Reconnecting with My Inner Tourist

As I mentioned in my last post, Bangkok pretty much has it all: delicious street food, lots of temples, yet with all the comforts of a large Western city. Okay, decent wine is really expensive, but shitty beer is about $1, so I guess that balances it out. When I was here last summer it was at the tail end of my two years in Asia. I was ready for Western comforts. I was desperate for decent Italian food. And I found myself spending a lot of time exploring the decadent side of the city. (Technically decadence was reserved for Decadent Thursdays, but by the end of the summer every day was Decadent Thursday.) I’ve decided that this time around I should take in as many tourist sites as possible before work becomes totally insane. So I have a mission: eat vast quantities, and try to find some art.

My first unfortunate discovery was that not all grilled meat is equal, despite the glistening, succulent appearance as it sizzles in the Bangkok heat. This coincided with another discovery: as in Taipei, art here is cute. Very cute. Two Fridays ago I went to a gallery opening at GOJA café. The title of the exhibit was “Space Oddity”, and advertising promised painting, sculpture, and free beer and food. Right up my alley. It should be noted that I do not know a lot about visual arts. I don’t have the vocabulary to discuss it in depth. I do, however, know what I like when I see it, and I do want to expand my horizons. Therefore I boarded the Sky Train and wandered over to the café. It was small. Unexpectedly small. Small to the point that I don’t know how it functions as a café during non-gallery times. Also, the air conditioning: weak. Very weak. In Bangkok that can be painful, but cold beer usually alleviates that pain. Alas, the beer: not free. And lastly, the food: non-existent. Perhaps I was there too early. Not a big deal; I purchased a beer and made mental plans to hit up the street food after I was done walking around the very tiny room.

On to the art. There were two artists, one of whom was showing Where the Wild Things Are kind of way. The other artist was showing paintings of night skies and fairy-tale icons, alongside little sculptures of aliens. The sculptures appeared to be constructed out of toy thimbles and music box gears. It was…not my thing. But again, no big deal. I was glad that I checked it out. I finished my beer and slipped out, heading down the street to satisfy my street food cravings. Sadly, the stars were not aligned for me that night. I decided to start off with some grilled meat on a stick. In my experience, you cannot go wrong with grilled meat on a stick. Unless you’re a vegetarian. Meat on a stick is almost invariably a delightful little morsel of charred goodness, perhaps sweet, perhaps vinegary, perhaps coated in a fiery spice. Meat on a stick is solid street food, a safe choice.

drawings of aliens and of naked kids hanging out on the moon. It was, as I mentioned, cute, but still enjoyable. In a cosmic, non-threatening

Oh how wrong I was.

Help me, Alien Thimble Man!
You're my only hope!

There are few things that I flat out will not eat. Bugs. Liver. Congealed blood (although I have been know to unwittingly make exceptions there). And intestines. I know that logically, I should enjoy intestines. With the proper char, or in a complex broth, intestines are supposedly very good. But I just can’t do it. There’s some kind of after-taste, a musk, if you will, that I associate with digestion, and it just makes me want to vomit. I realize that this is irrational. I eat sausage. I find marrow delicious. I will go to great lengths to procure pork belly. I have no compunction about eating shrimp that has not been de-veined. I am aware of the possibility that all my fried calamari experiences were lies, and that I was actually eating hog rectum (thanks for that bit of info, This American Life.) And yet I still eat calamari, happily in fact. But intestines. I can’t do it. I just can’t. I’m sure you can see where this is headed.

The grilled meat stand was emitting a wonderful aroma, and the skewers themselves were a beautiful, rich burgundy. I pointed to one that was almost marbled with grill marks. The woman behind the grill took the meat off the skewer and sliced it up for me. The minute I saw the interior, I knew something wasn’t quite right. I had a hunch. The consistency was wrong, all wrong. It bore a striking resemblance to past intestine encounters, but it was not completely identical, so I told myself to buck up and dive in. The meat was…squishy. Rubbery. Not the juicy delight I had come to expect from meat-on-a-stick. And then, the aftertaste. It snuck up on me. One moment I was reluctantly chewing the substandard skewer, the next I was gagging over a garbage can. It was all too clear. I was eating intestine. That vaguely offensive taste at the back of my throat. The horror. The horror.

I immediately threw the bag of vile entrails out and decided that the only cure was some good curry. Yes, that’s what I needed. Curry. Curry so spicy and fragrant that it would burn away all traces of culinary disaster. I ran to the curry stand and ordered a plate of crimson pork curry. I sat down, eager to redeem the evening, and ate a big, heaping spoonful of….curried intestines. No! Curses! Deceiver!!!!!

There was no escape. Intestines were my fate. I accepted defeat and headed back to the sky train. On the way, I passed a vendor selling sauteed bugs. Was it my imagination, or was there a mocking smile on the bug vendor's face? As if he knew that I had been brought low by their offerings, that my Western sensibilities could not be overcome. You can take the girl out of the US, but you can't make her eat insects and offal. Run, little girl, run away! Yes, that's what his smile was communicating. Either that, or I was having an intestine-induced delusion. Regardless, that street was my culinary downfall, and I have vowed never to return. Damn you intestines. Why must you taunt me so?

Yes. This is exactly what you think it is.