Thai La-Ong

Thai La Ong – A Valentines Day Saga

February 27, 2021 by Andrew Christie

We’re going out for dinner and I’m nervous. Not covid nervous, Valentine’s Day nervous. I’m expecting crowds, booked out restaurants, purveyors of crappy roses, magicians, even. Due to a series of entwined exigencies now lost in the depths of time, Strop and I managed to exchange our wedding vows on St Valentine’s Day. It is an error we are still paying for. You simply cannot go out for a quiet wedding anniversary celebration on Valentine’s Day, so we usually shift the date to avoid the crowds and complications.

But not this year. This year is our fortieth. Just let that ruby-coloured number sink in a moment. Forty years married. To which should be added The Years Before—a period of indeterminate length—during which we hung out with sufficient intensity as to produce a baby girl. Makes you feel old just thinking about it.

So, our fortieth—our Ruby Anniversary—and we’re in Sydney. King Street beckons. Strop has romantic notions of taking Painting the Bridge back to where it all started, but I don’t think Izote Mexican still exists.

Romance seeps away. Pragmatism builds a bridge. Thai La Ong is still there, and one thing you definitely cannot get in Bermagui is decent Thai food.

This will be a family affair. We are to be joined by a daughter, a granddaughter and a nephew. The Stropolina, the Lagilou and the Chippy.

First off, Strop and I embark on a nostalgic walk from Newtown Station along a sultry Enmore Road to see what has become of the place since we stopped paying attention. It seems a bit tidier. A bit quieter, maybe. Hard to tell really, as it is still the middle of the afternoon. Some new joints. Some survivors.

We end up at the Warren View where things have changed. Covid measures are serious here. There are separate in-and-out doors. The young woman behind the bar wants to verify our log in. Us old folks from the coast aren’t used to quite so much covid-tainted reality. The beers have changed too. Lots of funky, and probably very hoppy, hipster beers from pop-up breweries are available. Watermelon flavoured! Probably rhubarb too. Or turmeric. The very helpful bar person directs us to beverages that suit our individual needs and we proceed through to the renovated beer garden where Strop proceeds to break her knee on an over-sized steel girder holding up our table. It could easily hold up the harbour bridge but has been given lighter duties, no doubt in the service of irony. (Ha!)

The beer garden is airy and feels more spacious than on previous visits. The covid marshall wears a jaunty high-vis sash, and the place is full of families and young children, some of whom are intent on driving their prams, and their hovering fathers, to the edges of navigation. I am tempted by the offerings on the blackboard, but Strop reins in my impulsiveness by reminding me to save myself for Thai La Ong.

On that self-righteous note we drink up and head for the pre-dinner rendezvous at the Courty. Where we run into the Chippy just getting off his bicycle. Timing, eh?

While he finds a convenient pole to chain up to, Strop and I form an orderly queue outside the pub. Covid rules. Numbers restricted. Scan here. Wait there. Some people go out. Some go in. More people go out, we go in. For our convenience, and to avoid crowding around the bar, we can order with our phone. What a wonderful world. Just download the app, create a log in, nominate a payment method, no, not that one, try again, what was it you wanted? Beers. Anything else?

It took a while—about as long as it took for us to start doubting that the system actually worked—but a jug of Coopers and three glasses arrived eventually. Cheers.

Having mastered the system, and anticipating delays, we order more beers. And chips.

The Stropolina and Lagilou arrived. Cheers. Lemonade. More beers. Cheers.

Eventually we peeled ourselves off our stools and headed onto a twilit Kings Street. The crowds were a bit of a freak out for us country folk. Narrow pavements. Single-file negotiations. Strop and I rubber-necking, playing spot the difference.

“Didn’t this used to be…” “Yeah, but look, that place is still there.” “Is it open?” “Hard to tell…”

Definitely no frozen yoghurt places. Still a few burger joints. Plenty of Thai. Perhaps a bit more Turkish.

And Thai La Ong was still there, right where we left it.

Not as busy as in pre-covid days. Almost empty, in fact. It was still early because we were dining with a two-year old, but I imagine that the absence of international students has devastated the cheaper end of King Street’s restaurant business.

But looking on the bright side, they had plenty of room for our little party and Lagilou wasn’t going to disturb any intimate romantic dinners. After a while we realised that there was a steady stream of helmeted take-away riders coming and going. That’s where the customers were—at home, watching Netflix.

Complimentary prawn crackers arrived and were devoured. Then we had to remember the rules of ordering.

Number 37. Ginger Stir Fry. With chicken.

Mussaman curry. Spicy rice with pork belly. Pad See Ew. Duck salad. Boiled rice.

Yum.

Strop and the Chippy distracted Lagilou with drawings of motorbikes until the food arrived.

Yummo.

Duck salad—know what I mean? Ma-ate, you don’t get that in Bermi. Pad See Ew, yum. Pork belly, yes please.

The only real disappointment was the Mussaman which was tough and overly sweet.

We wended our weary way back along King Street in the wake of Lagilou, who wielded a rainbow flavoured icecream cone as if it was a wand, bestowing blessings on all, and asking “What’s your name?” A fitting end to another memorable episode of the quest.

Crime and Sustenance on Good Friday – 107 Thai La-Ong 2

March 30, 2013 by Andrew Christie 4 Comments

In which your humble correspondents plough onwards through the thick of Kings Street Thai-foodery only to come hard up against the gritty underbelly of Sydney street crime.

First things first though, before we get all gritty and crimey. Thai La-Ong 2 is not so much a sequel to Thai La-Ong, as an annexe of it – with yellow walls instead of green. The menu is the same, the food is the same, with the same degree of deliciousness, the staff are the same – we had the same waiter, and the bill is of the same degree of lowness that you will be shaking your head in wonder. Go to either. They are good. Go on, go now, you can choose between yellow and green.

You can only tell them apart by the yellow walls

We are joined by Stropolina tonight to entertain Fiona and Renald, guests from Canberra. They are ex-neighbours and old friends, whose kids and ours used to ricochet from house to house in a tight little playgroup pinball. Until they all grew up and began bouncing around the planet instead. Fiona and Renald are keen to join us on the quest, and we are reasonably confident that Thai La-Ong 2 will at least be good enough that we are unlikely to risk permanent damage to the friendship by inflicting it on them.

We are greeted with yellow walls and prawn crackers at the restaurant. It is smaller and emptier than it’s partner, which is good as none of us have 20-20 hearing anymore and there is a fair bit of catching up to be done. Hilarity ensues, with tales of old friends and new lovers, Bambi and Thumper, twitterpation – nothing to do with the internet apparently, summer camp employment, young people in general, and arguments over the menu. We have already tried number 37 up the road, so should we go for 73? Or maybe 10 (3+7 – I had to have it explained to me). Then Renald arced up, demanding a whole snapper, and Strop took command of the ordering to prevent an outbreak of chaos. She was doing relatively well until she got distracted by the shiney little shrines dotted around the restaurant and felt the need for a bit of cultural enrichment and education. Soon she had the waiter stretching his limited English vocabulary trying to explain the various statues, pictures and little fabric banners with green crocodiles on them. Ironically we learned that Thai crocodiles have a propensity for gobbling up cash at the same time that a couple of home-grown Newtown crocodiles were helping themselves to Fiona’s cash.

The first we are aware that something is wrong is after the young couple seated behind Strop and Fiona leave abruptly without ordering. Then the manager from Thai Riffic next door comes in and the staff gather at the front of the restaurant. They are suspicious, they ask Strop and Fiona to check their bags, the ones hanging invitingly open on the backs of their chairs.

Shit.

At least the Newtown crocodiles only took the cash. They left the wallets, cards and phones.

In hindsight of course we are all experts on how suss the crocodiles looked – that girl was totally off her face – I thought there was something dodgy about them – didn’t you think it was weird how they chose to sit right behind us – she was pretty though – pity she’s buggered up her life. But unfortunately no one actually saw anything and no one said anything about their suspicions when it might have been useful. We weren’t on our guard. We weren’t in a foreign country. We were having a lot of fun.

Oh well, we probably got off lightly – how silly, leaving our bags unzipped – what bastards.

While we are waiting for the cops the food arrives and distracts us with yumminess, especially the rich beef Gang Masamun and the aniseedy fish, Pla Rard Prik.

After gelatos at Gelatomassi, where we are exorted by the proprietor to “sit out the front and make my place look busy,” we finish off an eventful evening with a visit to Newtown Police Station. While Fiona and Strop are giving their statements I check the photos on my phone and realise I have taken a photo of one of the crocodiles. I thought this was a major breakthrough in the case, even if it was poorly lit and largely out of focus, but the police didn’t seem as excited as me. CSI Newtown will have to wait.

Next up is Thai Riffic, our first pun and our last Thai for a little while. I can’t wait, but we will be keeping our handbags firmly in our laps and our eyes peeled. It’s a jungle out there.

Thai La-Ong – say it out loud, it’ll make you happy. Number 91

March 4, 2013 by Andrew Christie 1 Comment

Mark said “I’ll come… as long as it’s somewhere good.”

We said “That’s not how it works Mark. We don’t know what’s good till we get there.”

So on Mardi Gras eve, Mark came along with us, and it was good. It was in fact, excellent.

Thai La-Ong – there is something about the name that just makes me want to keep saying it aloud with a cheesy faux-oriental accent, stretching out the ong. It put a grin on my face even before the food arrived at our table.

Don't let the green put you off — Don’t let the green put you off

Thai La-Ooong is a shockingly green, double-wide restaurant occupying two shop fronts. It was busy when we arrived, with a young, happy and loud crowd, so there was no chance of a window table. We settled down at a table in the middle of the second room, and Mark immediately showed off his Thai language skills by addressing the waiter in lingo (he can say hello and goodbye apparently), so we immediately appointed him our ongoing expert in all things Thai . He further impressed us with his local knowledge by pointing out that this place used to be a Vietnamese favourite called Old Saigon (he was close, Old Saigon was down the road a bit where Thai La-Ooooong 2 is now, according to Strop’s inter-webby research).

Number 37 on the menu turned out to be in the stir-fry section: Pad Katiam Prik Thai – pepper and garlic with vegetables. In what seems to be a Thai restaurant tradition, the stir-fry and curry parts of the menu give you a choice of species for the protein component of your meal. We had a lively discussion about whether to double up on poultry or ungulates, chicken and duck versus beef and pork, until we realised that for an extra $4.90 we could rope in seafood by choosing prawns for the Gang Dang red curry, and avoid the issue altogether. We opted for pork with number 37 and also ordered Yum Ped Yang, the roasted duck salad.

The service was quick, we had hardly cracked our bottle of NZ Sauv Blanc before the first dish arrived. It was number 37, and it was good, with clean fresh flavours. The other dishes arrived in rapid succession, the curry and then the salad, and the food kept getting better and better. The duck salad was the clear winner but it was all very good. The only hiccup came with my first bite of the prawn curry, and unfortunately it wasn’t alone. Much to Strop’s amusement, I have developed Late Onset Chilli Induced Hiccup Syndrome, and it doesn’t take much chilli to set me off, the prawn curry wasn’t exactly a scorcher. I suspect that I may have missed out on my fair share of the food as I clamped down on my spasming diaphragm, trying to break the cycle of amusing convulsions.

Can I hiccup and take a photo at the same time?

When it came time to pay we had the good kind of bill-shock. Mark thought they had given us someone else’s bill, presumably a lone diner’s. This place is way better than you would guess from the colour of the walls – very good and very cheap.

Next up is an old favourite of ours, Rowda Ya-Habibi. It will be the first time that we have applied the Painting-the-Bridge blowtorch to the belly of somewhere we know. Will it survive intact?