WELL, HERE I AM AGAIN, back in Bangkok, sitting on the same old wobbly plastic stool, outside the same old Chinatown food shop, eating the same old oyster omelet. But there's nothing everyday about this particular dish. Nai Mong Hoi Thod may look like little more than a white-tiled hole in the wall, with a few tables and a fearsome charcoal wok that sizzles and sparks and roars. But appearances can be deceiving. Michelin has designated the restaurant as Bib Gourmand, and its famous omelet-golden, gooey, and studded with sweet-salty bivalves-is a dish of frazzled majesty. As scavenging cats wind between our legs and as tuktuks, scooters, and bicycles whiz through air so thick and hot you could scoop it with a spoon, I look at my dining companion, the chef, restaurateur, and writer David Thompson, and grin with sweaty glee. It really is good to be back.
Bangkok pulses and seethes, throbs and growls. It is both wildly cacophonous and magnificently languid, an ancient city in thrall to the modern. It might not be conventionally beautiful-the concrete is crumbling, the corrugated iron corroded, and the roads pockmarked with holes. Overhead are decades' worth of utility wires, tangled into thick balls, like great nests of metallic noodles.
But look closer, and you'll find scenes of breathtaking loveliness: a tiny shrine draped with garlands; a fresh-fruit stall, almost fecund in its lushness; a verdant garden, secreted away behind high walls. Bangkok cares little about what you think, which makes me love it all the more.
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