Khao Paat Muu: My Love Affair with Fried Rice

The smells of pastries, rice and hamburgers all mixed together in the food court. I sat in the Los Angeles airport, thousands of miles from home, and thousands of miles from my final destination. I picked out the smell of the Asian stir-fry above all of the rest probably because it was the most pungent, but also because it was what I was craving the most. My mouth began to water as I closed my eyes and secretly planned my menu for the next month.

My cousin, Richard, and I were headed on a month-long trip to Asia. We planned to visit Nepal, India, Thailand and Malaysia. I was looking forward to the adventure that awaited me in India and Nepal, two countries I had never been to before. But I couldn't wait to reminisce and relive memories in Malaysia and Thailand, two places I had lived during my school years. Richard and I had spent months planning where we would go, and stay, how much things would cost, and how we would get there. Secretly, I spent most of my time dreaming about all of my favorite restaurants we would eat at, and the new restaurants we would try.

Thrilled that we were headed toward such an aromatic part of the world, I mentally began to plan our menu for the month-in Nepal and India lots of curry, rice and plenty of naan (Indian flat bread). In Malaysia-hamburgers from "the hamburger man" at the Hillside stalls, digestive cookies from Straits Mini-Market, curry-flavored Maggie ramen noodles, and char koay teow, a fried noodle dish from Gurney Drive. In Thailand we would have fried rice, lots of fried bananas, and many bowlsful of khao soy (noodles in coconut milk soup), sticky rice, muu satay (pork on a stick), Foremost ice cream, and honey barbeque chicken.

As I basked in the fragrances of my past, inhaling deeply, Richard wandered around trying to find a bathroom and a place to smoke. He didn't seem quite as reminiscent as I did. I closed my eyes and dreamt of my favorite foods. Richard was unaware that I already had the whole menu planned, and we would be eating rice at every meal.

As I relaxed and reminisced, what tomorrow's meals in Bangkok might entail preoccupied me. I could see Bangkok's Silom Road, decorated with a multitude of restaurants, both indoor and outdoor. Where would we eat? Muu satay sizzled on a miniature charcoal grill. Bags of sticky rice stacked up beside the pork for just two baht a bag. Short, chubby bananas, dipped in crunchy batter, bathed in hot oil. Across the street, a small restaurant, with your choice of an air conditioned or open air dining area, posted fried rice for 15 baht a plate. There were many choices, but the very thought of fried rice made my mouth water. If only the next 12 hours would be over quickly.

The moment we stepped off the plane in Bangkok all of the smells-the pollution, the heat, and the lingering aromas from the roadside stalls reminded my brain that we were in the place where the best fried rice in the world was served. Unfortunately, since we had arrived at 1:00 am, I had to satisfy my jet-lagged and growling stomach with crushed peanut butter crackers from my backpack until the next morning.

The next day we made our way back through the congested streets of the capital to my favorite fried rice restaurant on Silom Road. Unfortunately, we had to pass a half-dozen street food vendors along the way. My palate was pulled in many directions as I passed Basmati rice and chicken, koay teow (another Thai noodle soup), and pork satay. My mind tried to convince my stomach that it had already decided where we would eat-the fried rice shop. Once we arrived, no menu was necessary, I knew what I wanted. I ordered khao paat muu, or pork fried rice. Richard, not as food obsessed as I was, and still trying to let his stomach get used to the new time zone, he ordered only a Thai Singha Beer.

The plate of fried rice came to me-an object of perfection-slightly orange colored tinted by local spices, garnished with four slices of cucumber and a slice of lime. It was even better than my dreams! The young waitresses watched from the corner as I gobbled up the entire plate in record time. I tried to be polite and not eat like I hadn't eaten in days, but it HAD been three years since I had relished over authentic Thai fried rice in Thailand. As I gorged myself on my first plate of fried rice, Richard watched in amazement and probably disgust. The waitress came to collect my spotless plate, and I ordered another plate of fried rice in my broken-almost forgotten Thai. Promptly, another plate of fried rice was brought to our table and was placed right in front of Richard. We exchanged glances and he slid the plate over to my direction, much to the embarrassment of our waitress. She had probably never seen a tiny American girl out eat an American guy by putting away two plates of fried rice! I inhaled the second plate and relaxed with a very pleased smile on my face. I loved my fried rice.

In other Asian countries I would order fried rice to satisfy my longings for the dish, but I was always disappointed with dry, or sometimes incredibly greasy, less flavorful version. American Chinese restaurants were even worse. Nothing could compete with the fried rice from Thailand.

My history with fried rice extended well beyond Bangkok's Silom Road and into other parts of The Land of Smiles. One Christmas, after being in boarding school for three months in Malaysia, I joined my family at a beach in Thailand for Christmas vacation. Malaysia has fried rice that is acceptable, but not the greatest, so consuming a huge plate of fried rice was at the top of my to do list once I got to Thailand. One evening my craving had not yet been satisfied by the missionary resort menu, so Dad and I went on a late night wild fried rice hunt. Dad and I hopped in the truck and rode up and down the streets of Hua Hin trying to find a fried rice vendor that still might be open. After driving up and down dozens of dark sois, or alleyways, we finally found a lit street with a few shops still opened. Dad forked over 15 baht to indulge me in a plate of Thai fried rice and watched in awe as I gobbled up the midnight snack as if someone might take my plate away.

Several years later, when I visited my parents in Chiang Mai, Thailand over my Christmas break from college, my dad told us he would get whatever we wanted for dinner. While my brother and mother placed orders for Whoppers from the newly arrived Burger King, I asked for an order of fried rice. All of our wishes were granted when my very patient father parked his motorcycle in front of the Burger King, ordered me a serving of fried rice from the street side food stall outside the burger franchise, and walked into the restaurant to place burger orders for the rest of the family.

When dad returned with all of our food requests, we spread our food desires on the coffee table all eating what we missed the most. Living in America, I dreamed of and dearly missed my dose of fried rice, while Mom, Dad, and Ben, living in Thailand often missed the flavors of a charbroiled burger.

Five years later in Thailand again, Richard and I had to satisfy my longing for fried rice first, so we could proceed on to the next order of business-the other Thai foods I wanted to gorge myself on in the next twenty-four hours. We only had a day initially in Bangkok before we headed off to Kathmandu, Nepal. But during those twenty-four hours I managed to stuff myself on sticky rice and muu satay, fried bananas, and chicken and yellow rice.

During the remainder of our month long trip, we feasted on many wonderful dishes in Nepal, India, and Malaysia. In each of those countries, I also had a list of foods I HAD to try. But nothing could compare to my first taste of fried rice in Bangkok. Before we headed back to the United States, I managed to have fried rice several more times. I knew that once I was home I would have to be reconciled to fried rice flavored with packaged spices from Kroger until my next trip to the land of fried rice.

Published on 5/28/01