Prior to my recent departure from Bangkok—I just moved back to Singapore, with Mr. P in tow—I requested for paak paet thort at my favourite Isaan joint in the city. I’m sure there are lots of superb Isaan spots around—after all Bangkok is overrun with northeastern folks and food—but Jay Koi (เจ้ก้อย) is my go-to when I crave for regional specialties from this fiery region. Plus, Jay Koi’s no-frills, down-to-earth approach of Mr. P’s native cuisine has garnered his nod of approval.

A few days before our flight out, we traipsed to Jay Koi, which was tucked beside a traffic-thronged Phetchaburi Road. The pavements weren’t clean, the cramped interiors were lit by fluorescent light while the ‘pok, pok, pok’ sounds of pestles pounding mortars constantly mixed with the human din, but Jay Koi embodied Bangkok roadside dining at its best. Perched on rickety stools and a stainless-steel table hastily wept clean, we thumbed through the laminated menu and opted for our favourite dishes, such as paak paet thort; kaeng om (a spicy Isaan-style soup infused with dill and plaa raa, or fermented fish sauce); som tam khor muu yang (papaya salad with grilled pork neck); and naam tok nuea (grilled beef), alongside chilled beer. We knew that in Singapore, certain Isaan specialties—particularly the former two—would be harder to find.

The dinner that ensued was simple, yet deeply satisfying. After our bellies were filled, I inquired Mr. P about the meal. “No disappointment,” was his reply. And with that, one of our last meals in Bangkok concluded on a saep (delicious in the Isaan dialect) note. Farewell, Jay Koi. Farewell, paak paet thort. Farewell, Thailand. Goodbye for now, but we’ll be back.

Curious about the gastropods, I made Mr. P tell his mum that I would like to try her snail specialty prior to our latest visit to Udon. When we arrived, MIL announced that she had gone foraging for snails in a family plot, and had cleaned, scrubbed and washed these shells thoroughly. She really put in a lot of efforts to cook her son’s favourite dishes.

For our first meal in Udon, MIL served up a big bowl of keng om hoi (แกงอ่อมหอย), snails simmered in a thick, tangy broth of local leaves and roasted rice powder. Everyone waited in anticipation if I would take to this dish. Mr. P instructed me to remove the oval “door lid” (operculum)—somewhat like the snail’s personal trapdoor—hold the shell with its exposed opening near my mouth and suck hard. The meat slid out of its shell and popped into my mouth. The meat tasted slightly rubbery—similar to squid—but with more earthy tones. Very soon, I was hard at kissing the snails, and a pool of empty shells and lids collected on my plate. At the end of the meal, my belly was filled to the brim with snail meat and air inhaled from sucking the shells.

A few days later, MIL prepared another big bowl bucket of hoi khom for lunch. Eager to savour the gastropodus meat once again, I picked a shell and sucked hard at it. Nothing came out so I repeated my efforts, using my might to suck the shell. By now everyone, including the neighbours joining us for lunch—for meals are communal affairs in Isaan—were giggling.

“Nooooo, you don’t eat it this way,” Mr. P said, while trying to control his laughter.

“Huh?” I uttered, totally confused by the do’s and don’t's of snail eating in Isaan. “But wasn’t that how we ate a few days ago?”

“Yes, but today’s snails don’t have their butts chopped off, so there’s no opening at the tip to create the suction when you suck the shell,” Mr. P explained. “Instead you’ll need a stick to pry the contents out.”

And so I committed a faux pas again, the result of not observing my food before eating them. No wonder Mr. P’s family, relatives and neighbours at Udon are always tickled by me at meal times because they love to see my reactions upon eating ‘weird’ food. I have a fairly adventurous palate, so snails aren’t that weird or gross for me. Everyone soon said they had enough of the snails—but I think that’s because they wanted me to finish them since I seemed to enjoy myself—leaving Mr. P and I to wipe out the entire bucket. We probably devoured at least 50 snails each for that particular meal.

It’s cute that these small creatures have brought me and MIL a bit closer. During Mr. P’s phone calls back home, I will ask him to tell his mum that I miss her snails. And on the other end, she replies, “I miss Xin’s bak kut teh.”

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Several years ago, a popular Thai luuk thung song captured the snail-eating ritual of Thailand’s northeast, as well as the typical friendly, boisterous nature of the Isaan people. Watch this MV!

Mr. P: “It sure looks like you. Eyes of uneven sizes, a flat nose, a big mouth… Oh, and the sparse hair too.”

Sometimes husbands do say the darndest things.

Suffice to say, we never miss an opportunity to buy naem neung whenever we are in Udon Thani. Many souvenir shops in downtown or at the airport stock naem neung of the VT or Daeng brands—two institutions in the province. Mr. P bought a box of naem nueang on his way back from Udon Thani recently. At Bt120 each, it was very much value for money; each box came with fresh herbs—mint leaves; laksa leaves—raw fruits—banana; mango—cucumbers, garlic, green chillies, rice paper sheets, naem (Vietnamese minced pork balls) and a special sauce pack—including dipping sauce, chilli and crushed peanuts.

With everything bundled neatly in a box, preparation was very easy. Cut all the ingredients into small pieces and assemble them on a plate. Mix the dipping sauce with the chilli and crushed peanuts. (To me, the dipping sauce is probably what makes a good naem nueng since the taste of other ingredients shouldn’t differ too greatly from place to place.) Soak the rice paper in water to soften them for eating.

When you’re ready to eat, place the diced ingredients on a piece of softened rice paper before spooning some dipping sauce on top. Wrap the edges of the rice paper inward to create a small package, then pop it in your mouth! It sounds easy, but the not-so-dainty-but-always-greedy me always over-heap the ingredients and end up pushing and stuffing the entire package into my mouth.

I’ve tried naem neung several times in Bangkok but none could beat the Udon deal. So if you’re ever in Udon Thani, don’t forget to buy naem neung as a souvenir.

And of course I had to rope in Mr. P to assist me in his mum’s kitchen. We were so focused on the bak kut aspect that we only prepared pork ribs, needle mushrooms, shiitake mushrooms and garlic cloves, in addition to the spices pack that I purchased in Singapore. Then as we were simmering the stock, we suddenly thought of using black soy sauce and chillies for the condiments, and scampered onto the motorbike to the neighourhood provision store while we had the sister-in-law buy fresh coriander leaves on our behalf. By the end of our bak kut teh endeavour, it was as if half the village knew about my cooking attempt. It was a tad embarrassing.

Meanwhile, my father-in-law and brother-in-law whipped up laap kai (Isaan-style minced chicken) from scratch, including killing a chicken, slicing the meat off the bones and chopping it to bits. When we placed all the dishes on the floor—Isaan meals are traditionally eaten off the floor—I couldn’t resist snapping a picture of the pot of bak kut teh beside the bamboo-woven basket of khao niao (sticky rice), a culinary staple in northeastern Thailand. Eating bak kut teh with laap kai and sticky rice was a novel experience for all of us, but seeing the family happily dipping balls of sticky rice into the bak kut soup? That was a priceless cross-cultural moment for me.

My 2012 resolution? To improve my cooking even more so I can fix up more dishes for Mr. P’s family whenever we are back in Udon.

Being away from Singapore for the last couple of years, I underestimated the time it would take by public transport to travel to Dempsey Road from my Tampines home. A series of bus/MRT/bus/cab rides later, I finally got to TDC, 15 minutes after the stipulated time. Oops! I quietly crept into the restaurant and perched myself on a stool at the back of the room. I took a quick glance of the participants and saw lots of high-end Canon DSLR cameras (yeah, Canon!) and mighty lenses (you know, those white telephoto zoom and red-ringed L lenses). A part of me was wondering, if these people are already using such pro equipment, why do they need to attend a photography course? But of course, there’s always something new to be learned.

Dr. Leslie Tay dispensed tips on various aspects of food photography, such as composition, rules of thirds and cropping. After the presentation, participants were free to mingle, nibble on finger food or point their cameras at the signature dishes prepared by TDC to emulate the drool-inducing shots. However, there were too many photographers and the space too tight to accommodate all of us comfortably. I’m not a proficient photographer so I need lots of space and time to get my shots. But everyone was also trying to get their perfect shot of the dishes at the same time, so I didn’t dare to ‘hog’ each dish for too long.

Many photographers aside, I finally met the amiable Dr. Leslie Tay in person and got him to sign on my copy of The End of Char Kway Teow and Other Hawker Mysteries—a lovely, thoughtful gift from the brother for my birthday this year. And I also bumped into JJ, a former classmate and an avid photographer, at the workshop. Such a coincidence!

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Predictably, my photos turned out to be crappy. Well, I guess the most viable way to improve one’s photographic skills is still practice—lots of it.

Cowslip creeper flowers are good sources of calcium as well as vitamins A and C, and are supposedly good for the liver and kidney. It is also sbelieved that imbibing milkweed flowers will help to induce vomiting. Here’s a good overview. There are various ways to cook dork khajon, but making it as a yam (salad) is the yummiest in my opinion. I tried frying these flowers with omelettes before, as suggested by my dear friend May, but I found the taste pretty mediocre.

Cowslip creeper flowers come in small bundles or clusters. Pluck the flower buds from the stems to separate them into individual pieces. The buds make little popping sounds when pulled from the stems, something like popping bubble wraps. *Grins*

And of course, to make a mean Thai salad, don’t forget the essential items of naam pla (fish sauce), palm sugar, phrik phao (roasted chilli paste) and lime.

I love adding shrimps to a Thai salad. The shrimps’ bright orange contrasts brilliantly with the vibrant green of the milkweed flowers. Roasted peanuts—with the skins removed—are an absolute must for me, for they add extra crunchiness and layers to a dish. My current obsession is garnishing a Thai salad with julienned kaffir leaves, a result of staring too often at the decadent pictures in Chef McDang’s book.

Yam Dork Khajon (ยำดอกขจร) | Cowslip Creeper Flower Salad

Ingredients
Cowslip creeper flowers, 2 cups
Shrimps, cleaned and deveined, 200g
Bird’s eye chilli (phrik khii nuu), sliced, 1 tbsp
Roasted chili paste (naam phrik phao), 2 tbsps
Fish sauce, 2 tbsps
Palm sugar, 1 tbsp
Lime sauce, 2 tbsps

Garnishes (optional but nice to have)
Roasted peanuts, 1 tbsp
Kaffir leaves, julienned

To make the salad dressing, mix the sliced chilli, roasted chilli paste, fish sauce, palm sugar and lime juice together until they are well blended. Feel free to adjust the dressing to personal preference—it should taste in equal parts spicy, sour and sweet. Set the dressing aside.

Blanch the cowslip creeper flowers in boiling water until they are just cooked—they will usually turn a brighter shade of green. Make sure not to overcook or they will turn soggy. Then remove the flowers and douse them in cold water to retain their vibrant green hue before draining the water away. Repeat the same steps for the shrimps.

Arrange the cowslip creeper flowers and shrimps on a serving plate. With a tablespoon, drizzle the dish with the salad dressing. Then garnish the dish with peanuts and kaffir leaves. Serve immediately.

Back home, I decided to give my mom a call to get her advice on cooking pomfret. I called my dad up on iPad via Facetime. They were highly tickled and amused I’d make an impromptu call home—we have a routine for our weekly chats—just to find out how to cook a dish, least of all something (fish) I didn’t used to like. When Mummy knew we had got a pomfret, she requested to ‘see’ it. I took the pomfret out from the fridge and flashed it in front of her/the iPad.

“Aiyoh, why did you buy a hei cang?” She clucked her tongue. (Hei cang is Chinese for black promfret.) “How do you intend to cook it?”

“We’ll use the microwave, just like how you used to cook fish for Papa,” I replied.

“Then you have to use bai cang (white promfret). Hei cang tastes better when fried,” she said.

I said,”I also think so but Mr. P here thinks differently. He thinks a hei cang is fatter, hence tastier if steamed.”

“Haha. Just try making it. Remember to rub salt on the skin and inside of the fish to clean it,” she advised.

At times like this, I really heart technology. The wonders of technology make it possible—and easy—for me to seek culinary tips from my family, even though we are physically more than 2,000km apart. And when the fish is cooked, I took photos of the dish on iPad and sent it to my brother’s iPhone so that he could show our ‘masterpiece’ to Mummy and Papa.

They asked about the taste of the fish. Our verdict? Just mediocre. The flesh was a bit too dry and the soy sauce too little. But we’re already planning to advance our fish-cooking techniques with the next piscine dish, this time with plaa kraphong (sea bass). More updates to come.