Cooks' Tour

by Ben Ezzell

  Personally, having been through his own bout of dengue fever – contracted through a mosquito bite – some years before, Nolan had no objections at all to the miniature bug catchers.

  “So,” Terry interrupted his friend’s reflection, “should I give Plah a day or two off?”

  “Let’s wait a bit,” Nolan cautioned. “I’m not sure how much adaptation the tour group needs. Some of them are still a bit groggy from jet lag. If they feel up to it in the morning, I’ll take them to the market tomorrow. Let them look around a bit and get a feel for what’s available locally. Then I’ll confirm the schedule with the Chiang Mai Thai Cookery School. Oh, for tonight? I was planning on taking everyone down to Anusan Market for dinner. I told Plah this morning before she went shopping.”

  “The Flying Fish?” Terry guessed.

  “Among others,” Nolan grinned, conspiratorially. “It should be an experience for them.”

  3:55 PM

  “Inspector Suchinda Taskin,” the man introduced himself, waiing respectfully after mounting the steps at Baan Orchid. The offered card was a soft, ivory with a textured fern pattern in the paper. One side bore the inspector’s name – in English lettering – above the words “Tourist Authority of Thailand” and “Chiang Mai” with a phone number at the bottom. The reverse was in Thai script.

  To Terry’s eyes, the man was a good height for a Thai, standing his full 160 centimeters in stature and weighing maybe fifty-five or sixty kilos. Slightly gray at the temples, he wore his hair neatly combed and trimmed in the length of half-century past. His attire was neatly pressed khaki – the uniform of the Thai police – with his trousers ironed to a knife-edge crease and his brown shoes shining beneath a faint mist of dust.

  “I am wishing to speak to Kun Joan Maguire or Kun Sarah Krews,” the inspector requested, stumbling only slightly on the unfamiliar names. “They are here, mai krahp?”

  “Bproht, kow mah, kahp,” Terry invited, returning the wai. “Please, come in,” he repeated in English. “Kun Sarah is resting. I will ask Kun Joan to come down. This is about the luggage, mai kahp?”

  “Krahp,” the inspector nodded.

  4:05 PM

  Mrs. Maguire’s account of her losses was delivered in her usual breathless, rapid-fire chatter and, without Terry’s services as a translator, the Thai police inspector would have been completely lost.

  The difficulty was no reflection on the Inspector’s abilities – a prerequisite for service with the Tourist Authority of Thailand – TAT – is the ability to speak more than one language and the Inspector was reasonably fluent in both German and Japanese as well as English. These were, of course, in addition to Thai, Malay and Burmese, all of which the Inspector spoke with easy facility.

  In actual truth, Inspector Taskin’s English was as much Australian as anything but it was not merely his fluency which had taken him to his present rank. In addition to his linguistic skills, the Inspector was a conscientious investigator and genuinely interested in foreign visitors as well as quite proud of his homeland.

  His pride not withstanding, the Inspector was well aware that tourists were prime targets for a variety of criminals. Still, even though theft was not that unusual, the degree of violence – even though hardly worthy of mention by the standards of New York or Los Angeles – was an added irritation, raising the level of the crime from the petty to the severe. Criminals such as this, the Inspector decided, were exactly what was wrong with the world today and, once caught, he would see them prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  “Your particulars are most detailed,” Inspector Taskin closed his notebook. “I regret that I can not offer you great hopes for recovery. It is very bad that we have much burglary here and it may be that your possessions are now on their way to Burma or to Bangkok perhaps. If you wish report for insurance company, my office will translate and prepare papers tomorrow.”

  He sincerely wished that he could offer stronger assurances but long experience had taught him otherwise.

  “You are very diligent to chase jii khoh,” the inspector shifted to Thai to address Tahm. “But please, in future, leave pursuit of malefactors to those with proper authority, mai krahp?”

  “Kahp!” Tahm agreed, looking both pleased and rebuked at the same time.

  “You will tell me if further problem,” Inspector Taskin rose to leave. “But please enjoy stay in Thailand. Most Thai people good Buddhist, not steal. Kun Terry,” the Inspector wai’d to his host, then to Joan and Tahm.

  “Thank you for coming, Inspector,” Terry returned the Inspector’s departing wai.

  Then, watching the inspector back his official sedan out of the drive, Terry added, “Unfortunately, he is correct – burglars are a problem. But, fortunately, they’re rarely violent. However, we do have a safe and you’re welcome to store cash or anything valuable there. Tahm and Saanpa – our gardener – keep an eye on things at night. Still, the safe is available.”

  “Tourist Authority of Thailand,” Joan read the card the inspector had left her. “You mean they have special police for tourists?”

  “Tourism is a big business here,” Terry nodded. “TAT is an elite police force. They’re good but there’s also only so much they can do. About your insurance claim …”

  “Phooey,” Joan interrupted. “Not worth the trouble. Let me tell you about the things I bought. And, with Tahm doing the haggling, the prices …”

  DragonTree.com Contents

  Chapter Seven:

  Chapter Seven:

  Holiday Inn Green Hills, Chiang Mai, Monday, February 5th, 5:37 PM

  The ad appeared in the September issue of Hidden Treasures. A simple eighth-page box with a bold header:

  Chef’s Culinary Tour of Thailand

  under the tutelage of Nolan Guise

  Borthellos, Vancouver, BC

  The text following the header was brief, a proposed date, a few details and a phone number. The phone number reached a secretary at Hidden Treasure’s corporate offices in Houston.

  The brochure told more. A sidebar with a brief biography on Nolan Guise recounted how he had established Borthellos, together with details of awards and other recognitions received by the establishment while a closing note recalled the sale of Borthellos – several months earlier – to an unnamed consortium.

  The bulk of the material discussed the objectives of the culinary tour, location and planned highlights. Enrollment was limited but interested parties were invited to inquire about future tours.

  The important part – to Alex Stafford, at least – was the name Baan Orchid and the address. That and the handwritten note with the phone number.

  Ten hours difference, Alex reminded himself, glancing at his watch and making a mental calculation. Two AM in San Francisco, Four PM in Thailand – well, it was closer to five but that fitted well enough.

  Alex pulled out the cellular phone, dialing the numbers carefully with one eye on the brochure. It said something, he supposed, for modern technology. That he could sit here and be connected to anywhere in the world by punching a few buttons.

  A moment later, a voice answered: “Hallo? Sawat dii, ka. Baan Orchid, ka.”

  “Ah, good evening. Do you understand English?” Alex spoke carefully and rather more loudly than necessary

  “Ka! I speak English. May I help you?”

  “May I speak to Ms. Sarah Krews, please?”

  “Kun Sarah not here. She go for aahaan yen, ka. For dinner. Not back to later.”

  “This is Alex Stafford. Will you tell her I called?”

  “Alex Saffer? I tell, yes.”

  “Stafford,” he corrected. “Alex Stafford. I’ll call again later. Thank you.” He broke the connection. In the morning, maybe? That is, morning in San Francisco … or morning in Thailand?

  Anusan Market, Chiang Mai, 5:45 PM

  “By day,” Nolan explained, “half of this is an empty lot and the rest is closed down.” He waved vaguely at the hustle and bustle of vendors wheelin
g large carts into position, many of them towed by small pickups. Others were unlocking small, more permanent structures, swinging the sides open and up to form wide awnings. Elsewhere, metal tables and mismatched chairs were being brought out and arranged in small groups, strings of lights were being suspended from trees and orange electrical cables were being run from fixtures to various of the mobile carts.

  Underfoot, the ground was bare, worn smooth of grass by countless feet except for a few clumps sheltered against the trunks of trees. At irregular intervals, raised planters held shrubbery and flowers. Despite the barren surface, there was no dust. Instead, markings suggested that a water truck – or a rain – had passed within a few hours, settling the soil to a compact surface. Nowhere was there the slightest sign of trash or other litter. No empty beer or soda cans, no candy wrappers, no crusts or scraps of food left from the night before.

  Everywhere, however, charcoal grills were being fired up. Not with heaps of neatly pressed briquettes produced from bags with imprinted trademarks but with piles of raw charcoal – chunks and jagged pieces of crumbly black charcoal carried in sooty burlap sacks, woven baskets or heaped in metal bins requiring two to carry them.

  The atmosphere was anything but silent. Large television sets with rabbit-ear antennas were competing with radios and cassette and CD players. None were loud, however, and the overall result was a muted background rather than a cacophony of confusion. Above all of these, Thai voices carried on a steady banter of gossip, instructions, commentary and, judging by the laughing responses, jokes.

  A road ran down the center of the large lot. At one end, a passage between two buildings opened on a busy street. At the other end, the road exited between a pair of permanent establishments – a restaurant – where workers were carrying out tables to set up under the trees. Both buildings, on opposite sides of the road, were emblazoned with elaborate red and gold flying fish.

  Guiding his entourage out of the main thoroughfare, Nolan stopped for a moment at a vendor, ducking his head to clear the edge of the overhanging roof that had, minutes before, been the closed side of the structure. At six feet in height, Nolan easily towered over the native Thais but, when talking to anyone, he seemed to bend slightly, shortening himself with an inclined head and a non-threatening posture.

  Turning his stoop into a wai, Nolan spoke to the proprietor for a few moments, his manner more bantering than haggling. Finally, satisfied, he produced several bills, passing them to the proprietor and then repeating his wai before gesturing vaguely toward one side of the marketplace.

  Ducking again to emerge – even though the awning was at least an inch or two above the his head – Nolan continued shepherding the group until they reached a vendor, near the fence, who was turning a crank to shave a large block of ice.

  Exchanging a greeting and a wai with this vendor, Nolan chatted for a moment before exchanging a small coin for a glass filled with shaved ice and some unidentified, slightly milky beverage.

  “Now,” Nolan smiled at his group. “You’re on your own for drinks. The appetizers will arrive in a few minutes. And remember … bargain.” He offered a final wai and an encouraging grin to his companions before seating himself by a table under a tree.

  5:53 PM

  “What I want to know,” Jeffery asked, a few minutes later. “Is just what am I drinking?”

  “How is it?” Nolan laughed. “And how would I know?”

  “Because,” Jeffery explained, “I gestured at you – I didn’t point, right? – and said I wanted what you had.”

  “Okay,” Nolan nodded. “In that case, it’s lime juice and coconut milk over ice. Tasty, mai? And you’re right, don’t point.” He extended his arm, making an underhanded ‘come-here’ motion toward a wandering vendor.

  The boy – only half buried under strings of small white flowers hung around his shoulders and from both arms – came over quickly, wafting a sweet, fragrant breeze as he moved.

  “Sawy kaw gow,” Nolan asked. “Tao rhy? Sahm sip baht, mai kahp?” – Nine garlands, how much, 30 baht?

  “Sixty baht, kahp” the boy responded, using both hands to show fingers.

  Quickly enough, they settled on a median price and Nolan handed over coins and four brown bills before indicating the garlands should be distributed to the group.

  Grinning, the boy made the rounds of the visitors, draping a garland around each neck with a cheerful “Hallo missy” or “Hallo mister” as he did so.

  “Dawkmy,” Nolan identified. “Jasmine blossoms.” He lifted his garland to inhale deeply before adding, “They’re also used as offerings in spirit shrines. And they say if you sleep with them, you’ll have happy dreams.”

  His entourage copied his actions, each breathing deeply from the garlands of small blossoms, then smiling as they inhaled the heady perfume.

  “I didn’t know this tour was going to include a crash course in Thai language and customs,” Greg commented, finally lowering the blossoms from his nose. “I feel like I was cramming for finals. The pineapple juice – I think it’s pineapple juice – is fine but how do you ask for a beer anyway?”

  “Just ask for a sing,” Nolan suggested. “That or beeuh.”

  “Like you were a Bostonian?” Sarah asked. “Or is that a New England – down east – accent?”

  “Sing,” Greg repeated in a flat voice as if he were trying to memorize the word.

  “No, sing,” Nolan used a rising inflection. “Like it was a question.”

  “Is there a legal age here?”

  “As long as you’re tall enough to reach the bar …”

  “…two tries out of three, they’ll take your money,” Bob Maxwell finished the joke for him. “Yeah, I’ve been places like that. You know, the strange thing is that most people don’t seem to drink much when there are no restrictions. I could use a beer as well. Sing, you say. Anyone else?”

  Several of the group accepted the offer with Jeffery rising to accompany the older man. “Six sing,” Jeffery suggested. “You’ll need a hand with them.”

  Somphet Reua Bar, near Baan Orchid, 6:10 PM

  Saanpa drained his Kloster, enjoying the flavor. Lighter than Singha and smoother, the beer was also more expensive. Because of the price, it wasn’t Saanpa’s usual choice but, since he wasn’t paying the bill … Saanpa gestured for the bartender, extending a cupped hand and making a gathering motion with the fingers before turning his attention back to his host.

  “I have to tell Kun Terry,” Saanpa decided. “I cannot leave without replacement, mai kahp?”

  “Of course not,” his host smiled. “I knew you were a responsible worker. I wouldn’t expect any less. But, we do need someone quickly.” The man paused, as if reconsidering his proposition.

  Saanpa accepted the refill almost absent-mindedly. Certainly, he had to give notice – Kun Terry and Kun Mam were good employers. But the offer of a job in Surat Thani? Saanpa had never been further than Chiang Rai, a few hours away on the bus. Not Bangkok even. But Surat Thani was all the way south, almost to Malaysia.

  A chance to travel? And the money? For that kind of money, he could drink Kloster always. And he could buy fine clothes. And a motuhcy. Maybe a Harley even. A red Harley motuhcy! Surely there was way?

  “I have it,” his host decided. “I have nephew who is gardener. His mother lives here and does not want him to leave her. Suppose …”

  Anusan Market, 6:20 PM

  “Kawp koon kahp,” Nolan thanked the young man. “Well, we have meu sate, marinated skewered pork grilled over charcoal. The peanut sauce,” he indicated several smaller dishes, “accompanies the sate. The thawt maan” – Nolan indicated small reddish-brown patties – “are red curried fish cakes with long bean. These are dipped in a honey-cucumber-pepper sauce.” – he gestured at another dish containing cucumbers in liquid – “and the stuffed chicken wings are called pik kai thot. Nolan shrugged, then – reaching for a skewer of sate – concluded, “Ging koow!”

  “You said
this was the appetizer?” Tanya hesitated, her hand wavering between the fish cakes and the chicken wings. “Oh well, so much for my diet.” She settled on the curried fish cakes for a start.

  “Red curry, eh? How many kinds of curry are there?” Rosalyn inquired, skewering cucumbers with a fork.

  “Basic curries?” Nolan’s forehead furrowed in thought. “Red, green, yellow, Mussaman, Penang, peanut, sour …”

  Somphet Reua Bar, near Baan Orchid, 6:23 PM

  “Then I’ll arrange for Khun Rutnin to be at Baan Orchid by five tomorrow morning,” the man assured Saanpa. “That will give you plenty of time to write note and to catch bus to Surat Thani, karhp.” He passed folded bills across the table.

  The large, mostly purple 500-baht bills were more money than Saanpa had ever held before. In small towns, you might have to go to bank to ask change for 500-baht bill. This was real money.

  “This will get you to Surat Thani,” the man assured him. “And, when you get to Surat Thani, karhp?”

  Dutifully Saanpa repeated the address and the instructions.

  “Dee mak,” the man smiled. “Then if you catch six o’clock bus, you should be there in two days, karhp.”

  Nearly a thousand kilometers. To Saanpa, it sounded like the ends of the earth. And he would travel in style – on the luxury bus, the VIP bus.

  The luxury bus, he had heard, had everything. Bathrooms right on the bus. And food and television and air-conditioning when it was hot except this was the cool season. And he would see the world from the windows, sitting high in one of those big cushioned seats that reclined. You could even sleep on the luxury bus. Not that Saanpa would sleep. He wanted to see everything.

  Lost in dreams, Saanpa accepted another of the smooth Klosters.

  Anusan Market, 6:45 PM

  “This sing must be stronger than it tastes,” Bren sounded doubtful.

  “Oh,” Jeffery reached for another chicken wing.