You often hear som tam before you see it — tok, tok, tok — the pestle striking the clay mortar as the salad is built to order, one diner at a time. It is the sound of Thailand’s north-east, of Isaan, and it carries to street corners all over the country.
In the kitchen
There is no cooking here, only rhythm. Garlic and chilli are bruised in the mortar first, then palm sugar, lime and fish sauce are pounded into a dressing. In go shreds of crisp green papaya, long beans, tomato and peanuts — each tumble of the pestle bruising the papaya just enough to drink up the sauce without losing its snap. Every mortar is seasoned to the person who ordered it, so no two plates are ever quite the same.
At the table
It lands bright, wet and glistening, smelling of lime and toasted peanut. The first bite is a shock of sour and heat, then the crunch, then the slow sweetness underneath. It’s brash, fresh and gloriously unsubtle — proof that “refreshing” and “fiery” belong in the same sentence.
Tell us your chilli count when you order — one is friendly, three is a dare.