words by lok yung yam photos by Caroline Caton At about one o’clock every afternoon, I walk into a tiny restaurant. To call it a hole-in-thewall spot would give it too much credit. Run solely by a middle-aged couple who insist on identifying themselves as Chinese despite having been born and raised in Thailand, the restaurant is little more than two long tables and room for vats of food. The space is at once comfortably and appropriately small, leaving room for only three burners, one of which is directly connected to a portable gas tank. The vegetables, stored in the drink refrigerator, are cut on the dining tables when business slows down after lunch. The small-scale nature of the business fosters a brand of familiarity I seldom see in a developing almost-metropolitan city like Bangkok, where ostentation usually takes precedence. Located just outside the heart of the Bangkok business district, A-Ma draws the mix of Thai locals, working expats, and the occasional tourist. Owing to its proximity to Wat Sri Maha Mariamman (known colloquially as Wat Khaek because it is apparently also impossible for locals to pronounce), A-Ma relies primarily on a Buddhist vegetarian customer base. Though 95% of the Thai population subscribes to Theravada Buddhism, often referred to as the “lesser” stream of Buddhism, strict vegetarianism isn’t common. Local tradition dictates only that practicing Buddhists abstain from meat on certain days based on the lunar calendar called wan phra, or monk day. I am painfully reminded each time it comes around when I have to push through a packed A-Ma with people literally spilling out of the restaurant. This brand of part-time vegetarianism makes up the bulk of
44
the abstention from meat in Thailand, self-consciously short of fully vegetarian practitioners, who are often considered “better” Buddhists. I have more than once been referred to as hi-so— an appropriation of “high society”—in reference to my superhuman ability to maintain a meatless diet year-round. The owners of A-Ma have never mentioned it. I first stumbled across the restaurant exploring the area around my workplace. A-Ma is just far enough off from the main tourist area that most people would miss it, nestled in a small street—an alley, really—branching off Silom, one of Bangkok’s two major roads. I was initially drawn to the yellow, triangular flags streaming across its front, marking it as a Buddhist vegetarian establishment, meaning that it’s vegan and then some—strict Buddhists follow a vegan diet without garlic, onions, and other aromatics. Otherwise virtually identical to the adjacent location, I didn’t particularly have high hopes for A-Ma until I walked in, past the sneeze guard, to be greeted with six full vats of familiar Thai dishes. Though pointing is usually the safest option, I’ve taken the time to learn most of the Thai dishes in the market. Gaeng naw mai, or bamboo shoot curry, is a perennial favorite that I had previously never tried because it generally involves a generous sprinkle of minced pork. The veganized version looked every bit as authentic and misleadingly simple. A unique amalgamation of the culinary behemoths of India and China, Thailand’s food looks a bit of both, adapted for local ingredients. Asking about the composition of any Thai dish other than pad thai will elicit a list of ingredients foreign even to the rest of Southeast Asia, and that doesn’t take into account the “red curry paste,” treated as a single ingredient composed of its own exhaustive list of Thai herbs and spices.
CHICKPEA MAGAZINE fall 2013