The promise of “authentic Thai food” has long been an especially elastic and problematic one; an ever-moving target shaped by time, context and whatever level of regional fidelity the cautious masses deem tolerable. Fifteen years ago, I could shuffle my ill-informed, skinny-jeaned carcass to The Walpole Thai pub in Deptford, order a searingly hot pad krapow that would offend the gaze and spirit of any self-respecting south-east Asian, and still think, because I could feel last night’s Jäger tobogganing from my pores, that I was partaking in the apogee of cultural faithfulness.
Now, of course, London’s Thai restaurants interpret the cuisines of Isaan, Laan or Bangkok’s micro-cultures with breathtaking focus and specificity. Now, the unapologetic home-style brilliance of Leyton’s Singburi is so revered that you can’t book a table until 2024.
