The King of Curries, as CNN.Go calls Massaman Curry, made its mark of the best 50 dishes of the world and ranked it No. 1 – every Thai restaurant in Thailand has made it on their “special” menu. Living here made it easy to sample these different versions of the King of Curries.
Massaman or matsaman is not a native Thai word. It is generally thought to refer to the Muslims, with earlier writers from the mid-19th century calling the dish "Mussulman curry"; Mussulman being an archaic form of the word Muslim. This dish originated in the 17th Century at the cosmopolitan court of Ayuthaya. The Persian Merchant by name of Sheik Ahmad Qomi, was thought to have brought this dish; from whose decedents were the Thai noble family of Bunnag.
Such was its mouthwatering, exquisite mixture of tastes, a poem was written at the end of the 18th Century crediting its author, Prince Itsarasunthon of Siam, later became King Rama II. Dedicated to the beautiful Princess Bunrot, who later became Queen Sri Suriyendra, his wife, the poems extolls its delectable dish for those who merely swallow a soup-son yearn for her love.
Massaman curry made by my beloved,
is fragrant of cumin and pungent spices.
Any man who has savored the
curry is compelled to yearn for her.
มัสมั่นแกงแก้วตา
หอมยี่หร่ารสร้อนแรง ชายใดได้กลืนแกง
แรงอยากให้ใฝ่ฝันหา
So smack your lips, salivate
the spicey, coconutty, sweet and savory that wake up the taste buds; the
combination of flavors has a distinctive personality of its own and the quest to
find the perfect Massamun curry became a mission. The flavors of the massaman curry paste come
from spices that are not frequently used in other Thai curries. The family’s cook, an aged aunt, famous restaurants, although being grateful
for their tips and secret recipes, their wondrous dish was overtaken when the
chance to join an epic culinary master
class of the Department of Thai Gastronomy at Dusit Thani School; famous for the expertise in this field, jumping at the chance, for I love
curries; and the possibility of making my man swoon with love, like the poem
suggests; there was no hesitation.
A prepared tray with 15
ingredients, peeled and ready to chop, julienned, and sliced, I attentively
focused on the star Chef, whose priority was to teach me every nuance, every
instruction carefully memorized in my brain.
Using all my olfactory and gustatory senses, I am starting the journey
of learning how to emulsify and bind paste made from many herbal plants.
First ingredient in the tray, dried red chillies cut-up thrown in a boiling wok of oil. Fried to crisp, the capsaicin seeds floating out plunging into the pungent smoke, sending molecules flying into the air immediately irritating and sensitizing the lungs leading to coughing fits. While succumbing to this involuntary reaction, and waiting for me to regain myself, the Chef introduced a new quirky knowledge “that animals can run away from harm but plants have no way to protect themselves so they have evolved with irritating chemicals to keep hungry herbivores away.” New facto for my frontal lobe.
Chillies cooked and drained, the sliced shallots, diced coriander roots, chopped lemon grass, julienned galangal and garlic are next in the frying pan. Once the aroma spins you into hallucination, of perhaps a Marrakesh-souk mirage, the whole concoction placed in a blender with a bowl of roasted spices of mace, cardamom, cloves, cinnamon, pepper corn coriander seeds and cumin. The liquidifying component to emulsify in the processor to a puree is a cup of coconut milk, resulting in a paste ready to be stir fried in more oil blending it into a cream of heaven.
This
is only the paste part, the curry is yet to be lovingly prepared. Now’s the part I can pretend to be the
voluptuous Nigella, pouring out cheeky flirtatious double-entendres, after all
I am doing this with a purpose. The poem
stirs me on.The sticky gooey paste, still warm and glistening from the whirring blades sends particles of aroma wafting the spacious stainless steel kitchen, made NOT to absorb smells but nevertheless settles in the air as the blender lid is prized open.
By now into my second hour of instruction, I am intrigued that only phase one of three phases has passed. The slow anticipation mounts.
In another pan, some smoke already emanating from hot oil when the paste is added to allow the infusion to amalgamate itself. The sous-chef stirs and stirs; watching him almost dislocating his shoulder joints, the paste slowly darkens, stickier than before. One sees his right bicep bulging as he stirs counter-clockwise. This eliminates the pain from the left bicep that had been going strong as if it was an all-nighter.
Second phase starts with a rousing, mounting tension when coconut milk is poured into a pot. Waiting for the oil within the milk to rise, it now can infuse better with the paste. As soon as heavenly creamy paste hits the coconut milk the colour of orangey yellow hues start to form and while it splatters and boils, the third phase starts. Chicken legs and thighs are then lowered, together with onions, potatoes, a handful of peanuts, sliced pineapple, palm sugar and smidgen of tamarind juice completes the flavors – all six flavors of salty, sweet, sour, astringent, bitter and pungent assaulted my taste buds and smacking my lips, I knew this was the dish, to ply my lover’s want.
My fruits of labour ready; the Chef agreed that I should take this home and see how I can feed this delectable concoction in many different ways, to keep the man from straying. Much like The Arabian Nights a collection of tales from the Islamic Golden Age, My Muslim Massamun , the secret weapon similar to Scheherazade’s storytelling preventing the Sultan Shahrayar from killing a woman everynight, I feed a mere cupful of beef massamun one night, changing it to chicken, then lamb will keep his staying power at max – never wanting to leave, so says the poem.
