The Crêpe Station Brigade

Somtum Lady cradled the jumbo plastic bowl at her station. Due to a slow somtum business day, Crêpe lady had bestowed her with whisking duties, which is why Somtum lady grasped the large bowl of crêpe batter at her station. Her whisking motion is exactly the same as her making somtum motion—she pounded down upon the batter as if smashing unripe papaya flesh. It looked awfully awkward, using an over-sized whisk and seeing lumpy batter remain lumpy. I dare say Somtum lady only shines when using a mortar and pestle.

Anyways, it was no matter because Crêpe lady soon poured the batter into a blender to pulverize any lumps into silky smooth crepe batter (actually, the bag said waffle flour, but whatever). It was busy for Crêpe lady—she had to both make crêpes and re-stock her mise en place to fill the orders coming in quick. Thank goodness she has friends who act as her sous-chefs.

To one friend, she entrusted the job of slicing a bag of uncooked hotdogs, promoting her to Chef de Hotdog. Friend #1 placed the cutting board on a table nearby where her knife skills were on full display. It looked like she had either never used a knife ever before, or that she’s right-hand dominant but had to use her left hand because her slicing skills were painstakingly fraught and wobbly. In the time that Crêpe lady had already cooked two orders, Friend #1 was still on hotdog #1. Crêpe lady came over to inspect her friend’s work. As Head Chef, her reputation was on the line. Thus, for the sake of quality-control, she popped 1-2-3 raw slices of hotdog in her mouth.

Friend #2 was given the task to refill the squeeze bottle of sweetened condensed milk. Unfortunately, Chef de Sweetened Condensed Milk did not have her mise en place. It started out unpromisingly as she used a knife to poke the top of the can.

The orders were piling up; both griddles swamped. Not only was there no mise, there was no place. Thinking quickly, Friend #2 took the squeeze bottle and condensed milk to the floor where she squatted, waiting out the upside-down-turned can to ooze out its contents. (I can hear Anthony Bourdain—God rest his soul—bellow, “Clean your meez!”).

Crêpe-lady—meanwhile—refilled the ketchup bottle (lick), blended more batter (lick), sliced a banana for a banana crêpe and ate the end piece. Or pieces.

Then she sat down for lunch! She ate out of several plastic containers with a large pile of rice on a plastic plate. Her sous-chef friends joined her.

The next day, I purchased fresh spring rolls from Crêpe lady. Unlike Vietnamese spring rolls, which are filled with savory shrimp, rolled tightly with cilantro, basil, shredded carrots and green onion, these were a homey affair: lettuce, carrots and cucumbers with imitation crab. However, half the rolls appeared to be filled with raw sushi salmon—wow—what a treat! Nope. It turned out to be sliced pieces of raw hotdog. Maybe Friend #2 actually made it to hotdog #2 after all.

More brigade

A man came to visit Crêpe lady. He didn’t order a crêpe; I think he just wandered over for a chat. In short order, he was saddled with the large, stainless steel bowl with over-sized whisk and put to work! He—like Somtum lady—and in fact, all of Crêpe lady’s sous chefs—looked awkward and clumsy. Apparently, no previous experience is required—not to mention—hand washing, hair nets, or a sanitary prep station! The man set the bowl on one of the food court chairs, where many anonymous butts have sat!

Crêpe lady measured in the flour, poured in some milk, spooned in the sugar and let her friend whisk away. Lumpy, messy batter? No matter. There’s nothing a blender can’t fix in Crêpe lady’s world.

So far I’ve witnessed a cornflakes and sweetened condensed milk crêpe; an imitation crab and hotdog crêpe squirted with ketchup, chili sauce, and mayonnaise. Then there was the Three-Candy-Crêpe, filled with jelly chews, gummy bears, and bright red balls. And who can forget the WTF-Crêpe: a scrambled egg that was smeared with raspberry jam, sprinkled with chocolate chips, and finished with ketchup and mayonnaise. Today, a man ordered a scrambled egg crêpe, which was layered with two different fluorescent yellow colored pastes—margarine? Lemon, pineapple?

Crêpe lady took a wad of 20 baht notes and brushed the tops of all the jars of fluorescent-colored fillings. To bring good luck. Good business. A KitchenAid mixer.

Sign of love

I was in my usual place, eating my usual lunch, when out of nowhere the Teen appeared at my table, wai-ing at me. Reflexively, I returned his wai and held my palms in front of my chest. I’d never seen him up so close. He had such a big smile on his face, first taking in my table and lunch remnants. Then he looked at me and smiled. I looked at him and smiled. He kept wai-ing. I kept wai-ing. He kept smiling. I kept smiling. No one said a word.

In self-consciousness, I broke eye contact, but resumed looking into his face again. His eyes seemed to float and roll around, but would refocus. For his part, he didn’t break eye contact out of self-consciousness.

In my experience, beings who can hold such intimate moments—gazing eye-to-eye without shame or embarrassment—are either enlightened beings, dogs, or babies. They exude the innocence of unconditional love. We are attracted to—pulled into—this resonance of self-love as a remembrance of our original nature.

The Teen—totally without care—let our wordless greeting go on and on. After awhile, I zipped my bag closed. The Teen touched my hand, then flashed me the Sign—sign language.

“I love you!”—his hand said to me.

“I love you!”—my hand said to him.

And with that, he walked away.

*     *     *

The Teen is art-in-motion. A flesh-realized Calder mobile—in that—he redefines the space in which he moves. In one instance, he is walking around in a white polo shirt, holding a white plastic stool, with an insane grin on his face. In another, he is diligently arranging cards in a specific order. In another, he is sitting on a drum with the soles of his feet facing one another like a baby. Or a yogi.

Where the gaming exhibit used to be, cylindrical drums of different sizes now occupy. Clustered in random sets in a cavernous space, it resembles an art installation: “Brown Drums in Vast Space.”

Cut the house lights. All goes black. A single spotlight reveals the Teen’s face. He begins by pointing and speaking to the space. Widen the spotlight to reveal the Teen sitting on a drum. He taps his hands on the drum, creating a rhythmic beat. Tap, tap, slap, thump, thump, thump.  

A solo poet

Perched on an empty brown drum—

“I love you” he signs.