Nam Jim Jaew

In my twenties I took a spontaneous trip to Thailand. I boarded the plane to Guangzhou, China, and after a lengthy layover, hopped on the next flight to Bangkok. After what felt like innumerable hours spent in burdensome lineups and uncomfortable plane seats, I arrived around midnight; tired, sore, and very hungry.

My friend, who lived in the city, had sent me his address, but without any data or wifi I could only take screenshots of the route. I showed these to the cab driver, who responded with a look of confusion and annoyance, a cigarette burning between his fingers. Nevertheless, he let me in the cab and we took off. The highways leaving the airport were sprawling and chaotic. I was enjoying all of the things I was seeing, but the hunger was growing in me like a helium balloon.

After a long hour of endless turns and twists down unfamiliar streets, the cab driver stated that we had arrived. We were in a dark alley, with no signposts or street names in sight. With a great deal of hesitation I lumbered out of the taxi, collected my bags, and watched him drive off, leaving me in the silence and darkness of this new and strange city.

I walked out of the alley, looked right, then left. I decided on left. And standing at the next block, by some divine miracle, was my friend. I embraced him, with enormous gratitude for that cab driver, and perhaps also for some unknowable and universal karmic force. After setting my bags down in his apartment, we pursued the absolutely necessary: food, and lots of it.

Leaving his apartment, we began walking down the street. With the weight of my pack left behind I could pay some more attention to the things around me. Every sight, smell, and sound was playing on my heightened senses like a virtuoso plays upon their instrument. We turned down a perilously narrow alley, squeezed out the other side, and stepped into a small, warmly lit restaurant. It was not busy or loud; a small radio played top forty hits through a blanket of white noise.

But… the smell. It crawled into my nostrils and moved along my olfactory nerves, and my stomach responded immediately with a melisma of tremor. My salivary glands kicked in so hard that I almost drooled. My eyes set upon dishes and bowls of unknown fare, and the sound of sizzling and boiling and clattering dish ware became acute in my eardrums.

We sat down. My friend promptly ordered two beers, and lit a cigarette. We talked for a bit, catching up, but he could tell that I was ravenous and so began ordering. He knew a little Thai, but most of his selection was done by pointing at things on the menu. He didn’t tell me what we were getting, knowing rightly so that I would be happy with just about anything.

The first dish to arrive consisted of three parts: sticky rice (a staple of Thai food), a cut of pork shoulder grilled to obsidian, and a small dish of sauce. I asked him what the sauce was, and he told me it was called Nam Jim Jaew. He instructed me to pick up some sticky rice in my hands, and then use that to pick up the charred shoulder, and then dip that into the sauce. I put the strange finger-full of food into my mouth.

For a brief moment, it felt as though I had been electrocuted. Zapped may be a more appropriate word. But that feeling gave way to a full orchestra of different flavours; fresh, earthy, spicy, sour, sweet, citrus, savoury, aromatic. After a time the spiciness rose, like a swelling crescendo, and left me with a bright warmth that was closing on the cusp of painful. My nose and eyes watered slightly, and my mouth tingled as though it had just been the host of a miniature firework show.

That one bite probably lasted a few seconds, but it felt like an hour; a journey, through parts of my sense of taste that I had never known existed. I took another bite (sticky rice, pork shoulder, nam jim jaew) expecting something less exciting, but was met with the experience redoubled. The lingering heat from the bite before had made my tongue even more attuned, and the entire journey was enjoyed again.

The server brought us our beers, and with a cheers that was as celebratory as it was necessary, we took a drink. The crispness and coolness washed away the heat, both within me and all around me. I felt as though I had finally been brought back to life after all those hours travelling. The server came back with more plates: spicy papaya salad, fried duck beak, coconut curries, grilled meats, soups and greens and seafoods and things I couldn’t recognize. The plates began stacking, and the table started to resemble some kind of porcelain skyline.

My friend, who worked in a world renowned, Michelin star restaurant in Bangkok, told me about Thai food while we ate. He explained how food was deeply engrained into the culture. A person’s day was largely structured around food, and rather than waiting to eat when it is the right time (as us Westerners do), the people of Thailand stop what they are doing and eat when they are hungry.

He described that a great deal of the flavours I was enjoying were found only in that part of the world. Not only with ingredients that are endemic to the region, like the fabled Thai basil. He explained that, as Thailand lies largely in the central part of Asia, it has become a melting pot of different Asian flavours and cuisines, with novel and ingenious dishes being commonplace throughout the country.

But lastly, and most poignantly, he told me that food in Thailand was shared. With his fingers bringing the food to his mouth, he said that it was not a thing that people do alone, simply because they need the energy. It was an experience that was nurtured and cherished by families and friends.

As we sat, sipping cold beers and smoking cigarettes, our stomachs filled with a bounty, and our mouths still alight with the intense spice of crushed chilli peppers, I couldn’t help but agree with him. I felt nourished, from the food of course, but also from the experience. Sharing all of that food with my good friend made it that much more incredible. Had I gone alone, I would have ordered and eaten what I needed (and what I knew) to satiate my hunger. But going with a friend left me with an experience that I will cherish for my life.

We had many more great meals during my time there, but none lived up to that first bite. Some were strange, like raw bison cured with stomach bile. Some were so spicy that my consciousness practically left my body. Some gave me food poisoning and left me bedridden.

But all of them were shared. And in sharing them, they transcended into memorable experiences. I came home with an entirely different view of food. I strive to see eating as something to be cherished and enjoyed and shared, not something I need to do just to keep going.

I have tried to recreate the nam jim jaew at home, but without the unattainable ingredients and skill of Thai cuisine, it is probably impossible for me to get it up to standard.

A half ounce of finely diced shallots, a quarter cup of finely chopped cilantro, the juice of one whole lime, a tablespoon of fish sauce, two tablespoons of apple juice, one teaspoon of fried red pepper flakes, and a tablespoon of sticky rice, toasted and powdered. Mix these all together and you will be granted with a simulacra of one of the most flavourful and versatile sauces on this planet.

But, if you ever get the chance, go to Thailand and try the real thing. I can promise that you will never forget it.