Around the World in 80 Dinners - Bill Jamison [68]
Only two features set the town apart from other beach burgs: a scarcity of restaurants with local food and the openness of the sexual lures. You can find huevos rancheros all over Puerto Vallarta and conch fritters anywhere in the Keys, but don’t go looking for kaeng tai plaa or another southern Thai curry in Patong. Restaurateurs think visitors really want familiar food from home, so they offer plenty of what one sign calls “Euro Pian” dishes. Scandinavian places abound, but you won’t be left out in the heat if you prefer a Hungarian goulash, German schnitzel, Italian pasta, or, from the bargain basement, a McDonald’s burger.
Sex seems to sell even better than dinner, watches, and jewelry. In what local maps call the “Hot Zone,” in the heart of town, tiny lanes branch off of Bangla Road, each lined on both sides with open-air bars with stool seating and names such as High Heels, Crazy Girls a Go Go, Luck Bar, Sex Stock Exchange, and, for more demanding patrons, Black Cat #1, with an image of a dominatrix on the sign. Notices often indicate “every body welcome,” which we assume at first is another language oddity, like the restaurant claiming to be recommended by the “Fo Dor” guide, but we eventually decide they mean what they say, that everybody’s body qualifies for action.
In another area, slightly less prominent, gay nightlife thrives in clubs such as Spartacus and James Dean, snuggled next to massage parlors announcing services “by men, for men.” Farther afield, on the outskirts of town, the huge Simon Cabaret caters to all interests with a popular transvestite show. The brochure in our hotel room claims the performers are more male than any man and “more woman than you can imagine,” perhaps like the attendant at the Amari Coral’s business center, attractively feminine in all ways except for a voice deep enough to come from a subwoofer.
On our initial visit, it’s still too early in the evening for the girls and boys to play, allowing us to explore their haunts without risk of untoward propositions. The poking around goes quickly because the same-old sensation takes over after a few minutes. By the third alfresco bar, they all begin to look alike. The search for a good place to eat takes much longer. Lots of restaurants serve fresh seafood, often displayed on ice in front of their large pavilion dining rooms, but they focus mostly on standard international preparations rather than Thai specialties.
Finally, our sleuthing brings us to a small, inviting spot called the Sea Hag. Maybe the name should have alerted us—or at least the clueless waiter standing outside by the posted menu, which appears Thai judging by the dish names. Before we go in, Bill asks the server, “Is your food truly Thai?”
“Oh, yes, in all ways.”
Staring at him eye-to-eye, Cheryl says, “We want our food cooked Thai-style, like the chef would do for you. Understand?”
“Oh, yes, madam.”
So our crab appetizer shows up without any seasoning at all, leading us to reject it as unacceptable and to reiterate our desires. When our two fish entrees arrive later, we simply give up, taking enough bites to stave off starvation but leaving the rest; one is insipidly bland and the other submerged in a sickly sweet chile sauce rather than the advertised red curry. Noticing we left a fair amount of food, the waiter says, “Oh, too spicy for you!”
Our dinners the next two evenings make up for most of the Sea Hag’s deficiencies. After spending much of the second day in Patong reading by our hotel pool, we take a tuk-tuk south in the afternoon to the Karon and Kata Beaches. Unlike the scary three-wheel carts of the same name in Bangkok, the tuk-tuks in Phuket are small pickup trucks