The Mystery of the Thai Eggplant 

It was a bright and sweltery afternoon. Well, gray; but sweltery, believe me. I’d just returned from a half-day trip to a floating market (canoes as food stalls) and a snake farm (man wrestles three snakes and wins!) and was safely back in Bangkok in search of a unique meal and an escape from the omnipresent traffic. And did I mention the heat?

Determined to avoid the Khao San Road, as I am entirely too grown-up to cavort with backpackers, I found myself lacking the suggestions and advice that generally accompany my solo travel. The staff at the Hotel Manhattan, where I and numerous cheap, dubious businessmen chose to stay, did not understand my wish to blend with the locals which may or may not have something to do with my distinctly non-Thai appearance. So I was really on my own.  

Are you still contemplating my lodging choice? Genius marketing on their part. I arrive in the airport sans Thai bahts or Thai tour book and, though immediately approached by countless, smiling ambassadors of the travel industry, I know I can take care of myself. The walls are lined with semi-glossy (really more matte) posters advertising, presumably, local hotels. Not yet in tune with the squiggly lettering, my eyes attach themselves to the english word that denotes comfort and safety to my entire being: Manhattan. 

Had I known how close I’d be to Soi Cowboy, the street even seedier than Patpong, I’d have paid double, or at least asked for a bodyguard. I’m kidding, mom, I was fine, I even walked through there night-two on my way to La Dalat Indochine, a fantastic French-Vietnamese restaurant in a villa full of fancy blue wallpaper and black-and-white photos of French-occupied Vietnam (mid-1800’s to 1954, and, another aside, Thailand is the only Southeast Asian country never taken over by a European power).

Surrounded by two’s and four’s, I easily survived my first one-top white-tableclothed fine-dining experience with a few small plates of duck and spring rolls and a large, whole, pan-fried-to-deep-red crab covered in tamarind paste, scallions and garlic. Did my napkin stay as white as the table? No. Did I walk home so satiated that the gawks and calls of, um, women and men eluded me? Kind of.

Like most other cities, Bangkok is awake at night. Sure you can see zombie-eyed women hanging on dancing poles and a variety of silly sex shows (with solicitors outside the establishments who are arguably more entertaining as they force laminated cards with “translations” of the indoor activities into the hands of passers-by) but the night markets and food vendors are open too.

Colorful printed fabrics and clothing, sandals, jewelry, pillowcases, lace, handmade paper goods, the shopping options are endless, cash-only and super cheap. If you’re hungry, there are hundreds of fried bugs, soups, pastries, pineapples and other fruits on sticks available everywhere you turn. Bananas that actually have flavor; fruity, sugary, unlike anything I’d ever tasted, seriously. The sticky heat no doubt brings out the sticky sweet in everything.

Oh yeah, the heat, my story takes place in the daytime, doesn’t it? You can get street food all day too. Grilled meat, coconut patties and of course pad Thai. On a cart with a griddle and an assortment of overflowing containers (chiles, onions, small nuts, countless vegetables), a woman cracked an egg into a pile of noodles and folded in ingredients to the specification of the customer. A satisfying plate is about 45-cents so you have enough change to try spring rolls from the neighboring cart then a little milky sweet rice from across the street.

If you weren’t living in a hotel you could fill your arms with plastic bags full of sauces and cook at home but…you’re a tourist so you must go have a dress made so you can wear it to two future weddings then stick it in the back of your closet as you will never be tan enough again to compliment the pinky-purple Thai silk, rougher (in a good way) than the silk you knew.

If you’ve never had a custom-made article of clothing, by the way, run out and get one. And speaking of silk, a trip to Bangkok would be wasted without a trip to Jim Thompson’s house. That’s right, Jimmy the silk trader, architect, art collector, WWII spy, international (well, American ex-pat) man of mystery. Jim went missing in Malaysia on a quest for Thai eggplant. Half of that sentence is true.

Wishing my hot feet were still cooling down on the teak floors of Jim’s nail-less house, I ventured down Soi 24 in search of another meal. I stopped at an old Thai mansion and found myself at Lemongrass, which I later recalled was a recommendation from a friend in Hong Kong but at the time I fancied myself a risk-taking mastermind. Soi 24 is a side street off Sukhumvit, the main road, Light Metro overhead, congested by cars, motorcycles and vans but no honking and no yelling, the mystery of the Thai patience.

The restaurant was quiet, dark and cool. Dreamy. I ordered lemongrass tea and a roast duck gaeng (curry).  When a pot of Earl Grey arrived, I sent it back and the waiter smiled, apologizing. When a chicken curry arrived (which I identified by the color of the broth and meat), the waiter smiled a little less. In my curry, the right one served in a lidded cast-iron bowl, there was a hard little ball I could not identify -- a grey-green crunchy sphere. Given my relationship with the waiter I assumed it was a poison berry so I decided to ask.

“Eggplant,” he said and I had to suppress a laugh. Ah, the simple Thai people and their happy kingdom (constitutional monarchy), so easy to like them as they effortlessly accept a western woman traveling alone.  Another waiter came over to confirm the identification. I attempted to describe what I call eggplant and they nodded their heads as you would to a stuttering child. I left them a big tip.

My false superiority kept me smiling all the way to Hong Kong where I took some friends to Indochine 1929 to recreate my fantastic Vietnam-in-Bangkok food memories. At the restaurant, the mystery vegetable appeared. “This is it! This is the eggplant,” I giggled excitedly, arrogantly leaning back in my rattan chair looking to a waiter for support.

“Those little light green round things, the brussel sprouts,” I asked, “what are they?”

“Eggplant,” he responded confidently. The table was delighted but I was not dismayed. My father is Italian; I know eggplant. I even know those skinny Asian eggplants. Eggplants are not diminutive golf balls; they’re big and spongy. The massive Reclining Buddha at Wat Pho would not want me to take this lying down. I needed to scream.

Instead, I dragged my then-boyfriend to a 12-course Thai feast at Arun’s in Chicago. Impeccable service, beautiful presentations, perfectly portioned. Best Thai in the states, some say. Food for kings, I say. Speaking of which, did you know they’re on their 9^th king (rama) in Thailand? Well, 9^th of this dynasty. Yul Brynner played Rama IV. They can have a queen but only if the king has no boys. In the past, the kings had many wives and, consequently, many children. The current king, who turns 78 in December 2005, was born in Massachusetts, is the world’s longest serving head of state and has one son and three daughters. If the son dies, his son gets to be king.

“You’ll never be satisfied,” then-boyfriend reminded me, his mantra. But I had to know about the you-know-what. Well, I had to find someone to corroborate my theory that all of southeast Asia and her people were wrong and I was right.

I nervously twisted my Siamese sapphire ring. The waitress hadn’t been positive but she thought eggplant was the vegetable in question. Then was nearly choking on his snapper stifling laughter and glee, “Do you want me to fight them?”

I was glad he was enjoying this (read: hated him). “They’ll kill you,” I said, “they’re pretty much master fighters.”

“Maybe hand-to hand.”

“You’re gonna get a weapon? That’s romantic.”

The kitchen door opened, the waitress approached, then-boyfriend took my arm in his hand, the verdict was announced: Thai eggplant.

Why couldn’t I just accept it? I survived foot reflexology - chopsticks to my pressure points. I endured confusing stretchy Thai massage in a giant public room of a massage school. I had not known so much about hyperextension. At first, it was like someone beat the hell out of me after I finished a marathon. After, I felt fantastic. The following days were probably the only time in my life that all my muscles (and joints) were completely relaxed. Torture rules.

What’s the matter with me? Maybe those little orbs are the seeds? Nope. Maybe by eggplant they really mean hard large grape? Maybe I’m a close-minded idiot. Maybe discrimination is a good anti-terror tool. Thankfully my therapist is on speed-dial.

A gift-giving holiday arrived. A large, heavy package for me; something to keep me quiet, at least temporarily: The Oxford Companion to Food.

Initially, I could not find anything because Eggplant is defined under Aubergine. That word makes me angry. “Eggplant is not an appropriate name for the varieties sold in western countries,” the book reads, “most of which look like purple truncheons.” Truncheons? That makes my stomach turn. So, you can find dark ‘billy clubs’ in the west and smaller fruits of many colors (pale green and white) and shapes (spherical and egg) in the east. Likely to have originated in India or China, the small, round variety is most common in Southeast Asian markets. More research taught me that Thai eggplant, also known as Pea Eggplant, grows in little clusters and is often sold that way, pickled. It’s bitter and is an ingredient in - can you guess? - curries.

You’re probably assuming I’ve now conceded. I can understand that. Yet, in the spirit of Yul Brynner and Jodie Foster (think about that spin-off), I remain stubborn. Well, they do both eventually give in as I am sure I will but only after I again visit that lovely country, rebuilding itself in many ways, and enjoy the fruits of its land. Oh, and eggs are ovals, not round.

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