WE ARE IN the hills of northern Thailand, having dinner at Tam’s street restaurant at the crossing of a mountain village. Tam runs it alone, because her husband was “drinking too much beer” and she left him. Neighbours and friends walk in and out. An uncovered dvd player plays karaoke VCDs.
There’s no guest house around so she invites us to stay overnight. Tam doesn’t like to be alone in the house.
Tam is 38, her teenage daughter studies in Petchabun. Tam gets up early. At 5 am she washes with a quick splash, puts on make up, dresses and goes to the market to get a day’s supply of vegetables.
Tam looks beautiful on her moped. She would like a foreign boyfriend, she says, someone of 60 would still be okay.
At 6.30 she lights incense at the altar on the food display and hands out rice to monks passing by with their bowls.
Of the 40-60 clients that will pass by today, the first arrive at 8 am. By that time the bouillons for the noodles are boiled, vegetables are washed and chopped and meat cut. Each dish is prepared in a very strict way, little variation is allowed. Even vegetables must be cut on a certain angle; when I chop them, the villagers who watch me help Tam come to show how it’s supposed to be done.
Tam enjoys cooking. A dish takes her 10 minutes at most and she serves it with a smile. There are three concrete tables in her restaurant, and ten dishes on the menu.
