11/07/2025 · 3:51 pm

Luang Prabang-style som tum

At the risk of flogging a dead horse, I’m going to talk about music again, if only briefly. I’m talking about Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti”. You’ve heard it, yes? Of course you have, or if you haven’t, you should; “Tutti Frutti” a rock history classic, for people who still want to know about rock history, at least. But have you heard the Pat Boone version?, asked no one, ever. If you have, as I have, then you would know what I’m saying; it is a sad, pathetic echo of its predecessor, one of many examples of remakes that can’t hold a candle to the original. That is what Thai som tum is to the som tum in Laos.

I know people are fond of the sugary, dried shrimp- and peanut-strewn concoction that is “som tum Thai”, a dish that has made its way all over the world. But I’ve been looking for the funkier, earlier — dare I say more “authentic”? — version of this salad since I first began visiting northeastern Thailand years ago. In Isan, som tum was a revelation, graced with big, bold flavors that eschewed the bright and easy notes of lime juice and sugar in favor of something murkier and a little more primeval: fish sauce and, of course, pla rah, the fermented fish extract that makes Isan hum. Some legends say that fermented fish was so valuable that it once served as currency, but today it’s simply the backbone for almost every Isan dish there is.

So imagine my surprise to discover that, in Luang Prabang, pla rah (called “pla daek” in Laotian) is simply one in a set of possibilities when it comes to seasoning som tum (“tum mak hoong” in Laotian). The first big bite I had was on my very first day in Luang Prabang, at a tourist-friendly restaurant called Malaisone. The green papaya was shaven into big thick strips, the dressing dark and opaque like something out of a swamp, with umami from nam poo (the juice of pulverized field crabs), spice from lethal chartreuse-colored chilies, and acidity from magorg (water olive) and sour red tomatoes. The salad was accompanied by fresh young morning glory and sponge gourd, perfect for sopping up the juices.

I was smitten from first bite. Resolved to learn more, I ordered it every chance I got, even though we had eaten so much by this point that I no longer had an appetite. Our next stop was Kuang Si Falls 29 km south of the city, where the dressing (frankly even more delicious) omitted nam poo and pla rah for shrimp paste, with added crunch from purple Thai eggplant and extra brightness from tiny green tomatoes with so many seeds that we thought they were sesame.

So charmed was I that I woke up extra early for the morning market the next day in order to avoid the crowds of mostly Chinese tourists. Of course we got our share of exotica: cow placentas for boiling into a soup; dried cow lungs grilled over an open flame; a powdery, furikake-like “nam prik” festooned with deep-fried shallots made from the local Mekong seaweed.

We even had our share of Laotian spirit houses, these ones red Fanta-free. My favorite showed its own inhabitants:

Moved by the market offerings, we bought everything that caught our eye to add to our planned lunch on the Mekong that day. Because it was November, rice was newly harvested; we bought plenty of that to go with grilled tilapia, fat from the cooler water:

We got grilled local chicken too, because of course, and it was better than what you’d get at Khao Suan Kwang or Wichienburi:

But most striking of all was a dish I wasn’t able to try at the market because we had no time. “Khao soi”, they called it, but it was nothing like the khao soi we were familiar with. The name comes from the noodles (“khao”), which are hand-cut into thin strips (“soi”). Even more confusingly, it was made with meat, tomatoes and fermented beans (“tua nao”), just like the “kanom jeen nam ngiew” back home.

From then on, I was struck with a new obsession. Determined to have my own taste of “khao soi” before finally heading home, we went to “Raan Pho-Khao Soi Nang Tho” for breakfast before the airport, where some of us had “khao piek” (the udon-like noodles also known as “guay jab yuan” but which are, again confusingly, called “pho” in Laos) while the smarter ones had “khao soi”. Here, it was topped with crispy pork, rendering it criminally irresistible.

Khao soi

Khao piek

Every order came with fresh herbs, limes, those brutal chilies, and green beans to be dipped into a peanut sauce.

It was the best meal we’d had the entire trip. I told the chef so, even if she might not have understood me, and left the shop with plans to return. Now back in Bangkok, I have my own field crab juice and my own little tiny tomatoes, and harbor plans to bring a little bit of Luang Prabang into my kitchen sometime soon.

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