Flavours of Life

The smell of ginger beckons me through a wooden door, into a room crowded with Khmer families, where the Mekong air yields to chilli and cooking oil. Clusters of children giggle and point from tables; their dark eyes dance as I squeeze through to the back. The kitchen counter groans with dozens of dishes: a tureen of fish-paste soup rubs shoulders with a plate of fried tarantulas, while a pan offers the lubricious body of a sautéed snake.

Koh Pdao’s only chef stands, stirring a pot of something pungent and viscous, her forehead etched with lines. Age marks her out as a survivor of the Khmer Rouge regime. I meet her gaze as I approach and she smiles broadly, in no hurry to serve me.

I begin the usual mime, pointing to a piece of chicken and shaking my head. It’s only when I say “vegetarian” that she nods, disappears into the back room, and returns with an armful of ingredients. Her knife makes short work of chillies, splitting and chopping the fat red skins until their seeds pepper the counter. Bean curd and carrots plop into the pan along with pale rounds of lemon grass and ginger.

My few words of Khmer are inadequate to convey my thanks – her fingers are already busy ladling coconut milk and sugar into the mixture, then swirling it into a banana-leaf boat, where it forms a perfect amok curry. I thrust four thousand riel across the counter and reach for my paper plate. Food in hand, I retreat to the front porch of the restaurant and look out across the glass blanket of the river.

As my wooden chopsticks move slowly to my mouth, the flavours erupt onto my tongue in a crescendo: fiery notes of spice and chilli blending with the soft tones of the milk. I close my eyes in satisfaction.

When I open them the cook is standing beside me, holding a ladle of sticky rice. My cupped hands receive it like alms. As I dip it into the curry and bring it to my mouth, her skin wrinkles like paper, and I return the smile. There are some things that don’t need translation.