I scrutinized the menu with not a little disdain. Although when I say 'menu' I actually mean a scant selection of dishes haphazardly scrawled onto a mould stricken wall with a fucking biro.
The usual suspects were all present:
Pad kapow
Khao pad
Pad pak
Pad thai
Kway tiao
I'd usually plump for the Pad krapow. Quintessential Thai cuisine. The ultimate southeast Asian dining experience. A hardy melange of spices, seasoning and scents, with a burnt fried egg invariably emblazoning the ensemble. But today, the beckoning sweet basil failed to pique my interest. Today, my palate demanded diversity.
I instigated a dialogue with the chef de partie:
"I say, you! Yes, you! The one that looks like a malnourished rodent."
He turned indifferently from his wok to face me.
"I don't suppose you might stretch your culinary offerings beyond the realms of this hackneyed list," I motioned towards the menu, "...and prepare me a, let's see, yes, you may prepare me a Tom Tum Talay."
He looked at me like I'd just called his mother a kunt.
"Who the fuck do you think I am?" Came his terse reply. "Ken fuckin' Hom?"
"Very well. You have given me no other option. I shall vacate your eating emporium and seek my fare of choice elsewhere. But not before I emit a prolonged and pungent gaseous discharge from my backside in the direction of your head." I was clearly vexed with his lack of kitchenette creativity.
I skipped aboard my Honda Wave and gunned it in the general direction of civilisation. These village people were starting to irk me with their insolence.
Eventually, as the cascades of concrete comprising the nearest town honed into view, I happened upon a humble little bistro on the outskirts.
I ordered my lunch with undiluted pragmatism :
"You will prepare me the best Tom Yum Talay in Thailand and you will do it quickly and you will do it now."
Ask, dear boy, and you shall receive...