First, you salivate over the red-and-green photos in the menu. Then you reluctantly acknowledge the general sense of takaw-mata gripping your system and you narrow down your order, with the benevolent air of a mature eater, to two or three items and remind the waiter to make it just a tad less spicy than usual–or, no, you’ll have it the way it’s usually done. And you eat, savoring all the bursts of flavor in your mouth.
And then you begin to feel a warmth stirring in your stomach, spreading across your shoulder blades, stretching up your throat all the way to your temples. You begin to sweat, fan your mouth with your palm after accidentally chewing, yet again, on a camouflaged speck of chili. Wonder how to stop impending tears. Then you foolishly reach for a glass of water and as the spiciness intensifies (alas, you’ve succeeded only in spreading it in your mouth), you shyly wipe the water from your eyes.
During one such bout with authentic Thai food, I managed a weak laugh when our tour guide announced, in the midst of my pain, "The spice adds the life." I remember him to be a very funny man, although he spoke very little English and, in fact, attempted no jokes. In a rather labored speech about Thai food, one that involved many exasperated sighs over not having the right words, he managed to communicate that food without sweet herbs and intense spices was like a person without an opinion. I chuckled amiably over this one too, and was met with a blank stare. When he earnestly pronounced that, "food is…aah, de, aah, universal language," I laughed again for reasons not clear to either of us. All his remarks were true, were they not?
Serendipitously, at the height of my craving, a friend happily announced that a new Thai chef had come into town and was holding court at the Spices Restaurant in The Peninsula Manila. We make plans for a lunch visit. As the new chef makes his way among the tables, I notice right away that he is rather timid and shy and that his smile is warm yet pursed. Or is it just that his buddy and self-appointed interpreter, the hotel’s Italian chef Michel Mingozzi of Mi Piace restaurant, makes for a remarkable contrast? Chef Mingozzi bears more than a slight resemblance to George Clooney, stands almost a full toque taller than his Thai colleague, and speaks with a voice that, volume-wise, registers maybe two notches higher.
This afternoon, he is glad to be of service to his friend. He makes small circular motions with his hands, "I will, eh, ask your questions to him."
Greetings are exchanged, and then we try names. Mine is simple enough, as well as George Clooney’s, but Phaithoon’s is a different story.
"Python?" I ask.
"P-hai-t-hoon," says George to Phaithoon, then to me, "P-hai-t-hoon."
Phaithoon smiles, nods briskly, and says something that sounds like "Python."
"Like a snake?"
He shifts his gaze to George Clooney, who says, "You write." I don’t personally know many Italians and what little stereotypes about them I subscribe to are thanks to The Godfather, and so, like an Italian, George fusses around for a piece of paper, produces a pen, and says, "Your name, eh? You write." He makes a vigorous scribbling gesture.
The friendly head waiter, standing like a sentry against Ang Kiukok paintings lining the restaurant’s glass walls, marches over to pour us glasses of water and says to me, "P-hai-t-hoon." The community effort towards understanding is evidently alive and well in a restaurant that serves not one but six Asian cuisines (Indian, Indonesian, Malaysian, Thai, Vietnamese and Filipino).
Nevermind that Phaithoon can hardly string English words to form a sentence, he does wield a mean ladle. Less than four months in his new job (he flew in from a three-year stint at Naam Thai Restaurant in Singapore), he follows a daily routine which has him literally up and running around the Makati Central Business District at the crack of dawn. By mid-morning he’s off to his kitchen to whip up dishes for the lunch set. After his afternoon break, it’s back to work in time for the dinner crowd at five p.m. all the way to ten in the evening.
It’s all in a day’s work for Phaithoon who is 40 but looks like he’s only pushing 30. Perhaps it’s all that jogging? Or could it be the food? After all, Thais sport generally slender physiques and young-looking skin that’s been attributed to a diet consisting largely of herbs, spices, vegetables and nuts. Phaithoon is representative of the general population.
Taking his Thai representation a bit further, he now finds himself a kind of gastronomic ambassador, extending to our shores real Thai food as opposed to the quick, fast-food versions. Phaithoon has spent more than half his life working the kitchen, a career path he picked out on his own with no coaching from either parent. His father is an engineer and his mother is a homemaker. None of his three older brothers are in the food business, but at 16, Phaithoon and a friend, both students at a small culinary school in Chiangmai, landed kitchen jobs at a local restaurant.
The last two decades saw him through six years at the Westin Hotel in Chiangmai before moving to Singapore, marriage to a former protegé, and the births of their two daughters, now aged 6 and 12. His daily schedule includes chatting with his family over the phone, but once a year, he hangs his chef’s hat on the rack and hops on a homeward-bound plane for a break from work and, ironically, from Thai food.
"The kids like, eh, spaghetti, pizza," he explains. And yes, he gladly obliges and serves his daughters the best of Italy by way of America–with more than just a dash of chili.
Thai to the bone, Phaithoon likes his own food extra spicy. Northern Thais like Phaithoon can apparently snack on those wicked little red peppers, like popping innocent-looking M&M’s. He smiles as he mimes energetically sprinkling more chili over an imaginary plate of Thai specialties; I am near tears when the sprinkling ends, and as the first salvo of the Thai meal appears from the kitchen, my ears begin to burn.
Phaithoon is done with the non-talking, and why not let the dishes speak for themselves? I agree; sign language is exhausting especially if one is inventing the moves. His eyes brighten when, apart from Spices best-sellers and local favorites paat thai (sautéed noodles with prawns and vegetables) and tom yum goong (spicy prawn soup with lemon grass and coriander), new dishes that have yet to make their way to the menu are brought out from the kitchen.
As I prime myself with the spicy prawn soup–if you take well to the soup’s chili factor, you’re generally good to move on to hotter concoctions–Phaithoon tells me that he’s currently modifying the menu’s Thai selection. "I’m introducing some new dishes, making a few changes," he says, by way of Italy, some broken and halting English, and a bit of sign language.
By a few changes, he means new items are just about to take a starring role in a menu that reads like "The Best of…" Asian cuisines.
With taste buds sufficiently piqued by the soup and its fresh aromas of lemongrass and ginger, I proceed to sampling the main dishes. I am partial to pork, so I gingerly start with the laab moo, spicy pork minced with Thai herbs in a crisp lettuce leaf of a shell. Surprisingly, I don’t feel weighed down despite the…er, robust spoonfuls of pork and rice.
Although Thai cuisine developed over the centuries as an East-meets-West affair–with various cooking styles and ingredients derived from the French, Portugese and the Chinese to supplement homegrown techniques and dishes–it maintains a lighter and healthier appeal relative to its influences.
So, still feeling light and healthy, I sample the goong paad prink khing, fried prawn with red curry paste. The longed-for bursts of flavor return full-force as I understand, suddenly, that Thai food is not about filling up. It’s about enjoying the harmonious mix of all things sweet and sour and spicy, and that every meal has a great chance of resembling a taste-testing session.
Things begin to heat up midway through the kway teow phed, rice sticks with duck curry and spinach crisps. Before I take my first bite I mentally regret, in true Pinoy fashion, that I may have over-ordered and sayang ‘pag hindi nakain. But the Thai herb salad (fish sauce, mint, shallots, lime juice, chili powder) goes with everything, and so with everything it went.
The highlight of the meal is the pla nhao manao, chunks of sea bass on a shallow pool of lime juices, Thai herbs and chili. The white fish meat is fresh and soft to the poking. I spoon slivers along with the sauce, and all hell breaks loose. I go back for more, and then, abandoning the much-maligned Pinoy quality of leaving a tiny square inch of food out of hiya, I cleared the serving plate of the tastiest sea bass I’ve ever had.
Phaithoon smiles and appreciates that I am, finally, happy and fulfilled. Noting the flush on my face, he recommends that I cool down with a glass of pandan juice. I take two sips and then decide that no, I’m not ready to forget the flavors, not so soon, and return to the rest of the laab moo.
I’ve always hated the glutton in me, but for some reason, light and tasty food calls for a momentary lifting of the self-imposed ban on eating too much. It’s difficult to ever have too much of Thai food, not because of serving sizes (they usually come in generous platefuls), but because the taste demands to be imprinted in memory. And what better way to remember good food than to repeat the act again and again? Succulent sea bass: spoon, chew, spoon, chew.
If food is right up there with math and music and, uh, love, as a universal language, I may have been in the middle of a gabfest and Phaithoon suddenly the King of Talk. My head swims with these thoughts–the post-good-meal mental slowdown, I suspect–when Phaithoon politely says he must return to the kitchen. I thank him profusely for his time, and he thanks me for mine with little bows. I attempt to pronounce his name the right way again, laboring over the hard consonants followed by halting h’s, until he says, "My nickname is Alex."
Caption: Chef Phaithoon Atthasarn serves us real hot stuff at Spices at The Peninsula Manila
Phaithoon smiles and appreciates that I am, finally, happy and fulfilled. Noting the flush on my face, he recommends that I cool down with a glass of pandan juice. I take two sips and then decide that no, I’m not ready to forget the flavors, not so soon, and return to the rest of the laab moo.
I’ve always hated the glutton in me, but for some reason, light and tasty food calls for a momentary lifting of the self-imposed ban on eating too much. It’s difficult to ever have too much of Thai food, not because of serving sizes, but because the taste demands to be imprinted in memory. And what better way to remember good food than to repeat the act again and again? Succulent sea bass: spoon, chew, spoon, chew.
If food is right up there with math and music and, uh, love, as a universal language, I may have been in the middle of a gabfest and Phaithoon suddenly the King of Talk. Phaithoon politely says he must return to the kitchen; I thank him profusely for his time, and he thanks me for mine with little bows. I attempt to pronounce his name the right way again, laboring over the hard consonants followed by halting h’s, until he says, "My nickname is Alex."