Saunter down any street in Vientiane, day or night, and you will meet hawkers of every description cooking up all sorts of unknown delights.
Every evening, before navigating into the secluded market outside my flats, I am struck by an Eyjafjallajokull-esque pall ascending from smoking grills. I splutter past the fumes, cooking up evening meals for homeward-bound Laotians.
Thanon Dongpalane is an industrial street in central Vientiane which caters for a variety of metal dealers, stallholders, shopkeepers, mobile peddlers, students and tourists. The street is dirty and oily, with the eternal presence of lottery vendors, mechanics and flower sellers by the road side. The evening pavements are almost as dangerous as the roads.
Behind this scrum of sellers, wares and motorbikes, are food stalls. The dirt and grime is caked into the concrete and wooden stalls are blackened from the fumes and soot. The food receptacles are greasy and shineless and oil pools float on the surface of the soups and stews.
Where the meat surfaces for air, it often looks fatty and stringy, drowning in its personal lather of spices and sauce. The liberating spoons slop into the bowls and surface to deposit their harvest in elastic-bound plastic, tied with impressive dexterity by your patron. You walk off with a dripping bag of swill-like nourishment.
This was my first impression of Lao street food, and it took a while before I was adventurous enough to order anything beyond the rice and noodles. Admittedly sometimes it goes wrong, like when I received a bowl of raw pigs feet, but that is a calculated risk.
The offending grill I encounter every commute cooks up what are to all intents and purposes bbq'd hash browns. Served on a wooden skewer with spicy sauce, and for under 10p, they are the perfect early-evening snack.
The neighbouring stall's fare is far less recognisable, and each container is dark and gloomy, with steamed rice lightening up the counter. The sausages are the real prize here; a speciality of Luang Phrabang. I have never tasted anything quite like them. They are a mixture of pork, citrus, lemon grass and spices, in sausage-form.
A couple of stalls down, interspersed by Chinese greengrocers and temple flower sellers, is the omelette maker. There are few better breakfasts. A thin crisp omelette folded in two, filled with bean sprouts and minced pork. A sweet, spicy sauce is dripped over it like honey, and it is served. At 40p a go you just can't go wrong.
I have had quite a few dodgy stomachs since coming to Laos and doubtless many have been courtesy of my mealtime habits, but it is a price worth paying. And, when your own kitchen contains a resident rat, who's to say street food isn’t the healthy option?
Much more palatable to sanitised western taste, is the variety of fruit sold streetside. The most ubiquitous are the melon sellers, who labour their carts city-wide, searching for custom. Sold spliced by a wooden splint, the melons are easily handled and accompanied by a stinging dip of salt spice, which is the Lao condiment of choice for fresh fruit. After trying it, you will wonder why.
Fruit isn’t just sold fresh; it comes fried and grilled too. Bananas are the most favoured and grilled Ladies' Fingers are not as off-putting as they sound. Bbq’d for a good 15 minutes, they are golden brown when served and there is a perfect combination of soft sweetness with grilled banananess.
Finally, and possibly most unhealthily, there are the fried banana crisps. I have developed an addiction for these and tend to run out of the office for elevenses at least every other day. These are thinly, very thinly, sliced bananas deep fried and served warm. They come in savoury and sweet varieties. The sweet variety having been soaked in fresh banana syrup and being plumper and juicier because of it. Putting the bag out of reach is a necessity, as hands take on a life of their own when within striking distance!
Admittedly, my Lao food habits are tame compared to the Lonely Planet favourites of live creepy crawlies and boar penis wine, but that doesn't take away from their authenticity. The best food the streets of London have to throw up is a half-eaten kebab in the early hours of Sunday morning, so I know where my loyalties lie.
