscious, refres.h.i.+ng finish to the fairy-tale picnic.

An evening that starts out seeming perfunctory becomes one of the most delightful of our entire trip. Thailand can jolt you in that way, setting you up for one kind of expectation and then offering the opposite reality. Like tonight, most of our experiences end happily, but the gears can slip just as easily and abruptly into reverse.

On the way back to the hotel, Vithi drives through an enormous overnight wholesale street market, telling us, "Markets operate somewhere in the city around the clock." He screeches to a sudden stop in the flower section, several blocks of buds, petals, long stems, and short stems in a rainbow of colors, all looking dewy fresh from last-minute picking. He hops out and grabs Cheryl a huge bouquet of pink-to-red roses that she can barely wrap her arms around. When she arranges them in the room later, using gla.s.ses and even the wastebasket as vases, it looks like we're going into the bridal business.

The next day, Vithi picks us up early to visit another market. The historic center of Chiang Mai remains a walled city, and vendors set up in the morning just outside each of the old gates. Our destination is the White Elephant market on the north wall, held like most of its urban kin in a covered, open-sided permanent site. On the way, Bill asks, "How does this compare with the Warowot market, the only one mentioned in most English-language guidebooks?"

"We're going to a true food market. Warowot is like a giant grocery store, with most of the food prepackaged."

The variety amazes us again: heaps of brown tamarind pods, mushrooms, and greens; fermented fish and buffalo jerky; banana hearts and yellow-and-maroon banana blossoms; eggplants the size of capers and field crabs even smaller; bamboo worms and freshwater river seaweed; rough-surfaced cylinders of "long" black pepper and Thai white peppercorns; wing beans that look like caterpillars and huge cousins almost as large as baseball bats; curry pastes of all hues and dozens of different nam priks. Tallying time on her fingers, Cheryl says, "In seven waking hours in Chiang Mai, we've seen more bounty and diversity in markets than we've encountered in a week anywhere else."

Vithi leaves us to wander on our own while he attends a meeting at the university, but we get together again for lunch at Hong Tauw Inn, a simple, away-from-the-crowds cafe that Vithi likes for northern Thai fare. Along with the menus, the waitress brings us a platter of various nam priks, with flavors such as dried shrimp, dried mackerel, mango, tamarind, and salted eggs. The base of each is a pounded paste made with chile, garlic, palm sugar, lime juice, fish sauce, and finely sliced eggplant. Vithi goes over the Thai-script menu with us and we pick a couple of things to try, but ask him to choose the rest.

The waitress delivers the food family style, allowing each of us to serve ourselves. First comes a green mango salad, with shredded fruit, greens, tiny eggplants, and slices of white turmeric root that look like ginger. Wing beans show up next, cut in cross sections so that the ridges form starburst shapes. Slightly crisp and cooked in a sweet-sour tamarind chile sauce, they become an instant favorite of ours. For soups, we get a spicy broth with jungle leaves, rice vermicelli, and tomatoes, and another with a coconut-milk base containing freshwater sh.e.l.lfish resembling snails in tang and texture. A fried whole freshwater fish wraps up the meal, accompanied by spicy pickled shallots, sliced cuc.u.mbers, and tomatoes, and for seasoning, nam pla prik nam pla prik (chile in fish sauce). Not everything is equally enjoyable to us, but the kitchen produces a dazzling array of tastes, a dynamic ill.u.s.tration of the key Thai principle of balancing salty, sweet, sour, and bitter flavors. (chile in fish sauce). Not everything is equally enjoyable to us, but the kitchen produces a dazzling array of tastes, a dynamic ill.u.s.tration of the key Thai principle of balancing salty, sweet, sour, and bitter flavors.

During lunch, the three of us talk about Chiang Mai and Thai food. Vithi tells us, "The town has changed radically in the last decade, mushrooming from a small provincial city and cultural capital to an enormous metropolis stacked high with residential towers and packed tightly with tacky tourist businesses." He complains about increasing internationalism, citing as an example the way that university students flock to fast-food franchises of Pizza Hut and Kentucky Fried Chicken. On the other hand, he says, they don't have lots of choices. As in Bangkok and other cities, "People eat Thai food at home and want something different when they go out for a major meal, leaving us with a glut of foreign restaurants and a shortage of good local options." In a sentiment we hear several times, Vithi claims that virtually every middle-cla.s.s to upscale Thai restaurant in the country caters primarily to tourists and dumbs down the food accordingly, convinced that outsiders cannot take the combinations of vibrant flavors. "The only places to get good, real Thai cooking are at simple cafes with home-style cooks, like this one, and street stands where Thais stop to snack."

Vithi asks us about our other plans in Thailand. "After three nights here, we go to Bangkok for almost a week," Bill says. "We had a great time there on a honeymoon visit twenty years ago. After that, it's p.h.u.ket for four nights before we fly on to India. In all, we're spending more time in Thailand than in any other country on our three-month trip."

"Good luck," Vithi says, "in finding real Thai food in Bangkok and p.h.u.ket," a comment that sounds unduly pessimistic at the time but becomes apropos.

After lunch, we wander down a nearby street to visit several craft galleries. Much of the work comes from hill-tribe artisans who live in the highlands of northern Thailand. Women in a number of the tribes weave beautiful textiles, sometimes with elaborate embroidery, while many of the men fas.h.i.+on functional and ornamental items out of wood, bamboo, rattan, and metal. The hand-crafted tribal fabrics and silver jewelry in particular appeal to us, but we're content to see rather than shop.

While admiring the goods, we're startled when a woman calls out "Cheryl?" Looking up, we find ourselves face-to-face with Jackie Imamura, whom Cheryl worked with four years ago at the Santa Fe Farmers Market. She'd told us back then she was moving to Thailand because her husband took a faculty position somewhere in the country, which turns out to be at Chiang Mai University. After the ladies catch up and part warmly, Cheryl tells Vithi, "The small-world experiences on this trip are getting eerie. Not only this stunning reunion with Jackie, but of the dozen or so Americans we've met so far, three of the couples live at least part of the year in New Mexico within sixty miles of us."

Back in the car, Vithi suggests we check out other area crafts, which sounds good to us. In one compound, artisans produce bamboo lacquerware, coiling strips of the plant into a variety of decorative forms before glazing the pieces in bright colors. In a woodcarving neighborhood, small shops lining the street brim with work of all kinds. "Many of the craftsmen started out carving gables and temple ornamentation," Vithi says, "but discovered that tourists pay big bucks for trophies of their visit."

"What's hot in that department?" Bill asks. Vithi points to a pair of wood elephants, displayed with the prominence and pomp of the royal guards outside Buckingham Palace.

He drives slowly down the street, to give us a lingering gaze at the pieces and also to exercise his own sharp eyes. He stops suddenly at one shop, where he spots, among hundreds of items, an antique carving that he wants for an exhibition he is organizing on craft traditions. He makes the purchase, a.s.suring us he got a bargain, and then notices some handsome old spirit houses, which Thais place outside of homes and other buildings to shelter and appease animist spirits, who can be terribly mischievous if not coddled. Vithi says, "Flat Stanley"-the two met an hour before-"needs a photo beside a spirit house, a perfect-sized home for him." The idea seems slightly sacrilegious on the surface, but the shop owner agrees cheerfully and Cheryl snaps a shot.

This sets up poor Pheng for a similar fate. A friend of Vithi's, the eighteen-year-old Laotian novice monk arrived in town earlier today to get the professor's help in securing a student visa to attend college in Chiang Mai. Vithi makes a short detour to pick him up before heading out of town to the mountaintop Wat Phra That, the most significant of the city's three-hundred-plus Buddhist temples. We make quite a striking group: the dignified Thai teacher, a pair of rumpled Americans, a two-dimensional storybook child, and a saffron-robed monk with a shaved head and a bright-blue alms bag. Stanley fascinates Pheng and so Cheryl asks, with Vithi translating, "Would you like a photo with him? I can e-mail you a copy later." Pheng agrees and Cheryl starts to hand him Stanley before remembering that Buddhist monks in Thailand can't accept anything directly from a woman. Vithi acts as an intermediary and Cheryl takes several pictures of the young man gingerly holding the boy.

The temple dates back to the fourteenth century, when the discovery of a new relic of the Buddha required the building of a wat to honor it. According to official lore, the King of Lanna decided that a sacred white elephant should pick the proper site, so he sent one to wander freely with the relic. The elephant climbed to the summit of Doi Suthep mountain, trumpeted three times, and lay down, indicating his selection. The relic went inside the arresting gilded-copper chedi built on the center of the site.

On the drive back to town, Vithi notices an elderly couple on the side of the highway making traditional tubes of rice, an item he had pointed out to us this morning in the market. Unable to resist an instructional opportunity, he pulls over to show us how it's done. The man stuffs rice soaked in coconut milk into a bamboo tube, about eight inches long, sealing it at each end with coconut-husk plugs. The woman roasts the tubes in an upright row over a wood-coal fire. When the rice is cooked, she strips away the charred outer layer of bamboo, revealing a pretty green carrying case for the simple meal. Vithi buys one to share with us-a toasty and succulent snack-but we have to leave Pheng out of the tasting because his vows prohibit him from eating after noon for the rest of his life. "Yikes," Bill exclaims, "that's as tough a choice as chast.i.ty."

After a quick circuit of two other wats in the old walled city, Vithi drops us back at our hotel around sunset. He offers to take us along with him and Pheng tonight to a temple fair and a transvest.i.te beauty pageant, which we should have done, but instead we want to see the Night Bazaar, always described as one of the city's main attractions, and check out the street-food stalls at the nearby a.n.u.sarn Market. Within five minutes, the stifling bazaar appalls us. Every vendor seems to be peddling the same T-s.h.i.+rts, pirated DVDs, and cheap trinkets, and the maze of narrow, crowded pa.s.sageways is lined with small booths too tall to see over, creating a sense of confinement and leading to disorientation.

Lost after a while, we never find the food stands and finally stumble, as a last resort, into one of the touristy Thai restaurants Vithi has warned us about. From the English menu, each of us orders a whole deep-fried fish in different preparations. The "sweet, sour, and spicy" sauce could be better described as insipid, and the other dish's "spicy" mango salad fits its name only if you cla.s.sify sugar as such a seasoning. "Ugh," Bill says. "That's one of the worst meals yet in a month of travel."

"And some of it even stuck with me," Cheryl complains, pulling a Tide to Go stick from her purse to dab a red spot on her blouse.

The next day is devoted mostly to visiting Lampang, Vithi's hometown, with an intermediate stop at the National Elephant Inst.i.tute. For the road trip, more than an hour each way, Vithi recommends we rent a van, figuring it will be more comfortable than his small car for four adults, including Pheng. The rental agency is out of standard vans, but Vithi negotiates a deal for an oversized one, complete with driver, for the same price. Able to really spread out now, we can hardly even see one another.

Organized sightseeing excursions from Chiang Mai often take tourists to various elephant camps that offer a pony-ride atmosphere, but the government-funded inst.i.tute exists for the benefit of the giant mammals rather than entertainment. The elephants roam freely in an enormous forest reserve, returning to the central area at regular times for food, health monitoring, and training. Many of them suffered abuse in the past from private owners, and others endured serious injuries in the wild.

Vithi, a patron of the program, shows us the elephant hospital, the first in the world. It reminds us of a do-it-yourself car wash with a dozen or so jumbo bays. These open-sided treatment rooms contain spray hoses for cleaning the animals, and in the case of the emergency units, a winch and pulley system for moving them around. A medical bulletin board indicates that one of the patients has gastrointestinal problems, two others are recuperating from land-mine explosions in Burma, and another lost part of his trunk in a jungle battle. In the nursery section, a new mom tends her baby. A foster parent plan allows people to adopt any of the elephants by paying for the expenses of their care.

As we leave the hospital, Vithi says, "You should see the ambulance that brings in the patients."

Bill laughs. "Maybe we have. Is that where you got our van?"

At the nearby training school a morning cla.s.s is just ending. Professional instructors called mahouts teach the elephants vocational skills for working in the logging industry, and in some cases, also how to paint like an artist and play musical instruments. One talented fellow is just finis.h.i.+ng a drawing of flowers, handling the brush expertly with his trunk. The center sells the paintings to raise money for its other activities.

Vithi asks if any of us want to ride an elephant, and Cheryl volunteers eagerly for herself and Stanley. Apparently the mahout allows the elephant to take charge of the trek rather than keeping him on the usual course. The four go galumphing into the jungle, wading through a river at one point and then splas.h.i.+ng across the center of a lake. Cheryl raves about her romp, which she enjoys much more than Bill does his upcoming surprise.

As a last stop before leaving, our leader suggests seeing how the center recycles some of its elephant dung, dumped at the rate of fifty pounds per day for an average animal. He introduces us to the lady in charge of the dung-paper studio, where the staff produces stationery, note cards, and other items to sell in a nearby shop and online. Looking as honest and innocent as a holy man, Vithi tells the woman, "Bill here would like a hands-on lesson in the process." Feeling sandbagged, Bill gamely follows her instructions, breaking up a ma.s.sive dried t.u.r.d into smaller pieces, kneading and whisking the bits around in water to dissolve clumps, smearing the liquid evenly over a screen, and then setting the screen in the sun to dry. While Bill washes his hands vigorously for five or ten minutes, everyone else looks at examples of the finished product, which resemble textured rice paper.

On the outskirts of Lampang, Vithi asks the driver to pull over at the popular Jungle Market. Much of the food here is harvested or captured wild in the hills, a respected tradition that goes back to the earliest settlement of the area. Locals shop here for snakes, lizards, insects, exotic mushrooms and other fungi, whole honeycombs, and more common groceries such as pig parts of every kind, dozens of leaves and herbs, and fried bamboo worms, which, we find with trepidation, taste like hollow French fries. When Pheng gets some sticky rice for his one meal of the day, Vithi grabs a bag of the worms for himself and hospitably shares them with us in a way that seems impolite to refuse.

Much better is the khao soi, khao soi, sold at a roadside stand-c.u.m-cafe a couple of miles farther toward town. The most famous dish of the region, it's a hearty noodle soup created, according to Vithi, by a Muslim Chinese street-food cook in Lampang in the 1920s. This small family-run place, he says, makes the best version in northern Thailand, and to us it's as good as anything we try in the country. Vithi directs us through a kitchen and takeaway area, near the entrance, to reach a back porch with picnic-style tables. Despite the utter simplicity of the building and furnis.h.i.+ngs, a scenic river flows directly below the dining room and twenty or so pots of flowering orchids hang at eye level from the eaves of the roof. sold at a roadside stand-c.u.m-cafe a couple of miles farther toward town. The most famous dish of the region, it's a hearty noodle soup created, according to Vithi, by a Muslim Chinese street-food cook in Lampang in the 1920s. This small family-run place, he says, makes the best version in northern Thailand, and to us it's as good as anything we try in the country. Vithi directs us through a kitchen and takeaway area, near the entrance, to reach a back porch with picnic-style tables. Despite the utter simplicity of the building and furnis.h.i.+ngs, a scenic river flows directly below the dining room and twenty or so pots of flowering orchids hang at eye level from the eaves of the roof.

The khao soi comes with chicken, pork, or beef. The two of us opt for the latter and order lemongra.s.s juice to drink. The husband of the cook brings out big, steaming bowls loaded with linguinelike wheat noodles suspended in a rich, curry-flavored coconut milk broth. Crispy fried noodles and lots of fresh scallion bits float on top. Served on the side, to customize the soup, are lime wedges to squeeze for juice, fish sauce, chopped shallots, minced red chile in oil, and cabbage pickles. Following Vithi's lead, we alternate between chopsticks, to slurp up the noodles, and Chinese ceramic spoons, to scoop up the broth. Restaurants in Thailand offer these utensils only for dishes of Chinese origin, mainly noodle preparations. To eat anything else, Thais use a fork in the left hand to place food in a spoon, held in the right hand, and take bites only from the spoon, never the fork.

That's the method we employ at our second lunch later in the afternoon at Vithi's ancestral family home, a large but not ornate wooden residence near the center of Lampang. His grandmother lived here for many years and then his aunt, who died recently. Now only servants stay full-time, and Vithi visits when he can. Within minutes after we pull up in our van, we see confirmation of a growing hunch, that Vithi comes from a patrician background. Neighbors start appearing at the front door individually and in groups to deferentially seek his counsel and support on various issues, particularly damage from a recent flood. He seats them in a parlor adjoining the living room where we're sitting, saying he'll talk with them after lunch.

The servants fix and serve the meal, under instructions from Vithi to focus on exotic northern specialties we won't find elsewhere. The dishes include tempura-fried pumpkin, fresh bamboo shoots, fried crickets with a sweet and tangy dipping sauce, pig brains wrapped in banana leaves, pork with lemongra.s.s, water buffalo sprinkled with dried red chile in both tartare and sauteed versions, vegetable pickles, and a couple of nam priks for seasoning everything to taste. For dessert, we nibble on bright gems of look choob, look choob, a marzipan cousin fas.h.i.+oned from sweetened bean paste, and we wash everything down with Thai iced tea, a potent brew diluted with sweetened condensed milk. It's all splendid to us since nothing makes food more memorable than enjoying it at a friend's home. a marzipan cousin fas.h.i.+oned from sweetened bean paste, and we wash everything down with Thai iced tea, a potent brew diluted with sweetened condensed milk. It's all splendid to us since nothing makes food more memorable than enjoying it at a friend's home.

On our return to Chiang Mai, we hit two more markets, as if we haven't seen nearly enough yet. The first is an evening event, set up to catch people leaving work. The vendors specialize in partially prepared foods that take less time and labor to finish at home, such as skewers of roasted tiny eggplants, shallots, and garlic to mash together as the base for nam prik. The second market features street-food stalls, where we pick up a couple of snacks for a light supper: pretty, crispy banana fritters made from fruit the size of our fingers and fried, pork-stuffed long green-yellow chiles that look like the chiles rellenos in New Mexico. Both taste great.

On our honeymoon visit two decades ago, we loved the Thai enthusiasm for eating, a facet of life that we see again in abundance with Vithi. He introduces us to an incredible range of new tastes, not all personal favorites for us, but each characteristic of northern cuisine and intriguing to sample. Some of the dishes thrill us with their complex and bold flavors, especially khao soi. Many others-such as meang k.u.m, the roasted rice in bamboo, wing beans, lemongra.s.s juice, stuffed chiles, and more-delight us in simpler ways. What matters most to us in the end, though, is the breadth and intensity of our Chiang Mai eating adventure, a truly Thai experience we feel privileged to share with Vithi.

The gray skies of Bangkok pour rain during most of our visit, seriously dampening our spirits and was.h.i.+ng away many of our plans. It's still the monsoon season, as we knew in advance, but our stopover falls at the end of the annual cycle, which leads us to hope that storms would be decreasing in frequency and intensity. This year, the weather turns worse instead.

On our arrival from Chiang Mai, the taxi ride from the airport to our first hotel, the Siam City, takes almost two hours due to the wet roads and Bangkok's usual horrid traffic congestion. Siam City, near a Skytrain monorail station in the central transportation hub of the city, serves as our base for four nights to save money for a splurge our last two nights at The Oriental, our hotel on our honeymoon visit. In an old travel folder of mementoes from that trip, Bill dug out a receipt for our room, a split-level mini-suite in the original midrise wing that cost U.S.$127 per night then and $400 now. Until we return there, it seems important to have easy access to the Skytrain, which links to the subway and the Chao Phraya River ferries, to avoid long, slow cab rides and excessive walking along hot, muggy streets.

Even if the climate were conducive to being on foot, shopping touts pester visitors on any sidewalk near tourist attractions, a nuisance we encounter at least a dozen times. It's always the same routine, developed originally by drivers of tuk-tuks, the open-air, three-wheel vehicles that used to greatly outnumber taxis. "Hi! You look like you're from America, such a wonderful place. If you're going to the Grand Palace"-or wherever you seem to be headed-"it's closed right now," an outright lie. "Before it reopens, let me take you to a special shop that has the best bargains in Bangkok." Thais think tourists are obsessed with buying stuff, making them fair prey for scams to get commissions on sales. Usually the touts pretend to be someone you want to know, perhaps an off-duty policeman or a student leaving shortly to attend college in your country. In one case a "nurse" at a hospital we're pa.s.sing, in search of a restaurant, tells us all the hundreds of stores in Siam Square are shut except one where she can obtain big discounts for us. The charade gets so tiresome that when strangers approach us to chat, certainly a pleasure in most places, Bill makes it clear early that shopping of any kind doesn't interest us. "Better to appear cheap than be conned," he says.

The frequent downpours and the tribulations of walking limit our sightseeing, but despite Bill's street-side protests, we actually spend a fair bit of time browsing. Many of the most popular places in the city-such as the beautiful temples, the bustling Chinatown, and the Grand Palace, where King Rama I established Bangkok in 1782-retain us only briefly because we saw them when we visited before. Several of the major markets, on the other hand, have opened or grown in prominence since our previous visit, providing the chance for fresh experiences.

The big Aw Taw Kaw food market, the most appealing of the possibilities for us, is unfortunately closed in large part for a renovation project scheduled to take months. Smaller food markets remain active, of course, in other areas of the city. In one off of Yaowarat Road, Chinatown's main thoroughfare, stalls near the entrance feature pork rinds, more varieties than we ever imagined on earth, in pillow-size sacks hanging from the rafters and piled like sandbags beside booths. Other stands display live crabs ranging from the size of a quarter to a foot across, live chickens and roasted ones, steamed buns alongside brioche, pickled vegetables next to pomegranates, giant cauldrons of unidentifiable cooked foods, more intestines than we want to know about, even cotton candy on sticks that a vendor holds so high above the throngs that the pink orbs look like balloons.

The Chatuchak Weekend Market, near Aw Taw Kaw, also offers some edible goods on a lot larger than many small towns, with whole neighborhoods of narrow aisles devoted to particular kinds of merchandise, from Buddha images to books, pets, and plants. In an antiques section, Cheryl spots a case of pet.i.te carved-bone bottles. "Come look at these," she calls to Bill. "Maybe they're old perfume containers, or something like that, but catch the erotic etchings on them, barely noticeable unless you look closely." Bill sorts through the collection to find the most lascivious image and buys the bottle, our only purchase in several hours of wandering through the thick crowds.

The Suan Lum and Patpong night markets are also booming on an evening with clear skies. Newer than Chatuchak, and more open and festive, Suan Lum features a similar range of products. After picking up small purses decorated with sequined elephants for our granddaughters, and looking for other gifts, we settle in at a beer garden, under trees with twinkling white lights, for people watching. A relaxed two hours later, the subway whisks us one stop to the Patpong district, notorious for its s.e.x clubs and prost.i.tutes but also popular locally for street food. None of the varied treats tempt us, but the brazen lack of subtlety in some of the advertising evokes a few stifled laughs. Many of the ladies standing in groups in front of bars actually wear numbers, marathon-runner-style, that cover their salient selling points almost as thoroughly as their skimpy dresses.

Most of Bangkok's museums disappointed us last time, so we return only to Jim Thompson's House. Born in Delaware in 1906, Thompson worked as an architect before volunteering for military intelligence duty during World War II, which brought him to Bangkok. He stayed, played a major role in the revival of traditional Thai silk weaving, and built a home out of six old teak structures that he dismantled in the countryside and rea.s.sembled on-site. Guides take visitors through the rambling residence, providing an intimate glimpse at Thai art and architecture. Thompson maintained the original style of most of the buildings and furnis.h.i.+ngs but added a few Western touches, such as an indoor toilet by his bedroom; guest rooms contained the customary chamber pots, in the shape of a Siamese cat for men and a frog for women. A framed numerology reading, done by a monk, hangs on one wall, advising Thompson to be especially careful in his sixty-first year, when he disappeared without a trace in Malaysia's Cameroon Highlands.

The house tour is more enjoyable than most of our sightseeing, but we save the best for last, arranging at The Oriental for a half-day excursion on the klongs (ca.n.a.ls) off the Chao Phraya River. From our room at the grand old hostelry, in the six-story structure formerly known as the Authors' Wing, floor-to-ceiling windows survey the river and its constant boat traffic, a magnificent scene. The newer, maybe more prestigious Peninsula Hotel towers above us on the opposite side of the broad channel, but lacks our intimacy with the water and the thousands of people who travel it at any daylight hour. Our room is almost identical to the one that elated us on our honeymoon and still seems just as idyllic. Cheryl says gleefully, "Yes, we can go back again!" Sometimes at least; and in this case, to one of the most special spots we've ever been.

The klong journey provides similar delight. The hotel's dock manager gets us one of the ubiquitous, gondola-style long-tail boats, named for their pivoting shaft that raises and lowers the propeller in different water conditions. He sets us up with a driver and handsome craft used in one of Pierce Brosnan's James Bond films, telling us, "Brosnan returns frequently to take out the same boat." The helmsman heads to the Bangkok Noi ca.n.a.l, one of the main arteries through Thonburi, a part of the metropolis that maintains an age-old mode of waterway living rarely found any longer in Bangkok proper. Residences, interspersed with occasional businesses and temples, line both sides of the klong and provide direct access to the water for traveling around, buying food from paddling vendors, growing gardens of aquatic vegetables, and was.h.i.+ng clothes.

The houses we pa.s.s range from ramshackle to palatial. Some creep to the edge of the bank, others stand on stilts above the flood zone, and the biggest ones sit back on higher ground. As we putter by, residents go about their daily lives, obviously conducted much of the time on terraces and docks by the klong. Our driver halts briefly to allow us to peer into the Royal Barge Museum, home to eight magnificent vessels used in special river processions, and Wat Rakhang, a temple known for its bells and chimes. The only evidence of tourism is a sign in makes.h.i.+ft English for the Bangkok Noi Village Restaurant advertising food with "good test."

Good taste isn't always easy to find in Bangkok, at least not if you're looking for the distinctive and characteristic flavors of real Thai cooking. The same friend who put us in touch with Vithi suggested that we seek eating-out guidance from Bob Halliday, an American who has lived in Bangkok for most of the last four decades. A food, film, and music buff, he studied Russian and James Joyce at Columbia University before moving to Thailand, where he quickly learned the language with a fluency that startles locals. Over the years Bob has written extensively for the Bangkok Post Bangkok Post about his favorite subjects, including modern composers and places to find good Thai food. During a long stint as the newspaper's restaurant reviewer, he worked anonymously under the self-deprecating pen name of Ung-aang Talay, meaning "Sea Toad." about his favorite subjects, including modern composers and places to find good Thai food. During a long stint as the newspaper's restaurant reviewer, he worked anonymously under the self-deprecating pen name of Ung-aang Talay, meaning "Sea Toad."

Having read about Bob in articles on Bangkok, we knew him by reputation before our friend gave us his phone number and encouraged us to call, which Bill did before we left home. Friendly and down-to-earth, Bob said he would be happy to join us for a meal and talk about Thai food, but that he was tied up judging a film festival early in our stay. Bill scheduled a dinner with him for one of our last nights in town, and for our eating pleasure before then, confirmed that Bob still liked several spots that he had recommended highly in the past according to our research. He also advised us to try street-food stands, particularly in the evening, going to areas where they are concentrated, such as Chinatown. "Find the most popular vendors and get what the other customers are buying, even if you don't know what it is." We've been intending to do just that, but get waylaid by the rain in trying to follow the plan.

On the appointed night for our dinner together, Bob picks us up at The Oriental and takes us to Raan Jay Fai, a tiny, fluorescent-lighted eatery at the corner of two streets, completely open to the breezes on both sides. A few days earlier at lunchtime, we had searched in vain for this and an adjoining place, but neither was open then and even with the exact addresses, we found nothing to indicate the presence of restaurants. Bill asks Bob about the situation, and he says, "It's tough for a visitor, even the most intrepid." He agrees with Vithi that most restaurants with Thai menus serve bland tourist food, and for authentic fare, you have to seek out small cafes with home cooking. "Many of them are in out-of-the-way locations and don't even have names." But even if you make it to one despite the obstacles, if you don't know Thai, ordering becomes a problem.

At least we've found Raan Jay Fai with Bob's help and can place our requests through him. He greets the owner and cook, a wiry, elderly woman, and tells her we all want the house specialty, pad khee mao, pad khee mao, broad rice noodles combined with a wealth of seafood. She takes several steps back to her kitchen-three fiery gas burners and a charcoal brazier just outside the building on the slower of the streets-and jumps into action with surprising speed and dexterity. She puts water in a wok and brings it to a boil over a burner, adds the noodles by themselves briefly, and then in stages, tosses in prawns, calamari, chunks of fish, fresh hearts of palm, and red chile. After a little simmering, she pours off the water into another wok, fries the noodle mixture a bit, places some of the cooking liquid back, and stirs in coconut water from a young coconut with some of its jelly-like meat. That's it-and it's glorious. The noodles remain slightly chewy, the seafood s.h.i.+nes, and the simple flavorings bring everything together in resounding harmony. broad rice noodles combined with a wealth of seafood. She takes several steps back to her kitchen-three fiery gas burners and a charcoal brazier just outside the building on the slower of the streets-and jumps into action with surprising speed and dexterity. She puts water in a wok and brings it to a boil over a burner, adds the noodles by themselves briefly, and then in stages, tosses in prawns, calamari, chunks of fish, fresh hearts of palm, and red chile. After a little simmering, she pours off the water into another wok, fries the noodle mixture a bit, places some of the cooking liquid back, and stirs in coconut water from a young coconut with some of its jelly-like meat. That's it-and it's glorious. The noodles remain slightly chewy, the seafood s.h.i.+nes, and the simple flavorings bring everything together in resounding harmony.

As we leave, Bob spots a street-food stand a few doors away selling sweets. He wants to get desserts for the three of us and selects a steamed rice-flour disk stuffed with banana custard and coconut milk, as well as a folded banana-leaf pouch filled with a steamed mixture of coconut, coconut milk, and palm sugar, the latter a particularly luscious combo. Pointing behind us, Bob says, "That's Thip Samai, the other place you were looking for earlier in the week." Busy as possible at this hour, Raan Jan Fai's neighboring noodle shop specializes in a definitive version of pad thai, probably the most popular dish at Thai restaurants in the United States.

Despite our failure to locate these two cafes on our own, we do find three others that Bob recommends. It takes a little diligence in each case. Som Tam Polo, aka Polo Fried Chicken, requires the least effort since it's near the large Polo Club grounds, marked on all maps. The problem for us, at least the first one, is picking the right side street, Soi Polo, not identified for the public in any way we can decipher. Our second guess turns out to be correct, evident only when Cheryl spots a painted picture on a storefront window. "That looks like a Thanksgiving turkey on a platter, but maybe it's a chicken." Walking over for a closer gander, we notice the place's English name in inch-high letters.

Bob dubbed it "Polo Fried Chicken" years ago when he raved about the three-table stall in his Bangkok Post Bangkok Post column. Since then, the cook-owner has added a regular dining room of sorts down the street, a simple s.p.a.ce with the "turkey" poster outside and glaring overhead lamps inside for a decidedly non-subdued style of lighting. In place of a drinks list, liter-size plastic bottles of Pepsi and water sit on the tables for guests to pick and pour at will. A waiter brings us a place-mat-size picture menu with the half-dozen dish options, which include shredded fried beef and column. Since then, the cook-owner has added a regular dining room of sorts down the street, a simple s.p.a.ce with the "turkey" poster outside and glaring overhead lamps inside for a decidedly non-subdued style of lighting. In place of a drinks list, liter-size plastic bottles of Pepsi and water sit on the tables for guests to pick and pour at will. A waiter brings us a place-mat-size picture menu with the half-dozen dish options, which include shredded fried beef and larb moo, larb moo, minced pork with chile and other seasonings. Both of us point at the fried chicken and a green papaya salad. He scribbles the choices on a pad and hustles out the front door, heading to the kitchen that remains in its original location. minced pork with chile and other seasonings. Both of us point at the fried chicken and a green papaya salad. He scribbles the choices on a pad and hustles out the front door, heading to the kitchen that remains in its original location.

The waiter returns shortly with a tray of condiments: an ample bouquet of fresh basil worth more in the United States than the entire $6 lunch, a cabbage pickle, and a couple of nam priks, one reminiscent of a Mexican salsa made with cascabel chiles. Next come generous plates of crispy chicken pieces showered with chewy fried garlic slivers. At home, we would eat this by hand, but instead we follow the lead of Thai diners by cutting off morsels with a fork and maneuvering them onto a spoon for munching, like a two-step country dance: first a taste of chicken, then a nibble of the intensely anise-scented basil. When Bill branches out to the fiery papaya salad, he almost detonates his mouth by chomping down accidentally on a whole chile, mixed freely into the fruit medley along with dried shrimp for salty tang and tomatoes and green beans for crunchy sweetness. Except for that inadvertent bite, everything glows with unmitigated goodness.

The same holds true at Rut & Luk, a seafood eatery in Chinatown near the intersection of Yaowarat Road and Soi Phadungdao, oddly nicknamed "Soi Texas." Our information puts the restaurant on one of the four corners, but no such luck. It turns out to be down a side street, a rudimentary kitchen on the ground level, completely open in the front, with big washtubs used for cleaning plates. Without any place to eat, it looks weird and bewildering, as our expressions probably do to the cooks staring at us from inside. One of them finally gestures to us to come in and go upstairs, so we tromp past the tubs, fish, and other ingredients to get to another brightly lit dining room.

Except for a couple at one table, we're the first to arrive on a Sunday evening, though the s.p.a.ce fills up completely within thirty minutes. The menu is mostly in Thai but contains some pictures, allowing us to identify the specialty we want, a whole fish baked in foil with loads of black pepper and garlic. We each order one of these, a beer, and an oyster omelet, a popular side dish in Bangkok. It's a hearty bellyful for both of us, wonderfully fresh and flavorful.

Chote Chitr impresses us even more. None of our maps show its street of record, Phraeng Phouthon, but we know the lane intersects the larger Tanao Road at some point in the neighborhood just east of the Grand Palace. In our search, we walk past the street once, decide we've gone too far, double back, and walk some more until we happen on it. Having allowed lots of time to locate the restaurant, we still arrive on the early side for lunch; the cook-owner is sitting at a table in front prepping vegetables by a small fountain. She scoots two bantam dogs off another of the five tables and seats us at it.

A delightful lady, we gradually discover, she speaks English well and offers to help us with her four-hundred-item menu, all in Thai. From online reports on the restaurant, we've decided in advance to order a couple of Thai cla.s.sics, mee krob mee krob and banana blossom salad. Cheryl asks her, "What else would you recommend to fill out a little Thai feast?" and banana blossom salad. Cheryl asks her, "What else would you recommend to fill out a little Thai feast?"

She thinks about the question briefly. "I would get a green curry with chicken and the eggplant salad called makheua yao. makheua yao." Everything astounds us, including the fresh lemonade, laced here with a little salt as well as sugar, which is common in Thailand. The eggplant salad, a gem, features slim, long slices of the vegetable, smoky and soft from the fire, in a light sauce with shallots, kaffir lime, palm sugar, cilantro, dried shrimp, bits of chicken, and slivers of incandescent fresh green chile. The lovely banana blossom salad comes with a tangy dressing of tamarind, coconut milk, and dried red chiles, along with shrimp and chicken.

A tangle of thin, caramelized rice noodles fried crisply, the mee krob arrives with shrimp seared perfectly on serious wok heat and a syrupy sauce enhanced by a rare, sour citrus known as som sa. som sa. Well balanced in all respects, it has none of the cloying sweetness often a.s.sociated with the dish in the United States. The green curry inspires awe, dancing a tightrope of contrasting flavors high above any other version either of us has tasted. The tender chicken gives it body, and fantastically fresh Thai basil adds spicy anise undertones. Two kinds of round eggplants swim in the broth, one the size of plump peas to eat whole so that they pop in the mouth with zesty bitterness. Cheryl asks the owner what gives the curry its brilliance. "Just making the curry paste the traditional way, by hand daily. Not many people bother with that anymore." Well balanced in all respects, it has none of the cloying sweetness often a.s.sociated with the dish in the United States. The green curry inspires awe, dancing a tightrope of contrasting flavors high above any other version either of us has tasted. The tender chicken gives it body, and fantastically fresh Thai basil adds spicy anise undertones. Two kinds of round eggplants swim in the broth, one the size of plump peas to eat whole so that they pop in the mouth with zesty bitterness. Cheryl asks the owner what gives the curry its brilliance. "Just making the curry paste the traditional way, by hand daily. Not many people bother with that anymore."

They certainly don't seem to at many of the other Thai restaurants we try. The rain, forcing us to abandon the quest for good street food, drives us to seek inside shelter for most meals at places reachable by foot, taxi, or public transportation without getting soaked. Once each, we take a chance on the upscale Thai establishments at our hotels. At Sala Rim Naam in The Oriental, which excelled on our previous visit, Western sweet and salty tastes dominate the ersatz Thai dishes. In Spice and Rice at the Siam City, we enjoy only the bar's signature drink, the Red Elephant (watermelon juice with vodka and a splash of Curacao), and the handsome table service, including a diminutive elephant hot-sauce holder that Cheryl manages to buy from the staff.

The kitchen comes closer to authentic Thai tastes at the Spice Market in the Four Seasons Hotel and Celadon in the elegant Sukhothai Hotel. The chefs at both, obviously talented, deliver a local riff on what the international hospitality trade characterizes as "fine dining." They translate Thai ideas and flavors in worldly ways, satisfying in many respects but ultimately lacking the robustness and complexity of the cuisine at its truest. Celadon's duck curry or the Spice Market's banana blossom salad might excite us in New Mexico, but not in Bangkok.

If hotels must cater to international interests, we wish they would handle it in a straightforward way, as The Oriental does at its bountiful buffet breakfast, served in a beautiful setting right on the river. Area growers provide the lusciously fresh fruit and other produce, and skilled bakers make a global array of breads, including croissants and pain au chocolat flakier and more b.u.t.tery than most versions in France today. Depending on your nationality or just your druthers, you can load up on dim sum, fried noodles or rice, congee, yogurt, cheese, eggs, bacon, and more. Our two breakfasts here thrill us more than any of the faux Thai meals at fancier hotel restaurants.

Thais play metaphorically with food in many popular expressions and sayings. A sen yai sen yai (big noodle) refers to an important person, and (big noodle) refers to an important person, and khoa mai plaa man khoa mai plaa man (new rice, juicy fish) describes the pa.s.sionate early stage of a romantic relations.h.i.+p. We revel in some splendid Thai food in Bangkok, but too much of what we get is (new rice, juicy fish) describes the pa.s.sionate early stage of a romantic relations.h.i.+p. We revel in some splendid Thai food in Bangkok, but too much of what we get is manao mai mii naam manao mai mii naam (like lime without juice), not worth the bother. (like lime without juice), not worth the bother.

In the few scant decades since a bridge first connected p.h.u.ket to the Thai mainland in the 1970s, the large offsh.o.r.e island has become a tourism phenomenon. It leaped quickly into worldwide prominence as a beach destination, brought economic vitality and jobs to southern Thailand, and sp.a.w.ned a flock of copycat resorts in the region. Since our days of writing travel guides to the Caribbean, Hawaii, and Mexico, we've been curious about the prodigy and eager to see it. The devastating tsunami during the Christmas season in 2004 cut sharply into the local boom, leaving p.h.u.ket desperate for visitors and temporarily bringing prices down, other lures for us on this trip.

The fabulous Amanpuri resort slashed its rates for the first time ever by 50 percent for most of 2005, reducing the cost of its entry-level Garden Pavilion rooms from U.S. $800 to $400. It's long been a yearning of ours to stay at one of the Aman properties-particularly this one, the first of the elite chain's hotels and a model for the rest. On Bali, we had dinner at the Amandari, a close cousin, and now we're digging deep into our travel budget to indulge in a one-night, half-priced stay here.

An indulgence it is. Our bungalow sits among forty others of various sizes, all s.h.i.+elded from one another by lush vegetation, on a hillside overlooking the restaurants, bay, broad and sandy beach, and large, blue-tiled infinity pool. After leading us up several tiers of stairs to reach the room, the receptionist introduces us gradually to the amenities, starting with the two private outdoor lazing s.p.a.ces, one in the sun with a couple of chaise longues and the other a covered pavilion, or sala, with a ceiling fan and a low Thai-style dining table with comfortable cus.h.i.+on seating. Bill says, "Add an outhouse and this area alone would shame most hotel rooms."

But there's more, of course, inside, all exquisitely understated in the hotel's gracefully unfussy way. Stunning woodwork in macah, which resembles rosewood, envelops us everywhere, on the floors, shutters, desk, night tables, beams, and a planter in the sprawling bathroom holding probably the largest, most effusively blooming orchid either of us has ever seen. To keep us from getting crosswise, we each have our own closet, luggage stand, vanity, toiletries, even phones if we wish, plus a choice of a shower or a soaking tub in case we want to wash our pampered bodies at the same time. "How come there's only one toilet?" Cheryl asks Bill. "I'll take it and you can have the outhouse."

One night for us equals four meals, including a simple pre-departure room-service lunch in our swimsuits at our sala. Our other lunch and a dinner feature Thai specialties, better prepared than at any of the Bangkok hotels where we tried similar dishes. Since p.h.u.ket is known for glorious seafood, both of us order lab talay lab talay for our introductory repast shortly after reaching the Amanpuri. A chopped mix of small shrimp, calamari, scallops, fish, and kaffir lime, it comes with rice. The kitchen seasons the dish a.s.sertively, trying with some sincerity to follow our request to make it Thai-style. for our introductory repast shortly after reaching the Amanpuri. A chopped mix of small shrimp, calamari, scallops, fish, and kaffir lime, it comes with rice. The kitchen seasons the dish a.s.sertively, trying with some sincerity to follow our request to make it Thai-style.

At dinner, we stop first in the bar for the house specialty, a lime and lemongra.s.s crush with rum and orange liqueur. In the evening Amanpuri offers a choice of two restaurants, an open-air poolside pavilion for Thai food and an enclosed air-conditioned s.p.a.ce for Italian fare, currently, of course, the trendiest of international cuisines. Opting as always to eat local, we take a front table overlooking the pool. The waiter presents us with a small menu and a large drinks list that includes some Thai wines promoted for their affinity with the dishes. After quizzing our server about the wine choices, we order a bottle of a red Monsoon Valley, a blend of s.h.i.+raz, black Muscat, and native pokdum pokdum grapes grown on floating vineyards in the Chao Phraya Delta. grapes grown on floating vineyards in the Chao Phraya Delta.

The wine does make a good match for our food selections. To start, we share yaam poo mim thod, yaam poo mim thod, fried softsh.e.l.l crab, and a tangy green mango salad with shallots, chile paste, and lemongra.s.s. A nearby aquaculture farm raises the meaty crabs, as briny and fresh as any just taken in the wild. For a main course, Bill gets fried softsh.e.l.l crab, and a tangy green mango salad with shallots, chile paste, and lemongra.s.s. A nearby aquaculture farm raises the meaty crabs, as briny and fresh as any just taken in the wild. For a main course, Bill gets gaeng paad gai, gaeng paad gai, a spicy southern jungle curry with chicken, full of contrasting flavors and textures. Cheryl opts for a spicy southern jungle curry with chicken, full of contrasting flavors and textures. Cheryl opts for goong paad bai graprow, goong paad bai graprow, stir-fried shrimp with hot basil, chile, and oyster sauce. Both light up our night. stir-fried shrimp with hot basil, chile, and oyster sauce. Both light up our night.

Breakfast the next morning is almost as tasty. Inspired by a welcome gift of chocolate cookies that she devoured yesterday, Cheryl tries some of the other baked goods, a small sour-cherry m.u.f.fin and a pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat, supplemented by a bowl of tropical fruits, red currants, and strawberries topped with yogurt. Bill considers the "p.h.u.ket" breakfast with rice porridge and Chinese sausage salad but chooses instead a hash of the local black crab. Baked rather than skillet- or wok-fried, as he thinks a hash should be, it's a little meek until he requests and adds the chile-and-fish sauce named nam pla prik. supplemented by a bowl of tropical fruits, red currants, and strawberries topped with yogurt. Bill considers the "p.h.u.ket" breakfast with rice porridge and Chinese sausage salad but chooses instead a hash of the local black crab. Baked rather than skillet- or wok-fried, as he thinks a hash should be, it's a little meek until he requests and adds the chile-and-fish sauce named nam pla prik.

Changing out of our swimsuits, we leave reluctantly after the lunch in our sala, taking a complimentary Amanpuri limousine from the quiet, relaxed setting to our next hotel, the Amari Coral in the much busier Patong Beach area. Our driver speaks English well, so we ask about the tragic tsunami's impact and the island's recovery progress. "p.h.u.ket is mostly back, and visitors are returning, but residents will never outlive their memories of the day." He ill.u.s.trates by relating his family's experience. "My wife and I were both working at different hotels. I didn't find out for hours that she was safe. Amanpuri let me go home to check on our house and nothing was there. Nothing at all. Everything washed out to sea." Cheryl timidly inquires if the rest of their family survived okay. "No, two cousins died and also some good friends. Most people lost loved ones." Each of us expresses sympathy, but we feel feeble in our efforts.

A conventional beach hotel similar to thousands of others in the world, the Amari Coral sits at the south end of Patong on a sliver of sand not connected to the bustling main beach. The location allows us to walk at will into town-the restaurant, nightlife, and shopping headquarters of p.h.u.ket-but to escape the crowds at other times. The reception desk checks us in and escorts us through a maze of low-rise wings to our ocean-view deluxe room. With tsunami stories fresh in our minds, it's a little unsettling to see we'll be sleeping forty feet from the sh.o.r.e.

The tourist literature in the room informs us in detail about the activities available for guests, none in the least appealing to us. Many visitors apparently enjoy taking boat trips to secluded beaches and smaller islands, such as Phi Phi Don, where you will be "amazing" to witness monkeys "leaving" on the hillside, and Phi Phi Lae, the movie set for Leonardo di Caprio's The Beach. The Beach. Others seem to seek out ATV thrills, diving, sailing and parasailing, sea canoeing, waterskiing, and touring underwater on a Yellow Submarine. None of the brochures offers anything remotely related to Thai life and culture. Others seem to seek out ATV thrills, diving, sailing and parasailing, sea canoeing, waterskiing, and touring underwater on a Yellow Submarine. None of the brochures offers anything remotely related to Thai life and culture.

After this dispiriting reading, we head into town in the late afternoon for a firsthand look at the hub of the hubbub. It doesn't set new standards for tacky-impossible to do any longer in a world awash in it-but it certainly reeks of ba.n.a.lity. In most respects, it's Just Beach Town Anywhere, capable of being transplanted to Florida or Mexico without anyone noticing the difference. Scads of junky shops pack the main street that runs the length of the crescent coast, each with a hustler out front to tempt in the tourists. "Hey, Boss"-every man's name-"you want a Rolex?" "Please, Madame"-every woman's name-"try on one of my gold rings." In tune with the times, Patong flaunts a "Rock Hard Cafe" and a billboard-promoted show with Prasoot Srisatorn, the "Original Thai Elvis."

Only two features set the town apart from other beach burgs: a scarcity of restaurants with local food and the openness of the s.e.xual lures. You can find huevos rancheros all over Puerto Vallarta and conch fritters anywhere in the Keys, but don't go looking for kaeng tai plaa kaeng tai plaa or another southern Thai curry in Patong. Restaurateurs think visitors really want familiar food from home, so they offer plenty of what one sign calls "Euro Pian" dishes. Scandinavian places abound, but you won't be left out in the heat if you prefer a Hungarian goulash, German schnitzel, Italian pasta, or, from the bargain bas.e.m.e.nt, a McDonald's burger. or another southern Thai curry in Patong. Restaurateurs think visitors really want familiar food from home, so they offer plenty of what one sign calls "Euro Pian" dishes. Scandinavian places abound, but you won't be left out in the heat if you prefer a Hungarian goulash, German schnitzel, Italian pasta, or, from the bargain bas.e.m.e.nt, a McDonald's burger.

s.e.x seems to sell even better than dinner, watches, and jewelry. In what local maps call the "Hot Zone," in the heart of town, tiny lanes branch off of Bangla Road, each lined on both sides with open-air bars with stool seating and names such as High Heels, Crazy Girls a Go Go, Luck Bar, s.e.x Stock Exchange, and, for more demanding patrons, Black Cat #1, with an image of a dominatrix on the sign. Notices often indicate "every body welcome," which we a.s.sume at first is another language oddity, like the restaurant claiming to be recommended by the "Fo Dor" guide, but we eventually decide they mean what they say, that everybody's body qualifies for action.

In another area, slightly less prominent, gay nightlife thrives in clubs such as Spartacus and James Dean, snuggled n