Meat and Memory Part 1: Laoatian Barbecued Chicken Breast

In 2004 I took a week-long vacation to Laos. I had chosen Laos based on friends telling me it was relatively non-touristic and the people were perhaps the friendliest in the world. I flew into Thailand and crossed the border by bus. After spending a night in the capital, Vien Tien, I proceeded to take a long and perilous bus ride to Luang Prabang. Soon into the journey I was hooked.  The bus wound at high speed through an endless series of rolling mountains. The green hill-sides were punctuated by patches of bright yellow and pink flowers cascading down the gulleys. On the 10 hour trip, I remember almost no evidence of industry or development. Human habitation seemed limited to clusters of shacks located at intervals along the road.

Luang Prabang is a city that has largely retained its traditional architectural character. It is known for its numerous ancient temples, all constructed with the characteristic sloping Laoatian roofs. A huge proportion of the population are monks. Chanting is heard everywhere and the monks are eager to strike up conversations and practice their English. In Laos, the philosophy of Buddhism is not relegated to the temples, it can be felt in the everyday interactions of the people. The locals disarmed me with their smiles and seemed to move through their lives with a relaxed contentedness. These were truly the friendliest and most gentle people I have ever met.

Two experiences poignantly illustrate this point. The first was riding in a bicycle rickshaw driven by a very old man. When I got in, we agreed on a price and he took me to my destination. After I paid him, the change he returned to me was short by a small amount. I pointed this out and asked for the rest. He just looked up at me and gave me a shy smile and then looked down at the crumpled bills in his hand. I couldn't do anything but smile back and walk away. This is compared to a similar experience I had in Thailand, where I stubbornly demanded my money and ended up having a knife pulled on me. The second incident happened while walking down a small alley after dark. The street was empty except for a group a young men hanging out, talking and laughing. Experience had taught me, that as a foreigner in a third world country, this was not a comfortable situation to be in. At the very least I expected some cold stares as I walked by, but to my surprised they all smiled, waved and said hello. It is these kinds of seemingly insignificant interactions that end up defining a culture in one's mind. 

As I slowly adjusted to the atmosphere, I felt myself smiling more and I was able to replace some of my cynicism and sharpness with a deeper feeling of calm. I spent my days wandering aimlessly through the city and sitting by the Mekong river drinking coffee and reading. I could spend hour after hour gazing at the patchwork of vegetable plots of the far side of the river and watching the long wooden boats slowly pass by.

Laos is one of the few places left in the world where large-scale industrialized farming practices have yet to take over. Every restaurant and cafe seemed to have chickens walking around loose, pecking away at the ground. Truly free-range chickens like these are very difficult to find in most of the world now. These chickens are free of drugs, they are allowed to follow their instinctual behavior patterns, and their diet is comprised of the native plants and insects found in the area. Compare this to the chicken most of the world now eats--raised in boxes, pumped full of growth hormones and antibiotics, and engineered to grow massive breasts and mature in a number of weeks. One can hardly look upon them as belonging to the same species.

As it so happened, when I arrived in Laos, I had been a vegetarian for two years. But seeing these plump chickens pecking around me, I couldn't help imagining them roasted with herbs, deep fried in batter, and barbecued with a tangy sauce. Walking through the night market one evening I came upon a stall broiling chicken breasts over charcoal. The breasts were butterflied and inserted into split bamboo sticks that were tied at one end. This allowed customers to eat as they walked without the aid of printed bags or boxes destined to end up as street trash. I watched the cook repeatedly paint the breasts with some sort of dark, oily sauce. I took the plunge and ordered one up. The taste of this chicken was pure revelation.  I had never eaten poultry of this quality.  The texture was dense and chewy, and the flavour rich and deep. The sauce was a type of light salty oyster, mixed with the juices of the cooked birds. I was in ecstasy as I slowly chewed each bite, savouring the experience.  Describing the flavour of this meat is like trying to describe the colour red to a blind person, words inevitably fail to do it justice.

Of course part of the joy I felt when eating this chicken had to do with being deprived of meat for two years. As we all know, absence makes the heart grow fonder. But I still feel that somehow the kindness, honesty, and humanity of the Laoation people had somehow found its way into the taste of that chicken. Or perhaps in the five years I've been away from Laos, I've combined in my mind my impressions of the culture with the taste of that meat. Regardless, all things are connected, and what really matters is that I have this beautiful memory to look back on.