“The Pad King” by Mario Senzale

Six tables, red lanterns, two fish in a tank. Laura touched the glass with one finger, and one of the fish came to her call. She watched it for a moment. Starved. James looked at the menu with a frown. In the corner, a child sat at a table. He had a notebook where he doodled. A stick figure inside a box. The woman who took their order was old. Small. She moved with all the time in the world. James looked up at her. 

“Hi, yes, quick question. The chef, is he Thai?”

“Thai chef. Yes. Yes.”

“That’s great… so, here’s what we’ll have, okay? Two vegetable stir-fries. Fresh ginger—not powdered, fresh. Dried shrimp. Wood ears. Kaffir lime leaves. That’s called a Phad Khing. You think you can make it?”

“Pad King. Yes. Yes.”

“Phad Khing. Well, it’s not on the menu… it should be. Any real Thai place has it.”

“Real Thai place. Yes. Yes.”

She took the menus and left.

“You’re gonna love this. It’s one of those dishes that sounds simple, but the technique is everything. The wok has to be at the right temperature. Most places, like, even authentic Thai places, they get it wrong.”

Laura looked at the fish tank. The fish that had come to her finger was doing circles now. The other one didn’t move. James talked about a tuk-tuk driver who became a real friend. About eating silkworm at a night market in Pai. About the difference between fish sauce and soy sauce, and why it mattered to him personally. The old lady came with the plates. They smelled like ginger, oyster sauce, and kaffir lime leaves. The vegetables were bright. The steam rose. She set down both plates and left without a word. James leaned forward. He studied his plate.

“Hmm.” Laura picked up her fork. James raised his left hand toward her. “Wait. This isn’t Phad Khing. Excuse me, lady!”

The old lady came over. Smiling.

“I’m sorry, I’ve had many Phad Khings in my life, and this is not a Phad Khing. The ginger’s wrong, the color’s off… You know what? Bring me a pen.”

She appeared one from her apron. James took a napkin and wrote on it. The woman watched his hand. Laura watched the fish. It was behind the rock now. Gone. James folded the napkin and held it out. “Take this to the cook.” The old lady took it and walked to the back. James talked about temperature gradients. About garlic chives. About Tao Jiew. Laura drank her water. She looked at the child. He was still drawing. A stick figure inside a box—with a bowl.

The kitchen door opened. The old lady came back. She set the plates down. The same plates. James looked at them. Then at the old woman. Walking away. He picked up his fork. Tilted his head. Then, took a bite.

“Now we’re talking.”

He ate. The Brussels sprouts sitting in the dark sauce. Laura noticed one was taller than before. James brought his fork down. The sprout was already partway up. It went into his mouth. He talked. Swallowed. He went on and on. The plate was still full. He started talking slower now. Then, he stopped. From the corner, the sound of the child drawing. Fast now. James’ mouth was open wide. His eyes were open too. From his mouth, pale and taut, the runners extended down to the plate. Five of them. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. The old lady appeared from behind Laura’s left shoulder. She set two small folders on the table and a paper box.

“To go?”

She walked to the back. The kitchen door swung. Laura opened her folder. She put the cash in, stood, and put on her coat. She passed the child’s table on her way out. His doodle was done. Six tables, red lanterns, two fish in a tank. A stick figure inside a box. And, from its mouth, lines going into the bowl.