Hot weather has the unpleasant effect of retarding the appetite, but Nakhon Si Thammarat has plenty to coax it back. It’s best to start lunch early, before the afternoon heat and humidity overwhelms and take advantage of the very controlled portion sizes that this town offers. Drink plenty of icy water and thai tea, and even if you think you’re not hungry, give it a go.

First is a kind of all-Asia line up, pork satay, wonton soup and an interpretation of chicken rice all with a Thai bent. Thin pieces of pork take on a new persona when a dressed in a spicy peanut sauce so good I want to eat it with a spoon. Add a sweet cucumber and shallot pickle for freshness and acid and this could just be the perfect light summer lunch.

Chicken, red-roasted pork, and meaty, rich liver on rice get soy and sweet chilli sauced, a different take on the classic comfort of Hainanese chicken rice. We share a soup (geaw nam), loaded with as much flavour as ingredients. Wontons, pork, insides, fish balls and green vegetables are barely covered by a light, cleansing broth. I leave the add-your-own flavourings up to the experts, and the result is an extraordinarily good blend of sour, meaty, herbaceous freshness and chilli-hot. A kind of China meets Thailand by way of everywhere in between.

We swat the flies away and linger over the iced-tea and peanut sauce dregs. It’s cool inside, but although lunch is winding down this place is still packed, popularity deserved.

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Khao Mok Gai

Our next lunch may be similar to the first, rice and meat with a shared soup, but it’s on the other end of the spectrum. Today we’re in a Khao Mok shop (Muslim food shop) to eat Khao Mok Gai (pictured above), a kind of Thai Biryani first brought, along with Buddhism, to Nakhon Si Thammarat by Sri Lankans lifetimes ago. The rice and chicken is pleasant but ground breaking only in the fact that these tastes are unexpected, being more subcontinental than Thai. Unfortunately the chicken and rice is served cool, which dulls the flavours and hardens the grains, so this dish is only a shadow of what it could be.

Beef soup (soop nua, pictured above), on the other hand, arrives steaming hot and punchy. It’s is all great viscid hunks of beef, tender enough to bisect with the touch of a spoon. The rich beef stock is robustly flavoured with fresh coriander, spring onions, fried shallots and chilli. It’s firmly in ‘last meal’ territory, and paired with raw cabbage is clarity and simplicity in a bowl.

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This Ran Kanom Jeen (Chinese noodle restaurant) is understandably popular. Kanom jeen are round rice vermicelli noodles classified here as Chinese, though they’re most similar to Vietnamese bun. Served with curry sauce, of which there is a range available: green, coconut, peanut and more. My dish is a mix of coconut (nam ya kati) and peanut (gaeng nam prik tua) curries, which frankly look a bit like kimchi vomit, but tastes spicy, creamy, rich and nutty all in the right measure. It’s served on the cool side of lukewarm and the noodles are a touch too soft for my liking causing first impression disappointment. I had high hopes for this dish as we’d been turned away at lunchtime the previous day when we’d arrived too late and they’d already run out of food.

I felt let down, until an enormous platter of fresh, raw vegetables is brought out. Some parts recognisable, green and winged beans, baby eggplant, cucumber, green peppercorns and herbs. The leaves of the cashew tree which seem to suck all the moisture from your mouth, not yet opened flower buds and baby green fig-like fruit, purple on the inside, were all new to me and the kind of interesting flavours I crave. Also provided was a light pickle of beansprouts, cucumber, chilli, cabbage, carrot and more. A coconut milk and softened greens side dish was vegetal and comforting, while the dark liquid curry with potato was just plain delicious. Mix any of these additions into your curry as desired and the tepid sauce and soft noodles seem intentional. The firey and deep curries and the generous side dishes combine to create a wholesome and altogether outstanding meal. Though I still would prefer a bit more bite in my noodles.

I finished with a sweet taste of grass jelly in iced syrup, a refreshing dessert similar to those enjoyed in Malaysia and Laos. With that I retreat to my hotel room, with plastic bags of pre-cut mango and pineapple, to wait out the heat of the day, full and relaxed and ready for what comes next. Dinner.

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This is the second post in a short series about my time in Nakhon Si Thammarat. The first, morning edition, is available here.

Bungeoppang (붕어빵) stalls are a common sight on the wintertime streets of Seoul. They’re usually plastic sheeting and tarpaulin affairs, jury-rigged to keep out the biting wind and snow. And they serve bungeoppang, literally fish bread, in reality they’re fish shaped pancakes filled with sweet red bean paste. Some stalls sell different fillings like cream, imitation of course, but in this case it pays to stick to the original. They’re made in a fish shaped mold, built like a sandwich – batter, red beans then more batter – before the fish-shaped lid is put on and more heat applied. The best versions have light dough with crisp edges and plentiful sweet pat (팥, red bean), a combination that keeps your hand diving into the paper bag until the last one is gone.  The worst and half-cooked faded dreams of fish. Against all odds, the best are even good cold. Some think that they’re even better eaten cold. These baked fish have even spawned a range of fish-shaped waffle ice cream sandwiches, complete with a red bean layer. The bungeoppang of summer, for when the real deal vanishes from the streets.

It would be remiss to write about these treats and not mention some of the other shapes available. Yes, this concept isn’t confined to fish, but stretches to … shit. Ddongppang (똥빵) are just like Bungeoppang, but are cooked in cartoon poo shapes. Yep, that’s a thing in Korea. Regardless of presentation, these treats are a memorable and lovely taste of winter.

Bungeoppang
붕어빵

Available from street stalls throughout Seoul during the cooler months, October – March. From 1,000 – 2,000 won for 3 fish.

Nakhon Si Thammarat is one of the oldest towns in Southern Thailand according to wikipedia, unfortunately most streets belie this fact. It is also the place where Buddhism started in Thailand, but sightseeing isn’t on the agenda, I’m here to eat. To eat Chinese, Malay and Thai food, and thanks to ancient immigration, maybe a hint of the subcontinent. This place has a real small town feel, as though not too many tourists pass through here. And if you are a tourist, good luck, the staring can get uncomfortable, transportation is problematic (the town is devoid of taxis and public transport is limited), but the food, oh the food! It makes everything worthwhile. And for the first time ever in Thailand, I have a local guide, the partner of a good friend, who is the real reason I’m here. Double luck, they both love to eat.

First stop from the airport, an outdoor dimsum joint. We take a tray and load it with raw delicacies, there’s the common siu mai and har gao, but other offerings are novel, like broccoli and mushrooms planted in a ball of minced pork, or lurid green noodles enveloping the same pork mince. The tray is handed behind the scenes to be steamed. Slippery dough wrapped around a tumble of bamboo shoots was the winner. A bowl of thin rice soup, eggy and peppered, and glasses of hot, condensed-milk-sweet thai tea round out my first breakfast in Thailand, good tidings for things to come.

This coffee shop is housed in a beautiful old Portuguese-style building, high ceilings with fans whirring, huge doors opened to bring the outside in. It’s quiet and relaxing, a calm place, respite after the sudden shock of heat, traffic and spice one feels when arriving in Thailand. We sit at a big, round table on a covered balcony, watching the occasional car clunk by. We’re here to drink strong, sweet iced coffees that quickly make condensation puddles in the heat and thimblefuls of green tea. There’s a cool breeze, the coffee is good, I could have stayed here all day.

A second round of juk, this time at the bustling, vibrant morning market. Thick and enriched with a half cooked egg, liver and pork meatballs, this rice soup is satisfying, the additions of fresh julienned ginger and pepper invigorate. A paragon of breakfast dishes. Guay-jap is the opposite. This soy-dark soup is sweet and strong and full of insides, blood and tendons, difficult ingredients to wake up to. The warm broth only just coats this cornucopia. Jellied blood, fried tofu, intestines, liver, chickens feet and wing, boiled egg and other miscellany take on a new aspect as they’re coated with the deep, sweet, spicy sauce. Underneath are noodles that start out flat, but the shock of being cooked causes them to tense into tight spirals, magnificently dense. A dish totally unsuited to a by-the-books breakfast, but so enjoyable that I ate it twice.

This food, as much I’ve experienced in Southeast Asia, is somehow made better by the surroundings. Early morning in a busy market, sweat starting despite a cool breeze, the promise of new sights, smells and experiences, and of course, lunch.

The fruit selection in snow-bound Seoul is limited, understandably, frustratingly. South Korea is small and even its deepest south only barely grazes the loosest definition of sub-tropical. Domestically grown summer fruit is luscious, an abundance of peaches and nectarines. Winter fruit is monochromatic, orange. Jeju island is famous for its oranges, tangerines and mandarines, and justifiably so. This fruit is bountiful, affordable and succulent. But compared to Hanoi and Australia, one variety of fruit just isn’t enough. Sure, there are imported bananas and apples of indistinct provenance and age, but neither addition satisfies. Then there are the strawberries.

A common problem when grocery shopping in Korea is the issue of sheer bulk. Some shops pre-pack fruits and vegetables, so you can’t snap off a few bananas, you must buy the whole hand. Imagine the average expat English teacher, living in a one-room studio with a mini fridge. They’ll be eating multiple bananas a day just to ensure their investment isn’t wasted. And don’t even mention toilet paper. The smallest many shops sell is a 30 roll behemoth, that’d make a noticeable imprint in a one-room. The strawberries here are beautiful, fat works of art, packed into punnets (500g) or boxes (1kg) with a price tag to match. 3,500won (~$3AU) is acceptable for an Australian 250g punnet, but would you pay 7,000 for a box that probably won’t even fit in your already overstuffed fridge? I wouldn’t, especially as, in my limited and meagre experience, they’re usually a facade. Big, fat, soft and sweet fruit, with barely a ripple of identifiable strawberry flavour.

Bypass these strawberry replicas on the shelves and head for the streets. Seoul has enviable street-corner sellers and back-of-a-truck provedores, hawking fresh and dried seafood, freshly roasted nuts, tofu, vegetables and fruit. Yesterday a strawberry display caught my nose, half way down the street, first. These berries are tiny, marvellously perfumed and packed with flavour. Yet another vote to leave the supermarkets for the markets and itinerant sellers of Seoul.

Food articles with the premise “it’s freezing dot dot dot soup” are as vacuous as “it’s summer therefore ICE CREAM”. Lovers of ice cream eat ice cream whatever the weather, if you can trust one thing you should trust that. And if you believe that winter and soup are conjoined twins, you’ve never experienced the joy of a steaming bowl of pho on a sultry Ho Chi Minh morning. Yes, soup will warm you up when it’s frosty outside, but probably not as thoroughly as your indoor heating will. That said, judging by the fat dawdling snowflakes it is still winter, and this story is about soup. Not just any soup, but a pair of peppery broths, with a surfeit of noodles and flavour.

Kanemaya.

Being no expert on Japanese food, this is not about authenticity, simply about quality of ingredients, flavour, affordability and enjoyment. Kanemaya sits in the backstreets of Hongdae next to Hongik University, the prices reflecting its student popularity. This place is simple, two options for soup, one hot, the other cold, plus a few sides. The room is concrete, with cute paintings on the floor and roof. Big windows let in light and a view of graffitied alleyways. The hot option (4,000 won) is all thick chewy udon noodles in a peppery, meaty broth with wok blackened spring onions and a dispensable sprinkle of fried tempura batter. A side order of tempura prawns and exceptional fried chicken (5,500 won) is both necessary and satisfying.

Fried sides at Kanemaya.

Chicken soba at Kyushu Jidori Udon.

The next, Kyushu Jidori Udon, is a noodle shop with a gimmick. All the sizes, from large to double extra bucket large, are the same price. But beware, if you order a larger size and don’t finish it, you have to pay more. You can get chicken, beef or tofu, with udon or soba, in soup or dry. The chicken soba (8,000won) is peppery hot and flecked with char from the generous portion seared spring onions. The small nuggets of chicken are chewy but in a pleasurable way, and incredibly flavourful. Beef options don’t have the same smokiness, and are bulgogi-sweet. All the noodles are deftly prepared as you’d expect in a noodle house.

Kyushu Jidori Udon is deservedly popular, at peak times there can be queues down the alley. But unless you’re starving and poor, don’t line up, head to Kanemaya.

Small chicken soba and medium chicken udon, Kyushu Jidori Udon.

A pair of soups, both affordable and satisfying in the backstreets of Hongdae. The long, humid summer is coming and these dishes are too enjoyable to be written off as winter-only affairs.

Kanemaya

서울 마포구 서교동 360-10
Google Maps

Hours: 11:30 – 21:30
Order: Udon and fried chicken

Kyushu Jidori Udon
큐슈 지도리 우동

서울시 마포구 상수동 316-3
02-325-8555
Google Maps

Hours: 11:30 – 22:00
Order: Chicken udon or soba.