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leaf, their fragrance rose with the steam. The fish had likely come from nearby waters. The kroeung paste was pounded fresh.
Beside the curry, small freshwater fish were skewered and placed over the grill. Their skins blistered and crisped, smoke kissing the flesh. A basket of sticky rice appeared, wrapped in cloth to keep it warm.
There were herbs too, mint, holy basil, sawtooth coriander, arranged casually on a metal tray. Dipping sauces were prepared in chipped bowls: prahok blended with lime and chili, fish sauce cut with palm sugar. It reminded me of meals we’ d eaten prior, where pepper-infused fish carried a coastal sharpness. It recalled Kampong Cham, where bamboo sticky rice, krolan, was split open and eaten with soot-stained fingers. It echoed the simple roadside breakfasts near Kratie, bowls of kuy teav fragrant with pork broth and green onion.
But this meal felt older somehow.
Closer to origin. Perhaps it was the fire. Cooking over open flame changes flavour. It slows everything. You can’ t rush wood. It burns at its own rhythm. The cook must adapt.
We sat cross-legged on woven mats as dishes were laid out between us.
There is a particular joy in sharing food with people who were strangers only days before.
Travel has a way of compressing intimacy. A few shared rides, a breakdown fixed together, a wrong turn laughed off, suddenly you know someone’ s humour, their resilience, the way they sip coffee or tighten a helmet strap.
Our group had formed loosely, riders from different countries, connected by curiosity more than plan. Over the past week we’ d eaten together in small towns and roadside stalls, navigating menus with
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