The Mindfulness Exercise of Eating Thai Food

Not the meal in question. But a very good one.

After we finish some adventures at Khao Sok National Park, my travelling buddy carries on to Koh Samui while I lay over in the southern city of Surat Thani. For the first time during this trip, I am out on my own and left to deal with the consequences of my poor preparation. I’m in a completely unfamiliar city with no idea where to stay or how I’ll get there. And I’m very hungry.

Eventually I find a hostel and have only my empty stomach to attend to. Simple enough, right? Wrong. I’ve learned that in Thailand, especially in towns like this not frequented by westerners, even tasks like this can prove to be an adventure. The signage is strictly in Thai, there are not many English speakers, and it’s not easy to tell which establishments will have a reputable cuisine. The only “restaurants” I come across are countless one-room storefronts which act as family residences, convenience stores, clothing shops, and fry stations all in one. No menus, no English, and often no seating. Now I’m an adventurous eater, and I’m sure there are some hidden gems among these, but I’m not about to settle. I’ve come a long way and worked up quite the appetite. As I wander, I’m monitoring the true metric of how respectable a Thai restaurant is - the number of locals eating there. Their standards of Thai food are higher than mine, so I’d like more than anything to defer my decision to them. Because of COVID, though, even the usual hotspots are wanting for customers, so I can’t really rely on this metric.

In my head, I’m Anthony Bourdain and will just happen upon the greatest noodle establishment in the south of Thailand through sheer culinary instinct. It takes only an hour of panicked, aimless wandering for me to shake this delusion, swallow my pride, and resort to Google maps. As cheap as it makes me feel, I’m running out of options quick and energy quicker. I find a restaurant rated well, which is relieving considering it’s the only one rated. And after another laborious mile, I arrive at where the ironically named “Lucky Restaurant” is supposed to exist. It doesn’t.

So now I’m more tired, more hungry, and less certain of what to do with myself. And yet… smiling. There’s not much else to do besides laugh at the absurdity of my situation. You might say that getting frustrated, impatient, and upset are options as well. But if I were to feel this way in every situation which fell short of my expectations, I would have to spend most of my time in this country upset. Light-heartedness and patience are prerequisites for a good time here. A certain part of me is almost glad for the trouble– the more misfortunate the situation, the greater the exercise for my positive thinking muscles. The strength will serve me well when I return to my comfortable life in America and find myself failing to see reasons to get upset (no, that is not a challenge, future 6th grade students of mine).

Anyways, I can’t eat optimism. I’m still desperately hungry, tired, and nearing the limit of my sanity, as proud as I am for keeping cool thus far. I revisit Google Maps, expand my search radius, and settle for the only other restaurant in town whose reputation internet users vouch for. I arrive at an establishment not so fancy as to seem inauthentic, but not so run-down as to worry me. Best of all, I see plenty of locals eating there. They’re staring at me, too, but for different reasons, probably.

My relief is short lived – as soon as I sit down I’m confronted with more uncertainty...

What the hell am I going to order?

I’ve come too far to botch this. I love Pad Thai, but refuse to keep defaulting to it just because it’s the only dish I can ask for in Thai. None of the employees speak English, and I figure the menu will be in Thai, so I know it will be a struggle to figure out what I want. And even once I do, how will I tell them?!

Just as the panic begins to settle in, the decision is made for me, and an entire platter of whatever-they decide-to-make-that-day is placed in front of me. I’ve now learned it’s common for Thai restaurants to do away with the menu and just serve everyone a “special” of sorts. Sort of like “you get what you get and you don’t get upset.” Fitting enough, considering the events of my day.

The colors capture my attention first. There are deep reds and greens for the curries, dark browns in the fish stew, shimmering silver fish skins, shiny glass noodles, and an entire plate of green garnishes – kaffir lime leaves, cucumbers, Thai basil, limes, and sprouts. I think the aromas are nice, too, but I’m in no mood to stop and smell the roses, so to speak. The textures, temperatures, and tastes are all varied thoughtfully. There’s also a significant amount of heat, and I have no idea which of the half dozen dishes it’s coming from. And I don’t care. It’s all delicious.

As my hunger disappears, so do my worries. And not just because I’m filling up, but because I’m totally engaged by the mindfulness exercise that is this meal. I can’t possibly be preoccupied during an experience like this – the distance between my thoughts and the task of eating and enjoying approaches zero. That’s compliment to the chef of course, but taste is not my only faculty that’s engaged. In this moment I am also:

· Ignoring the pain of the mystery-dish chilies (a constant effort of will)

· Operating a spoon in my left hand and chopsticks in my right to deliver noodles, soups, veggies, fish, and salad to my mouth (a complicated exercise of fine motor skills)

· Strategizing on which dishes to combine, what toppings to add, and how many noodles to include in each bite (a high-stakes mental puzzle)

Every grain of my attention is occupied. There’s no room left in my mind to ruminate on feelings of doubt, or any sort really. I realize that if something as simple as a meal can remind me to be present, anything can.

So I hope you can see why I am failing to still feel stressed. The locals surely do. When I walked in, they were staring at me as if I was the other. But once they see how expertly I navigate their food, and especially how much I enjoy it, their stares turn to proud smiles. I give my compliments (“aroi-aroi”) to the staff and wonder what I’ll have to pay for this culinary extravaganza, cultural exchange, and therapy session all in one.

It’s three dollars. I love Thailand.