Ban Thai Is Still The Boss, Three Decades On

Crunchy lettuce cups cuddling a mound of toasted coconut shreds, topped with roasted peanuts, slender batons of young ginger, puddles of palm sugar dressing punctured by bits and bobs of pink shallots and jewel-like rounds of red and green fresh bird’s eye chillies. It’s a cornucopia of textures and flavours, fresh and intense, brought together in a nutty, crunchy bite further punctuated by the zippiness of chunky peeled lemon wedges.

Like much of the unflinching cooking Ban Thai is known for, this too is a delicious dish that is easy on the eye, as it is on the palate.

One bite, a thousand notes

Miang Kham (#15A on the menu, 2.990 ISK) may be commonplace in Thai restaurants around the world, but in these parts, it is still a rarity. A Laotian dish, but with variations served across Thailand, it is often described as “one bite.” A true encapsulation of the hallmarks of Thai cuisine — sweet, sour, salty and spicy — there is no better way to kick off a meal. Although heart shaped, sharp-tasting betel leaves are the preferred vehicle for its crunchy components, Ban Thai serves it in the common way of Southern Thailand, in lettuce leaves. A neat nod to both Thailand, whilst accommodating the challenge of finding fresh produce here.

Despite the popularity of Thai restaurants in the country, much of this Southeast Asian cuisine is relegated to that troublesome duo of deep fried shrimp and an undying devotion to clumpy pad thai.

Bogged by unreasonable expectations that Thai food be quick, cheap and unthreatening, many businesses have sought to appease that baseline. But Ban Thai has been an outlier, seemingly from the get go.

Beyond Pad Thai

Today there are about 1.500 Thais living in Iceland. Specialty stores regularly stock fresh produce and pantry ingredients and the cuisine’s influence is felt in local supermarket aisles. And yet, garden variety Thai restaurants with watered down dishes in unrecognisable avatars flourish.

The first Thai immigrant on Icelandic shores arrived in 1979. From thereon, it was only a single-digit trickle of Thais into this country for well over a decade. Which makes me wonder if Iceland 30 years ago was a morbidly curious, open society. How else can you explain the presence and continued popularity of not one, but two behemoths like Ban Thai and AusturIndia that subverted expectations and continue to do so? It would have been so easy, I imagine, to give in to the temptation that the farang customer be mollified with barnamatur (children’s food, ergo milder and sweeter), especially when access to native ingredients would have been near impossible in those days. That is a problem Ban Thai’s founders, couple Dúna and Tómas Boonchang, circumvented by importing their own, all the way from Thailand.

“Ban Thai’s success after 33 years in business is more than happenstance bravery.”

Ban Thai’s success after 33 years in business is more than happenstance bravery; it is confidence and pride that is writ large on their exhaustive menu. If you are a new diner or have been a regular, but like me never perused this mini tome, I strongly urge you to go over the descriptions of principal ingredients, their many health benefits, the tenets of Thai cuisine (health and celebration of the produce is stressed) and the thoroughly earnest guidelines on how to order.

The many warnings that have now become part of the lore of dining here, I now realise are really indications of the Ban Thai family expressing care for their food, that Asian sentiment towards food waste (zero tolerance) and a dogged commitment to showcasing their cuisine the way it is meant to be, rather than the curt, severe, finger wagging that it is made out to be.

Whereas in other Asian restaurants the chilli indicator is amusing at best, here they are not a slider between mild, medium and spicy, but rather a realistic depiction of the heat level of the dish itself. And no, that spicy dish will not be made mild for you — if you read the menu cover to cover, you’d already know that the dish will be made the way the dish is meant to be made.

There are regional cuisines within Thai cuisine — Burmese influence is rich in the North, where coconut milk features sparingly; in Northeast Thailand or Isan, think salty, sour, pungent and herbal, smacked with ferments; Central Thai from around Bangkok and Southern Thai, with its melting pot confluences of Southeast Asian, European and Chinese cooking techniques and ingredients. A common thread across its regional diversity are the four pillars of the cuisine —- tom (boiled dishes), yam (spicy salads), tam (pounded foods) and kaeng (curries).

A delicious, torrid affair

Order as a group, along these principles and the food will arrive in a well paced, well orchestrated flow, garnering you both respect and smiles from Mr. Boonchang himself. And you know there is no better stamp of approval than that! Even as my girlfriend and I were worried about upsetting the waitress by taking too long to decide, we were met with patience and as our conversation and queries grew, well meant nudges on what to order (Kai prik kreur) vs what not to order (the fresh veggies like bell pepper are not very Thai, she sagely revealed).

Though Western restaurants lean on the “one dish for one person” formula of individualistic dining, the menu and I both urge you to order family style as the food is meant to be enjoyed. If fried shrimp is your signature MO, then look to the deliciously tropical island vibes of the Coconut Shrimp (2.290 ISK) instead. Or the shell-on salt and pepper jumbo prawns. The mixed platter (6.990 ISK) is tempting and feels safe from decision anxiety, but it was nothing to write about. I’m still smarting from my disappointment from over a year ago.

“If you read the menu cover to cover, you’d already know that the dish will be made the way the dish is meant to be made.”

While you nibble on your snacks, there should be a “yam” of some kind on its way. Thai salads can be a meal unto themselves, but I advise restraint here as we are seeking adventures across the culinary landscape and hopping between dishes is really half the fun. Whatever your yam, rice has to figure alongside. The chewy, fragrant carb is the definitive vehicle for all the tangy, citrusy, bright and herbaceous dressing that tends to pool thanks to the one two punch of fish sauce, lime juice and, often, palm sugar. Sticky rice (#S4, 390 ISK) is not very cutlery friendly, I suggest pinching off bite sized pieces to act like pillows for your salad. I lost my heart to the Yam Moo Nam Tok (#23, 4.990 ISK), barbequed pork neck, sliced thick, tossed with fresh shallots, oodles of fragrant coriander (though the fresh mint was missed), all bound by a fairy dusting of khao khua (toasted, ground sticky rice powder).

There is an entire section dedicated to barbecues. Whatever protein you choose promises to come out singed and smoky from the grill. The Si-klong Moo Yang (#30, 4.190 ISK), a rib sticking dish of pork ribs made lighter, with a fruity sour tamarind sauce. We could see sizzling platters of Suow Ran Hai, popularly known as Crying Tiger stream out of the kitchen repeatedly — it’s clearly a crowd favourite. And vegans and vegetarians needn’t despair, the kitchen and chefs are happy to accommodate you. I spotted more than a dozen tofu dishes on the menu.

If you are torn between the many curries (kaeng) or soups (tom), how about getting the Keow Wan Roti (#8, 3.190 ISK). Strewn with slivers of bamboo shoot, this muted jade green curry, slick with a layer of fat on top (proof the kitchen cooks their curries by splitting coconut cream and the curry paste till the fat separates and rises to the top. This is slow cooking that coaxes deep flavour out of its ingredients), is served with quarters of ruffled roti. Tearing away a piece by hand reveals shatteringly flaky layers as the roti is deep fried. Even though rice is at the heart of Thai cuisine, as evidenced by the many variants (sticky, jasmine, steamed, black) and forms (noodles of varying kinds,flour, toasted, pounded), roti is a remnant of Indian influence on the cuisine. In Ban Thai’s case, it is a perfect vehicle for the fragrant curry. In some parts, it is also eaten with delicately steamed nests of fresh rice vermicelli noodles or khanom jeen. A combination that truly reveals the versatility of the dish. Kaeng Keow Wan is most brazen with jasmine rice, the heat tempered when eaten with roti, but is it’s most fragrant self with khanom jeen.

“Talking about and expecting explosive heat in Thai dishes erases the nuances of this highly sophisticated cuisine.”

Talking about and expecting explosive heat in Thai dishes erases the nuances of this highly sophisticated cuisine. Reliant on seasonal, regional produce, cooking techniques and ingredients that span a multitude of influences, Thai gastronomy isn’t shock value built on the Scoville scale. Chili heat is tempered with lashings of acidity, sourness and saltiness, from varieties of limes, sour fruit like tamarind to fermented fish and anchovy sauces.

A great example of this balance is seen in the Kai Prik Kreur (#66, 4.190 ISK), a simple stir fry of chicken, chillies and cashew nuts. The heat creeps up in a slow, velvety build up.

Given the extent of the menu, Ban Thai warrants repeat visits. Thankfully, it continues to stand tall in its convictions and showcases the breadth of Thai cuisine, uncompromisingly. I for one, will be back, starting with a whisky next time, like the tome advises.

Visit Ban Thai at Laugavegur 130, and book online here.