“What’s the problem?”
“Man who steal from Plaa work for Big Shrimp.”
The name sounds familiar. “What’s that?”
“Big new restaurant, Sukhumvit 37. Owned by wife of general.”
I’d heard of it. There was a small stink raised when an old apartment building full of workingclass people was torn down to clear the land for it. And the general himself has recently been associated with some shady land deals. But wives of generals are well-connected.
“Huh? What would they want with Plaa’s fish? And she couldn’t have had much money.”
“They want know how Plaa cook her fish. They offer her money, but she not want to tell. Her cook same as mother and grandmother. Is family secret. Today they steal fish and money and tell Plaa if she not tell, then she no do business any more.”
It takes some persuasion. At first she doesn’t want help from a farang, but we get Plaa into the van. I call and cancel my next appointment as we make our way in fits and starts the twenty-six blocks to Big Shrimp.
It’s not the world’s biggest restaurant. That’s another twenty or so blocks farther down Sukhumvit. Big Shrimp is too classy for cute waitresses on roller skates, but not by much. It’s over-decorated in the sort of Mekong whisky-fueled, faux Edwardian trompe-l’oeil taste that infected elements of the Thai upper classes in the 1970s. The illuminated walls and ceiling are lousy with 3-D wood nymphs and angels and fat cherubs. There’s a long entryway lined with alcoves, painted to look like aquariums stocked with comely mermaids and muscular mermen. There’s not a molding, frame or edge of anything I can see that isn’t painted gold. I’ve heard the food’s pretty good, but the place doesn’t do much for my appetite.
Neither does the big man at the door to the office. He’s taller than me, really tall for a Thai guy. He’s heavy and thick with muscle, not fat. He’s got scars on his face, and his nose has been broken enough that I know he’s not averse to a scrape. Maybe the scariest thing about him is his suit. It’s shiny black, rich, dense wool, two buttons buttoned. The hallway’s not air-conditioned, and he isn’t sweating.
I am, but I’m always sweating in Bangkok. I can talk to him all day, too, but it soon becomes plain he isn’t going to react to a thing I have to say.
Cho steps up to translate, but the big fella doesn’t react to him either. I’m tempted to snap my fingers in front of his face, but I’m afraid he could snap me in two if I were to irritate him. So I don’t.
I step back and whisper to Plaa, who is keeping her distance.
“Is he one of the guys who robbed you?”
She shakes her head no. That makes sense. There’s no point in wasting a heavy like this on lightweight street work. There are plenty of ambitious teenagers around who a rich woman can find for that sort of thing.
But we’re not going to get anywhere even if we find who actually did it. To fix this thing, we need to talk with the boss. And she’s through the door on the other side of the thug.
She knows we’re here. There’s a security camera above the door, covering the hallway.
I step in front of it, thinking I’ll talk to the camera since I’m not getting anything out of the big guy. But he’s quick. He moves in front of me, blocking me from view.
Maybe there’s sound. I try talking, but the guy smiles at me in a way that I think means I’m talking to myself. We need to figure out another approach.
We start walking away. Out on the street in front, I suggest to Plaa and Cho that we go somewhere. I’ll buy lunch, and we can talk over what to do next.
Plaa’s face lights up. I think she’s happy I’m going to buy lunch, but I’m wrong. She leans into Cho’s ear and whispers to him. His face lights up, too, and they both turn to me, smiling.
“Khun Ray, Plaa has a good idea.” I turn to her and she starts explaining in rapid-fire Thai, gesturing at the Big Fish restaurant.
Cho also points at the restaurant. “We go back in here, sit down, okay?”
No, I don’t think that’s okay. I don’t want to give Big Fish my money. I give the two of them a look.
“No problem, Khun Ray. You do not understand.”
Cho leans in to explain the plan to me. It’s a good one, and as we walk back inside, I hand Plaa my mobile phone. Cho’s already making calls on his.
The lunch crowd hasn’t come in yet, and we have our choice of tables. We sit down in the middle of the restaurant at a table that could comfortably seat six people. I order one large Kloster beer for Cho and me to split. Plaa wants hot tea.
The two of them are making calls on the mobile phones while I leaf through the menu. It actually does look pretty good, and I’m hungry. But that’s not the plan.
The waiter comes up to take our order, and we send him away, saying we’re going to wait for our friends to get here. Plaa hands me back my phone, and I make a few calls of my own.
I’m thirsty, so I lift my glass and take a small sip of my beer. Cho wags a finger at me, and I put the glass back down. He hasn’t touched his, and Plaa is letting her tea get cold.
We’ve been putting off the waiter for almost a half hour when the lunch crowd begin to arrive, taking their places in twos and threes at tables for four or more. I notice Plaa and Cho making very slight nods, little waves of no more than a finger at the people who are coming into the restaurant.
These aren’t the typical, well-heeled patrons of the place. The customers have dressed as nice as they can for the occasion, but their best is a lot lower on the fashion scale than Big Shrimp’s usual lunch crowd of businessmen. The restaurant staff are giving each other looks, wondering, “Who are these people? Can they afford to eat here?”
Our Bangkok correspondent comes in. He’s with the Thai editor of a local trouble-making magazine and his chief reporter, a tiny but solidlooking Thai woman from the country’s dirt-poor northeast. She’s known for her motto, a quote from an American journalist of the early 1900s: “To afflict the comfortable, and comfort the afflicted.” I flash them a smile. They sit down at a table in a corner from where they can observe the whole restaurant.
By the time the restaurant’s full, there are only two tables that appear to actually be ordering lunch. Everyone else has no more than one cooling or warming drink in front of them and can’t make up their mind about what they want to eat. The waiters, maitre d’ and floor managers are in a huddle by the motionless swinging doors to the kitchen. Every so often a busboy or cook’s face appears in one of the windows in the kitchen doors, grins broadly and then disappears.
A crowd of the usual customers gathers at the front desk, wanting their usual tables. They’re increasingly restless, perturbed in their fine summer-weight wools and linens. But too bad. Big Shrimp is full.
The maitre d’ hurries over to try and mollify his customers, but most of them turn and walk away. There are plenty of other places to eat nearby. A few agree to take empty seats at some of the partially filled tables.
A man in one of the most perfectly tailored suits I’ve ever seen with a haircut that no doubt cost as much as Plaa makes in a month or more sits down at our table. He’s with a Miss Universe-class, bejewelled woman of about a third his age. They smile at me and look nervously at my lunch companions.
Cho says something to the beautiful woman that brings out a big smile on Plaa’s face. The woman looks startled and turns to the man, who looks annoyed.
He turns to me and in impeccable, upper-class British English, with just the barest tint of a Thai accent, asks what it is that I “make of all this”? It hasn’t occurred to him that I’m part of it.
I explain what’s going on, and as I do I can see the turmoil going on inside him. Despite his best efforts, it’s emblazoned across his face. The part of him that has spent a lot of time outside Thailand wants to argue with me. But he is Thai, after all, and arguing is either beneath him or just not done.