Cooking Thai in Guatemala
I recently helped my friend Paul put together a Thai cookbook which included the more common recipes from his own kitchen. The book was part of a larger effort to raise money for a missions trip to Spain, which Paul and the youth group at Union Church have been hard at for several months. The idea was to open a monthly Thai restaurant at the church, with a suggested donation for the meal. Five courses, with variations: spicy chicken soup, curry puffs, Chiang Mai noodles, stir fry, and Thai curry. We did four nights over successive months, and I think raised over $7,000. Paul and I cooked, and the youth group served. For the last night, which was just two weeks ago, Paul bought the the kids restaurant-style aprons, black and to the ankles. For he and myself the same, along with white double breasted chef coats. For a night, I might have even felt like the real thing. Paul, of course, looked and was the real thing.
Paul and his wife Melinda have lived in Guatemala for four years. Paul works at the Union Church, and Melinda, like Kristin, is a counselor at the school where I teach. They both cook brilliant meals. We’ve been over numerous times, and I think every time we have stood or sat in their kitchen and cooked with them.
Paul spent a few years living in Bangkok as a kid, and attended boarding school in Penang, Malaysia. He remains connected intimately to those memories, which of course include the food.
After several attendees had pleaded for the recipes we were using, and with Kristin’s encouragement, we got the idea to do the cookbook. Unfortunately, it was only two weeks before the last restaurant, where we thought it would make sense to sell them. We finished it, and sold a handful that night, and a few more since. Paul asked me to write a Foreword. Here is what I wrote.
*
I confess that until moving to Guatemala, I had long associated Thai food with imported beer and business casual, the food that lured yuppies, and that all the cool kids from the cool side of town were eating when they were eating out. Thai was hip, and the spicier you ordered it, the cooler you were. The best Thai restaurant in Cincinnati, for instance, is located in Mt. Adams, a quaint little upper-class village overlooking the downtown. Here, successful young professionals spend their weekends eating Thai in their pre-faded chinos and Euro-cut button ups. As a small town boy from Michigan, with a humble cape cod on Cincinnati’s blue collar “west side,” there was always something about Thai food, or maybe it was the glib culture that appeared to surround it, that I rejected. Give me a grilled sausage and a helping of green bean casserole, thank you very much.
What I did not expect when we moved to Guatemala two years ago was to learn not only how to cook Thai food, but something about its enjoyment. I learned this in a humble kitchen in Guate’s Zona 11, at Paul and Melinda Gunther’s house. After several visits and many meals, some of them quite spontaneous, I began to learn the enjoyment of Thai food, or any food cooked with skill, care, and love, happens not in fancy candlelit restaurants with imported beer and a waiter named Hans, but over conversation and participation, in chopping cilantro roots and telling stories. What I found so memorable and moving about those times in the Gunther kitchen was the way Paul came alive behind his wok, and how the flame of his joy, his art, lit into my own mind.
Equally moving is that in Paul and Melinda’s kitchen, standing around and watching is forbidden. They will stick a cleaver in one hand, a stalk of green onion in the other. “Here. Chop.” And you’re off. And the conversation carries over the stir-fry and curry, and the world—yes, even out of the small economy of a rented kitchen in Guatemala City—opens up.
The thing is, I may never visit Thailand, never eat chicken satay from the street vendors of Bangkok, or taste fresh lemon grass from Ubon. But I have eaten some of the best Thai food imaginable, and that with good friends. With great friends. And in the process, have even gotten my hands a little smelly with fish sauce. And that is enough.
DANIEL TODD
Guatemala City
4/25/06
(Here is the book cover. Soi 10 is the name of the street Paul lived on in Bangkok as a kid)
Paul and his wife Melinda have lived in Guatemala for four years. Paul works at the Union Church, and Melinda, like Kristin, is a counselor at the school where I teach. They both cook brilliant meals. We’ve been over numerous times, and I think every time we have stood or sat in their kitchen and cooked with them.
Paul spent a few years living in Bangkok as a kid, and attended boarding school in Penang, Malaysia. He remains connected intimately to those memories, which of course include the food.
After several attendees had pleaded for the recipes we were using, and with Kristin’s encouragement, we got the idea to do the cookbook. Unfortunately, it was only two weeks before the last restaurant, where we thought it would make sense to sell them. We finished it, and sold a handful that night, and a few more since. Paul asked me to write a Foreword. Here is what I wrote.
*
I confess that until moving to Guatemala, I had long associated Thai food with imported beer and business casual, the food that lured yuppies, and that all the cool kids from the cool side of town were eating when they were eating out. Thai was hip, and the spicier you ordered it, the cooler you were. The best Thai restaurant in Cincinnati, for instance, is located in Mt. Adams, a quaint little upper-class village overlooking the downtown. Here, successful young professionals spend their weekends eating Thai in their pre-faded chinos and Euro-cut button ups. As a small town boy from Michigan, with a humble cape cod on Cincinnati’s blue collar “west side,” there was always something about Thai food, or maybe it was the glib culture that appeared to surround it, that I rejected. Give me a grilled sausage and a helping of green bean casserole, thank you very much.
What I did not expect when we moved to Guatemala two years ago was to learn not only how to cook Thai food, but something about its enjoyment. I learned this in a humble kitchen in Guate’s Zona 11, at Paul and Melinda Gunther’s house. After several visits and many meals, some of them quite spontaneous, I began to learn the enjoyment of Thai food, or any food cooked with skill, care, and love, happens not in fancy candlelit restaurants with imported beer and a waiter named Hans, but over conversation and participation, in chopping cilantro roots and telling stories. What I found so memorable and moving about those times in the Gunther kitchen was the way Paul came alive behind his wok, and how the flame of his joy, his art, lit into my own mind.
Equally moving is that in Paul and Melinda’s kitchen, standing around and watching is forbidden. They will stick a cleaver in one hand, a stalk of green onion in the other. “Here. Chop.” And you’re off. And the conversation carries over the stir-fry and curry, and the world—yes, even out of the small economy of a rented kitchen in Guatemala City—opens up.
The thing is, I may never visit Thailand, never eat chicken satay from the street vendors of Bangkok, or taste fresh lemon grass from Ubon. But I have eaten some of the best Thai food imaginable, and that with good friends. With great friends. And in the process, have even gotten my hands a little smelly with fish sauce. And that is enough.
DANIEL TODD
Guatemala City
4/25/06
(Here is the book cover. Soi 10 is the name of the street Paul lived on in Bangkok as a kid)
posted by Daniel Todd at 3:10 AM
1 Comments:
I can't wait until you get back to Cincinnati to share the wealth. I'll have the Pad Thai, but keep it mild please.
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