I have a confession to make: I am hopelessly addicted to Thai food. Ever since my first plate of tongue-searing, eye-watering, five-chili som tam more than three years ago, I?ve never stopped craving it. I?m beginning to think that recovery might be impossible.
Luckily, I live in Bangkok, where my next moo ping or gai yang fix is always right around the corner. But for all the time I spend scarfing down Thai food, I only have a vague idea of how some of its most iconic dishes are made. I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands. Hoping to learn a few tricks of my own, I signed up for a cooking class at the Mandarin Oriental.
Housed in a gorgeously restored antique house on the far side of the Chao Phraya, the class?s kitchen was the stuff of foodie dreams. Polished brass cookware gleamed; fresh herbs bloomed on the patio; and antiques (think a century-old wooden coconut scraper carved to look like a rabbit) decorated the corners.
Our instructor, Chef Narain Kiattiyotcharoen, greeted myself and one other student enthusiastically. While we noshed on Lilliputian local sweets and sipped tea, he introduced us to the essentials of Thai cuisine. Along the way, he made sure we touched, smelled and tasted each ingredient to better understand it.
?Size matters,? he said, holding up an array of brilliantly colored chilies. ?Don?t be fooled?this bigger chili is mild enough to eat crunchy, like a vegetable. This little one is our femme fatale.? He held out a petite, curvaceous little red pepper?best known as a bird?s eye?with enough power to scorch the roof of your mouth.
Though I had encountered all of the ingredients before, I found myself learning tidbits along the way. I now know how holy basil earned its unusual moniker, and why it?s so different from its sweet or lemony counterparts. I know that kaffir lime is actually bitter, but has an incomparable perfume; that pandan leaves smell grassy when raw, but have a vanilla sweetness when cooked; that galangal is hotter and more aromatic than ginger; and that only the purple-hearted pieces of lemongrass impart any real scent.
It wasn?t long before we were putting those ingredients to use. Pandan flavored the pouching liquid for tiny Thai bananas. Kaffir lime leaves and shredded lemongrass were tossed into bubbling oil later used to deep-fry chicken. With a loud crackle, the
fragrance of citrus filled the entire room. And loads of those chilies?along with shrimp paste, coconut palm sugar and a whole spice cabinet?s worth of seasonings?went into the curry paste for hor mok, or steamed fish mousse.
Not everything was easy. Constructing the banana leaf holders for the hor mok felt like culinary origami. More challenging still was transforming unwieldy chicken wings into chicken ?lollipops? that were safe for even the daintiest dinner party. The process involved splitting the wing, extracting one of the bones, then sliding the meat to the very edge of the remaining bone and wrapping it in its own skin. The dish seemed fussy and a bit daunting at first, but with some patient instruction, I was able to turn out several credible specimens.
After all that work, it was time to feast. Despite our amateur efforts, the results were pretty impressive. As we nibbled on our delicate finger foods, I vowed to recreate at least some of this menu at home. The next time I get a hankering for Thai food, I may just stay in.
Source: http://blog.travelandleisureasia.com/destination/2013/07/18/mandarin-oriental-cooking-school/
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