First Thanksgiving.

Currently, there is a turkey roasting in our oven, releasing the sharp scent of rosemary into our apartment. Meanwhile, two pumpkin pies are cooling in our kitchen, their smooth golden-orange surfaces flecked with traces of cinnamon, nutmeg, and ground ginger.

This might sound fairly normal, it being Thanksgiving and all, but it came as a bit of a surprise to me. For the weeks before, whenever the mention of Thanksgiving came up, I shrugged it off with little thought. I haven't celebrated the holiday in five years, the last time I spent a November in my hometown of Albuquerque, New Mexico. Since then, I've spent the holiday traveling in Syria, studying in South Africa, working in Thailand, and stuck in the Incheon airport in Seoul; never once did I consider trying to celebrate the holiday abroad.

But a few weeks ago, Bordeaux begun to suggest more seriously that we celebrate it; primarily, I expect, because he was curious to try roasting a turkey. So I changed my mind. We have a good sized group of friends here, we know someone with a beautiful house who can host, and in the end Thanksgiving gave us a good chance to have a party and further develop our cooking skills.

Not the traditional reasons for celebrating the holiday, basically. But then something happened in our kitchen to change the feeling just a little bit. With Bordeaux in charge of the turkey and stuffing, and most of the side-dishes doled out to friends, I was put in charge of making two pumpkin pies. It wasn't exactly a seamless process-- our kitchen got too hot to properly make the buttery crust, and I misread one of the liquid ingredients and had to chuck in some baked gem-squash to even out the mixture (those are soft, edible gem-squash seeds you see in the pie below, as a note). But when I took the first pie out of the oven, I was hit by the warm buttery scent of nutmeg, ginger and cinnamon. It was the exact same scent that would greet me on Thanksgiving morning as a child, when I would go into the kitchen and smell the baking pumpkin bread. And, unexpected to me, filling my own kitchen with this same scent made me feel a lot better than I would have expected it would.

Only after our planning got under way did I realize that this will by my and Bordeaux's first Thanksgiving spent as a married couple. And though I hadn't thought it would matter to me, I'm actually rather glad that we're not just letting the day slip by. We're filling our home with the fragrances of spice, butter, and roasted turkey, and tonight we'll share a staggering meal with our friends. And though I can't say with confidence that I think the pumpkin pie we have for dessert will be 100% perfect, I can at least relax knowing that we'll have lots more Thanksgiving to develop a better one. Which is something to be very thankful for.

My honeymoon with lamb.

Despite the reputation small towns have for turning in early, we found ourselves among the first tables seated for dinner at Jessica’s. We glanced at the menu, though really, we’d both decided what we would have when we had scoped out the restaurant earlier that afternoon. We were each presented with a white plate topped with three slim cuts of steak. It was the first meal of our trip, so we had both chosen the sample of local specialty meats, dubbed the ‘Karoo Trio’. There was fillet of ostrich, served in a lime sauce; springbok loin with a sour cranberry compote; and Karoo lamb, presented simply in a light dressing of rosemary and red wine.

We took the meal slowly, enjoying rich mouthfuls of the trio between bites of roasted root vegetables and sips of a local shiraz. Everything was fantastic, yet as the meal wound down I noticed that we’d both saved a little of the lamb to savour last. It had been prepared beautifully, a thin layer of crisp fat on top contrasting with the meltingly rare meat underneath. The lamb truly stood out, however, in its flavour. For though the springbok was rich and delicious, it was almost indistinguishable from other game meats. The ostrich, similarly, could have passed for beef. The lamb, however, was distinct and recognizable for exactly what it was in each mouthful.


Walking back to our guesthouse, we observed the town of Montagu asleep. In the dark we could make out the town’s low skyline of Victorian houses, the steeple of the church punctuating it right in the middle. Montague is a humble dorp, and a good introduction into the charms of Karoo life. It was the first night of our honeymoon in the Karoo, the vast semi-desert that sprawls across much of South Africa’s interior. We had come for the desolate and romantic desert landscapes, and to relax in among the region’s small towns. But on a more material level, our route had been planned by out taste buds. We had come for the lamb.

My husband Bordeaux and I are well paired in that we both love to travel, and in that we both think that tracking down a delicious meal is a perfectly acceptable excuse for doing so. We had come back to South Africa at the beginning of the year to get married; getting to know more about South Africa’s cuisine was a bonus. And in the process of learning about that cuisine, I had come to develop a love for lamb.

I really didn’t care for lamb when I was growing up, mostly, I suppose, because I don’t come from a culture that really eats it. The meat counters at the American grocery stores of my youth were divided up between beef, pork and chicken; in the same way in which whole turkeys suddenly made an appearance just before Thanksgiving, lamb was only given deli space around Easter. And even when served it irregularly at holidays, I had little appetite for its strange and unfamiliar flavour.

Thankfully, by time I married into a lamb eating culture, a lot had changed in my sense of taste. Along with a growing distrust in the lack of flavour in factory-produced meat, I had come to really enjoy the taste of lamb because, well, it actually tastes like lamb. There’s something wholesome and natural to it that seems to hark back to an era of farmhouse dinners and Sunday roasts, a subtle note of nourishing nostalgia in every bite. Karoo lamb is especially delicious; it seems to me to have a faint whiff of the dry spiced desert where the animals grazed.

Out of this newfound devotion, Karoo lamb had made its way to the centre of our wedding feast. A few days before the wedding we visited the town of Prince Albert, where we picked up two legs of lamb from a local butcher. Bordeaux’s father roasted them with sprigs of fresh rosemary and cloves of garlic, and as guests arrived they were greeted by its warm, welcoming scent. So when we planned a quick midweek honeymoon near our home in Cape Town, it seemed the perfect idea to centre the trip around following the lamb back to its natural habitat, and enjoying it at home in the Karoo.


After leaving Montague we drove to Barrydale. We drove in under a sudden cloudburst, the town’s scent of wood fire and lavender mixing with the smell of the baked earth receiving the rain.

After checking into the local hotel, we headed for lunch at Clarke’s. The menu at this local institution is a selection of regional favourites, headlined by a lamb curry that Clarke himself tells his customers is the best thing he serves. But I was after something less complex, so I selected the lamb cutlets. They arrived as three neat packages of lamb practically caramelized by the grill, the meat hemmed in between bone and a thick ribbon of fat. The lamb was served with a vinaigrette made with fresh mint leaves, so different from the candied mint jelly of my childhood that I doubt they would recognize one another as distant relations. Splashed over the cutlets, it added a cool Mediterranean breeze to their grilled smokiness.

We sat that afternoon on our balcony, sipping a bottle of a regional red wine as the day slipped away. As dusk broke the hills around town blushed a pale shade of rose for one brilliant moment, then slipped into purple shadow. The sudden silencing of the sunset gave way to the rhythm of crickets, and the faint song of television sets blaring in distant living rooms.

After finishing the last sips of our wine, we headed to dinner up the hill at Jam Tarts. Amid the glow of a blazing wood fire pizza oven we enjoyed thick lamb burgers, the flavour of the meat melding with exotic spices of nutmeg and cinnamon. They were accompanied by florets of home-grown broccoli that had been prepared so simply that all you could taste was fresh and green. As we savoured the dinner, I felt almost positive that all of the meals on our honeymoon would be perfect.


Unfortunately, they couldn’t be. Perhaps our mistake was in leaving the rustic, wholesome flavours of the Karoo? From Barrydale we drove through the Tradouws Pass, a winding canyon road brimming with golden flowering fynbos that took us out into the Overberg. Even someone without any knowledge of South African geography could guess that we had left the Karoo behind; the rugged wilderness of the desert had been replaced with an open sea of manicured fields. Green waves of wheat alternated with golden waves of canola, their placid surface rippled as wind rolled through their stalks. But even though we had left the Karoo, we spotted flocks of fluffy white sheep, a comforting sign that we were still in lamb country.

We spent that night in Greyton, a misplaced English hamlet set in a grove of similarly misplaced Bluegum trees. Though its quiet streets follow the same church-centred layout as Montague or Barrydale, the atmosphere in town felt oceans apart. Brilliantly green knee-high grass chokes the empty spaces between houses, a lush contrast to the dorps of the Karoo.

When evening arrived, we discovered that there was only one place in town open for dinner. Greyton is supposed to have some fantastic restaurants; this, unfortunately, was not one of them. We stopped by, checked out the menu, and then circled town hoping something else might still be open. No luck. So we headed back, took a table, and hoped the restaurant would defy our low expectations. We both opted for the lamb, which seemed the safest bet. Our plates were set before us. The potatoes had been reshaped into floury wedges as tasty as paper napkins. The vegetables had been boiled soft, and then in case they still looked too much like something that might have once come from the earth, covered in a gooey cheese sauce. We focused in on the meat. Mid-bite we paused, and looked to each other for confirmation. It was delicious. Beneath the smoky flavour of the grill was soft rare meat full of rich lamb flavour. It was natural and wholesome, the slight hint of wildness tempered by something nurturing and warm. It was a flavour as comforting as being welcomed back home. Or in my case, being welcomed to my new home.

Eating to the Mekong's end.

While Bordeaux zipped off on the back of a scooter, I retreated with my backpack into a tiny pocket of shade. The line of motorbikes and trucks in front of me growled impatiently, waiting for their turn to board the ferry. Feeling a tugging on the hem of my t-shirt, I looked down to find a child, who waved a stack of lottery tickets in my face. Her mother approached, and I assumed she would point out the obvious problem the girl—that I was a clueless foreigner, and didn’t know how to play the lottery—but she simply motioned to the child, and looked at me with her lips pursed in an insistent frown.
To feign being busy, I turned to browse at the snack stand behind me. Packets of candied fruit, bags of coconut taffy, boxes of dry biscuits; all coated in a thin veneer of red dust from the road. I was grateful I’d had a decent breakfast before leaving Saigon. I had come to Mekong Delta for a number of reasons, but the main reason, I reminded myself ironically, was to eat.

My desire to taste the Mekong Delta had been growing for some time, developing out of a vague collection of cravings into a refined and pressing hunger. It had started, perhaps, when my boyfriend Bordeaux and I first decided to move to Southeast Asia. After some deliberation, we had settled on Saigon as our ultimate destination. In retrospect, it’s hard to say why exactly. Bangkok seemed the more accessible option, but horror stories about the pollution, traffic, and urban chaos put me off. But why Saigon? Really, I knew nothing about the city, or about Vietnam in general. If I’m honest, I’ll admit that it was perhaps the idea of being so near to the Mekong Delta that drew me. Though I had no real knowledge of the river, I had assembled a mental pastiche of images, gleaned from travel brochures and old movies. Images of slim boats drifting over sluggish water through an arcade of palm fronds, and giant catfish sheltered just below the surface. Tropical and mysterious, the qualities that were drawing me to Asia to began with.

From our arrival in Bangkok to the culmination of our journey, we spent a solid three months traveling. And throughout that time, the Mekong River was a constant guide. We followed it from town to town, drifting downriver at only a slightly slower pace than its muddy brown water. And along the way, we came to know and love how the river tasted. We could feel its richness and fertility in the dripping golden papaya we savored on the banks of Chiang Khong, on the first morning that we saw the river itself; we grasped its salty aquatic flavor in the crisp squares of fried river-weed coated in sesame seeds and dabbed with chili sauce, which we sampled on the promenade in Luang Prabang; and we has tasted its history and culture in the sliver of green mango that garnished a French baguette sandwich in Phnom Penh. But, as close as we came, we didn’t get to taste the river to the end, to the delta.
We made it to Saigon, but only briefly. After only a week in Vietnam, Bordeaux and I boarded a plane and returned to Bangkok. Despite the misguided preconceptions I’d had, we had both turned out to adore the city, and were eager to try living there. So though Vietnam seemed fascinating, we left—never having made it anywhere near the delta. The river’s end remained unseen and untasted, as our plans of living near the Mekong Delta came to an end.

The hunger pangs, however, didn’t end quite so easily. Getting to the delta became a constant goal, a desire I nursed as we lived and traveled throughout the region. And so it happened that over a year later we finally made it there—and I found myself alone, waiting at the ferry port of Ben Tre.

Thankfully, our hotelier returned quickly, and instructed me to climb onto the back of his scooter. We zoomed off, leaving the sun-soaked chaos of the port behind, and slipped into shadow among the leafy gardens of a quiet neighborhood. We passed a string of sugary candy-coloured houses, clacked over a canal on a thin wooden bridge, and twisted into the gate of his guesthouse.

It wasn’t, as I had imagined when I made the booking, a charming boathouse tipped over the river itself, with a hammock slung on the verandah from which I could gaze into the flow of the water. Instead, it was an inland compound of modern mint-green buildings, surrounded by trees. But even though we weren’t on the river itself, there were signs of it everywhere. The air felt sticky with humidity, as if we’d just come on shore after a quick plunge. The garden was flourishing with fruit trees, with pomelos and papaya hanging heavily on straining tree limbs. And a network of shallow streams and canals criss-crossed the yard, giving the feeling that the earth may sink or be swallowed in a flood at any moment. As I climbed off the bike, I found Bordeaux peeking into one of these streams.

“Come, look here.”

All along the bank, there were tiny fish with cartoon eyes, hopping out of the water and onto land. Mudskippers. I’d seen them before in nature documentaries and wildlife books, but they were infinitely stranger in real life. Yet somehow, their amphibious lifestyle seemed to make sense here, where the dividing line between water and earth seemed so thin.
Looking into another patch of murky water, we spied the vague outline of a large fish. It came up to greet us, it’s lips barely breaking the surface of the water. We gazed around the lush garden, continuing our search for wildlife, and spotted a low metal cage partly obscured under some bushes. Looking in, we caught the glimmer of scales on a muscular snake.
“Cobra,” the guesthouse owner informed us. “Maybe you’ll have some for dinner?” We laughed politely, assuming he was joking—though we would later be corrected of this assumption as we looked over the menu for dinner.

We spent the afternoon strolling around town, peeking into coconut candy workshops, being hailed by men wanting us to witness a cockfight, and sipping iced drip coffee in a neighborhood joint. We returned to the guesthouse as the air was cooling down, just in time for dinner. We sat at a table outside, under a pitched canopy of dried palm leaves. After being presented with two icy green bottles of Saigon beer, we were handed a menu, though we had little reason to actually look at it. We’d booked this hotel with a purpose, to eat their specialty dish: elephant ear fish. The fish that had greeted us as we arrived, in fact.
We had only to order and we were immediately summoned to the same stream where we’d had that sighting. Gripping a long net, our waiter scooped into the water, and lifted out a massive silver fish. He dropped it onto the soil, and as it began to make desperate somersaults, commanded me to take a picture. I obligingly took one shot, though I wasn’t eager to document the last undignified moments of my dinner’s life. Satisfied that I’d captured the moment, he grabbed the fish, and disappeared into the kitchen.
When we next saw the fish, it was in a much-altered state. Supported in a wooden frame, it was held upright, and was set on our table with fins splayed, looking almost as if it had swum there itself to join us. Its skin was now more golden than silver, its scales crisp and flaky. It’s tender meat seemed ready to melt away at the first jab of a chopstick. Accompanying it were a bowl of rice noodles, a stack of thin rice paper, and a plate crowded with piles of pineapple, bean sprouts, tomato, and fresh green vegetables and herbs.

I snipped off a morsel of the fish with my chopsticks, layered it on the rice paper, rolled it up, and bit in. The green vegetables tasted sharp, the pineapple exuded an acidic tang, and the well-fried fish was luxuriant fatty. The rice paper contained it all, holding it in for a moment before the flavors revealed themselves on my tongue. I dipped a second piece into the sauce of chili, garlic and fish sauce; it tasted even better.

Over the next week, we crossed the entire delta, and continued our slow tour of Mekong flavors. We rode to the far Western border, past wide grassy expanses dotted with Khmer-style temples and pinnacles of limestone, to slurp on sour spoonfuls of canh chua ca. We rode over the waves to the pristine palm-fringed beaches of Phu Quoc, where we dined on salty caramel-sweet claypot fish. And in every meal, in every dish, and at the bottom of every bowl, we encountered the same flavors. Spicy, tangy, salty, sour, and fresh. The flavors that I had come to know as the taste of the Mekong River itself.

This is not a story about wors.

Though it sort of starts out that way. Hungry for lunch and nothing on our schedule, Bordeaux and I hopped on a train to Claremont, following a tip from the Rough Guide that advised that women often set up grills to sell boerewors around the station. Of course when we got there, there were no ladies, no grills, and no boerewors for sale. Thankfully, we found Maheera's.

Maheera's is the kind of shop that sprouts up near railway stations, selling cold cream soda, tubes of chapstick, and airtime vouchers. And in Cape Town, they're one of the best places to sample local fast food, which is an offbeat mix of British, Afrikaner, and Malay flavors. We ordered two wors rolls with chips, a small dessert to share, and took them back to the train station, where we ate them on the steps. The roll was not accompanied with chips, as I had assumed, but filled with them-- even better. And the whole thing was doused with a tasty soaking of vinegar, and a drizzle of salt.

But the unexpected star of the meal, the focus of this entry, was the dessert. A golden ball of fried dough called a koesister. The Malay cousin of the Afrikaaner koeksister, it's smaller, rounder, less syrupy, and infinitely more flavorful. The glazed exterior is flaked with coconut, and gives way to a doughy interior studded with spices, sharp with cinnamon and clove. Had we not already eaten the wors and chips, we easily could have returned inside to buy a few more-- as it is, the koesister provides more than ample reason to make a return trip to Claremont.

Milton's on Central.

The film industry coming to Albuquerque has had strange effects on the city. Parking lots tented up and streets blocked off for shoots. Celebrity sightings in coffeeshops. And offbeat locales suddenly becoming movie sets. Like Milton's Family Restaurant. I had passed the diner often while cruising pass on Central; almost tempted in as I glanced up at its retro '50s signage, but put off by its dim interior and greasy windows. Apparently I wasn't the only one drawn to it, though-- it's interior, unchanged for decades, has made it the perfect set for period films. So with a little motivation from Hollywood, I finally made it in.

We arrived after 7, the cold air already dark with the early sunset of winter. The film industry hasn't drawn any crowds-- the parking lot out back was empty, the diner's interior somehow even emptier. Nor has it left the place with any added gloss-- the mood inside was sombre, with a vague odor that makes you decide to keep it safe when it comes time to order. We passed the college students finishing their meal, the wiry men sipping coffee, and grabbed a discreet booth in the back.

The menu pages stuck-- together, to the table, to our fingers-- so we ordered quickly. A cheeseburger for me-- safe, right?-- with green chili. Bordeaux ordered a milkshake, but the waitress's face gathered up in look of worry. 'You know, before you order, it's just me working the counter tonight, so I can make it for you, but it's gonna be awhile. I just don't want you getting your hopes up, then having to wait, is all.' He ordered a glass of water instead, and she nodded gratefully. She brought our drinks, chilling in the type of goldenrod glasses that probably haven't been made since the early '80s, then disappeared.

We weren't in a hurry-- I don't know why we would have come here if we had-- so we settled in, to observe our setting. It was easy to see how it would be a great movie set, with its flagstone walls, and brown-and-orange vinyl booths. A set of black and white photos of the store's founders hung above the coffee machine, the glass in the picture frames grimy with half a century's accrued grease. The only thing that seemed to have changed in the space were the cheap foil decorations that criss-crossed from window to wall. A passer-by with a loaded camper's backpack drew our attention outside; across the road, a yoga class was just beginning. The yogi and his disciples would disappear over the course of our meal, obscure behind the veil of fogged-up windows.

Our plates arrived at the table, heavy with mounds of food. The burger was actually delicious, really. Well charred meat, strips of smoky green chili, and crisp rings of white onion. But the visit wasn't really about the food, was it?

Meal finished, we took the paper check to the register, where we found no one waiting for us. We looked out through double glass doors, where we saw our waitress-- her sweater gathered tight around her, puffs of smoke alternating with gasps of cold air escaping from her mouth. She came back in, rubbing her arms as she slipped behind the register, and greeting us with a faint smile. We handed over some bills and coins, and slipped a tip in next to the register.

Vietnamese drip.

Sitting on low wooden stools in a smoky interior, we watch the door for our waitress. Across from us, two college students play chess, alternating moves on the board with long slow sips from the glasses perched on the edge of the table. Next to us, a young mother chats happily with her friends, pausing briefly to mind her young daughter as she buzzes around them in boredom. Finally, our waitress climbs over the threshold of the stairs, a tray held firmly level in her hands. She lowers down to our table, and sets out our order. Two short glasses of dark, rich Vietnamese drip coffee, resting on a cushion of creamy condensed milk. We stir it together, the viscous milk hesitating before swirling lethargically into dark brew.

Now, I’m sorry, Thailand. I know you have great bag coffee, and hill-tribe grown arabica, and even a fairly decent local chain in Black Canyon- but the best coffee in Southeast Asia is undoubtedly in Vietnam.

Vietnamese coffee is well known, not just for the quality of its French-introduced beans, but also for its unique form of preparation. Ground coffee is spooned into a tin filter, which is placed on top of a short mug or glass. Hot water is poured into the filter, and the coffee slowly drips into the cup below, usually onto a soft bed of condensed milk. It can be served hot- the thick brown coffee practically melting the sweet milk- or cold, with cubes of ice chilling it into the perfect refreshment for a steamy afternoon. The filter works slowly, as the coffee drip drip drips into the glass below- forcing the drinker to wait and unwind, and fostering a subdued atmosphere for relaxation. Vietnamese drip coffee can be enjoyed all over Hanoi- in settings as diverse as smoky alcove shops, and stylish European style cafes.

Even outside of Hanoi, coffee in Vietnam can bring some surprises. Looking over a menu in an orchid filled coffee garden in Sapa, we were confused by the listing of drip coffees identified only by the numbers 1 through 9. We enquired, and were informed that they were grades of coffee- Coffee #1 being the cheapest and also the most inferior, Coffee #9 being the best. We ordered two glasses of #9, and we weren’t disappointed. We were treated to two short mugs of unbelievably rich coffee. Blended with the sweet milk, it had a strong flavor of delicious dark chocolate.

But drip coffee isn’t the only Vietnamese specialty. At Café Pho Co, a well-known Hanoi hole-in-the-wall with great views of the old quarter, Bordeaux ordered a mug of café trung. Its name, meaning ‘egg coffee,’ comes from the fact that it’s topped with a cap of whipped egg; it’s a local take on a cappuccino. Not only does the egg give the foam an impressively thick texture, it also adds an unbelievably rich creaminess, making every spoonful taste like an airy, coffee-tinted custard.

Perhaps best of all is the incredible variety of places in which to enjoy the flavorful local brew. With no Starbucks in the country, a local Vietnamese chain, Highlands coffee, has been able to flourish. Among the lattes and espressos on the menu, local drip coffee receives a prominent place. It also features in their pastry case, in the form of a Vietnamese coffee cheesecake. The bottom layer emulates the sweet condensed milk, while the top layer evokes the dark flavor of strong coffee. And best of all, these treats can be enjoyed in some outstanding locations. In Hanoi, you can sip Highlands coffee in a hip patio below the Opera House, among potted palms on a graceful deck looking over Hoan Kiem lake, or in a lush bamboo garden under the flag tower.

For a more distinctly Vietnamese experience, there are local cafes and coffee stands spilling onto most city sidewalks. Hanoi is packed with independent cafes, their names advertised in pastel hued awnings. They’re often very informal, with low tables on the edging out the door, and a few oil paintings scattered on bare white walls. Some, like Café Lam and Café Pho Co, have become institutions. However, you can get coffee that’s just as rich and flavorful at many of the lesser-known establishments.

Is it worth traveling abroad simply for the coffee? When the brew is as good as Vietnamese drip, the coffee shops as elegant as Highlands Coffee, and the streets as packed with independent cafes as Hanoi: certainly so.

100 pots of curry.

The Mon people who live along Thailand's border with Burma are known for making a greater variety of curry than any other group in the country. One of the most well known places to sample a few is in the town of Thong Pha Poom, a quiet stopping point for buses and trucks travelling between Kanchanaburi and Sangklaburi. Just outside of town, along route 323, is the highway-side shop named Rawy Maw, meaning One-hundred Pots. On our visit, they were just short of 100 pots- they had about thirteen. We ordered two plates, and the proprietress spooned heaps of different curries onto the two mounds of rice. Thanks to a basic vocabulary of Thai food words, we were able to pick out an interesting selection. We tried fiery red curry with fish; yellow chicken curry with hot basil and tiny egpplants; a chunky paneang curry with pork; sour curry with pickled bamboo; and a green curry laden with sliced chillies. Though the meal was tasty, admittedly no curry was outstanding or exceptional. Even so, it was interesting to see what a range of flavors, textures and tastes curries can have.

Lunch over a lotus pond.

For my sister's visit, Bordeaux and I made our first trip to Southern Thailand. We arrived at the Krabi airport in the early afternoon, and after lunch at a Muslim canteen in town, caught a taxi out to our resort. Along the road, we traveled among craggy vine-entangled karsts and overgrown forest. I was enthralled by the passing greenery. I had come to Krabi expecting sparkling beaches and blue tide; I hadn't come expecting jungle.
Once unpacked, we gave in completely to relaxation. I'm usually an overly active traveler, but after two intense weeks in Vietnam, it felt great to just chill out. We spent most of our days by the beach or in the pool, and when meals rolled around we didn't feel like walking very far. Thankfully, there was a decent selection of places, even on our small beach. After reviewing menus, we found a particularly good restaurant at the Tubkaek Resort. Aside from the extensive list of tropical cocktails, we were drawn by the skillful kitchen, who served an interesting Thai menu that included a number of local Southern specialties. For one lunch, we ate tasty Hokkien noodles, and a spicy Krabi-style chicken with sticky rice and papaya salad. But as delicious as the food was, it was outshone by the lush tropical environment. Meals were served on a wood platform over a lotus pond, and the surrounded garden was landscaped with fiery red ginger, yellow-green banana trees, and dripping turquoise palms.