Christmas in Thailand

Christmas has a bizarre spot in American culture. We are very dependant on it economically, to the point where it is advertised for about 9 months a year. For the month of December it is impossible to go anywhere and not see Christmas, it adorns our store fronts, comes out of the radios and works its way into our conversations. Everyone in the states, regardless of religious denomination seems to be swept up in “the Christmas Spirit” because its now more of a national holiday than religious one. This is not the case in Thailand. Its more akin to a religious holiday still, where you are aware its happening, probably know a couple celebrating it, but even if stores are putting up decorations its not so pervasive as it is in the states. It took some recalibrating to enjoy Christmas in this snowless environment, it was a slow process but, by the time the 25^th rolled around I was in a pretty good state of mind for the entire affair. I woke up to skype with my immediate family on their Christmas eve, we simultaneously watched It’s a Wonderful Life from opposite sides of the globe. Have I mentioned how much I love technology? That, in a real sense, was my Christmas, and it was after this that my Christmas in Thailand really started. The following is the story of my Christmas day.

I knew something was strange. The man that was making my som tom was looking up at me with some unidentifiable expression on his face as he was pounding the dish with his mortar. He held up an uncooked crab, I considered it, nodded, and he threw it in. I got a second hint something was off when, after I had sat down at table of store next door the maker of my food moseyed over and began speaking to the owners of the shop, a wonderful couple that I’ve started to get to know since arriving. I began to eat, the first bite was good, had the flavor and kick that all good som tom should have. The second bite was very hot, and I made the ill advised move of drinking water to quench the fire, a mistake that no matter how many times people warn me about I continue making. The chef was sitting there expectantly, trying to be nonchalant; I pointed at the food, and gave a thumbs up, “good, thank-you”. He waved at his mouth making the universal sign for, “your mouth is burning with an intensity and passion that you didn’t think was possible isn’t it?” to which I shrug, nod, wave at my mouth and take another bite. Now, I have an appreciation for hot food, I love hot wings in the states, and I have never been stingy with my stars at restaurants, I consider a hot dish a welcome challenge, and if you can get past the heat there is usually excellent flavor behind it. But this burning in my mouth was not obeying the rules set forth in the human-spicy foods treaty, it was not decreasing, or even plateauing. No it was increasing in intensity, and suddenly it was not doing so at such a relaxed pace. My roommate has just woken up and was smoking a cigarette on our stoop and I saw this an opportunity to save face, I coolly and casually leatp from my seat, and with the urgency of a man running from hornets I strolled over to my roommate. I don’t even remember what I said, I think it was something rather disparaging about the cook and “Hottest ******* thing I have ever eaten”. I was still expecting the burning to at least slow if not stop, but it did not. I was suddenly pacing around in a circle listening to the hearty chuckle of that evil, fat, som tom chef from a few feet away. Time for round two, I went into the store and bought some Milo, basically chocolate milk, and return to the table, determined not to loose to this food (No I don’t have competition issues, and yes you can definitely win or loose meals. Shut up).

            The Milo felt like a genuine Christmas miracle, the screaming in mouth was almost silenced; the landscape was now more akin to a parking lot on a hot day than a prairie fire. Unfortunately the Milo provided only a momentary respite, the burning returned shortly. After two bites I am near tears, but I’ll be damned if I let that smarmy punk spice me out of my lunch. The burning was still there, though it was less intense, whether this was because of the Milo or the fact that my nerve endings were sending in their resignation letters I’m still not sure. The wife of the owner came out and saw my face, recognized the look of a oral burn victim and came over to look at my dish. She frowned and walked over to the chef, seems to chastise him for a few moments than returned with a packet of rice intimating I should eat it with the som tom and it will reduce the spicines. A minute or so later the owner, who’s English is spectacular comes out and offers me a small bowl of mushroom soup, “My wife make this, its not so hot, good for you!” I offer my sincere thanks, and use it to clear my mouth for an attempt at round three.

I took two more bites and couldn’t take it, my nose was Niagra, and my eyes were rapidly filling. I had to polish off the milo and dive into the soup. By this time the chef has joined me again, and the wife of the owner who is sitting at the table was frequently miming hitting the chef in the head with what I imagined to be a cast iron frying pan. Soon the chef is on his way, driving off with his motor bike based stand leaving me feeling as though Thai food had finally, truly and completely kicked my ass. The wife points at my bowl and says “for me, one!” I was a little confused so she re-iterates, this time however, I saw she was not pointing at the general dish, but one of the MANY small peppers that populate my bowl. That punk had given me easily 6-7 peppers. I was stunned, but this explained so much about the last half hour of my life that I couldn’t be angry. How could I be? The food may have been heinously hot, but it sure was an experience, and one that brought me a bit closer to my neighbors, on Christmas no less, the best time of the year to be brought closer together.

Later that evening I brought a pot of fresh coffee (my glorious parents had sent beans and a French press as a Christmas gift) to my neighbors to thank them for helping with my extreme lunch, and of course to wish them a merry Christmas. We enjoyed the coffee, laughed about the som tom and once the coffee was gone they brought me a beer and began filling, and refilling my cup. Soon my roommates had come out, and we were all enjoying Christmas beers talking about Thailand and its quirks with our neighbors. I noticed the owner of the shop was cutting up a lime, I thought, “dear god, if he is making cocktails than he is going to drink me under the table!” but soon he offered a slice of lime to my roommate and I, “Is that sweet or sour?” We were dubious, it was a lime, of course it was sour, but we obliged, tasted the slices, and sure enough, they were sour. He than gave us each a small berry shaped a bit like a bean, and told us to eat it and try the lime slice again. We chewed the berry; it tasted fine, anything but an extreme taste, and tried the lime. This time it was more akin to candy than a citrus fruit. Both of us looked up in shock, and asked what the berry was, “Miracle fruit!” our neighbor said laughing. It was a unique gustatory experience certainly, and one that lasted longer than either of us wanted it to. Our beers tasted more like sugar water the rest of the night, the dinner I had later could have been good, I don’t know, it tasted like candy. It was bizarre. It was Christmas in Thailand!