Our world-traveling chef explores the many varieties of Thailand's laap
“Is this blood? I don’t think this is what I ordered.”
When I first moved to Northern Thailand, I spent the first few months eating everything in sight. I didn’t just want to taste these foods, I wanted to study, cook, and immerse myself in the history and culture that surrounded the ingredients, techniques, and flavors of this spectacular cuisine.
During the first few months there were stunningly delicious surprises, ball-retractingly terrifying surprises, and a few dishes that challenged food norms I have unquestionably held my entire life—laap is one of those dishes.
If you’re a fan of Thai food (and who isn’t a fan of Thai food?) then you’ve probably at least heard of laap. There are several varieties, but all laap starts with some sort of minced meat, to which a variety of flavoring ingredients and seasonings are added, depending on the region and type of laap being made.
The two main styles of laap are Lanna, from Northern Thailand and Isan, originating in Northeastern Thailand. The most common style of laap served in American Thai restaurants is Isan—a spicy, citrusy, herby, meat salad made with cooked ground meat (usually pork), chilies, fish sauce, palm sugar, herbs, and toasted rice powder—traditionally served with sticky rice and raw vegetables.
When done right, it’s a spectacular face full of flavors that I absolutely love. Not long after we arrived in Chiang Mai, I went out for lunch at a well-known restaurant famous for its laap and confidently pointed at a faded photo on the wall of what I thought was the Isan laap that I loved. Little did I know I had landed square in the middle of Lanna laap country.
Within minutes I heard the steady rhythm of knives furiously chopping—a sure sign something delicious was on its way. I peeked around the corner into the postage-stamp sized kitchen and saw what looked like an Eli Roth nightmare sequence.
The cutting board was covered in finely chopped raw meat, pieces of what looked like kidney, intestines, and fat were piled at the edges of the board and a tiny Thai auntie gave me a friendly smile as she spooned a bit of blood from a large metal bowl onto the chopped, raw meat, followed by a spoonful of green liquid from a small jar that I would later learn was bile.
I returned to my seat and began to contemplate my life while my brain frantically sent every escape signal in its arsenal to my feet. I somehow resisted my amygdala’s insistence that I flee immediately as this sweet Thai auntie confidently placed a plate of bloody horror nightmare bits in front of me with a proud smile.
Growing up, the idea of eating blood was not just taboo, it was seen as a horrifying, unhealthy, even disturbing concept relegated to National Geographic documentaries and R-rated horror movies. Later in life, I learned that blood is commonly used in many cuisines and deep-end ingredients such as blood tofu and blood broth that are also commonplace here in Northern Thailand. That knowledge, however, did little to blunt the shock of having this crimson-red carnage show up on my plate with virtually no warning.
I took my first bite—a spoonful of raw meat, intestine, a chunk of mystery organ, and a little of the blood gravy—as nonchalantly as possible and was shocked at how good it was.
Lanna laap doesn’t adhere to the traditional Thai formula of salty, sour, sweet, and spicy. Instead, those bits of raw meat, cooked offal, and fat were coated in a rich, bloody, gravy-like sauce flavored with cumin, cloves, coriander, cardamom, long pepper, star anise, prickly ash (related to Sichuan peppercorns) and cinnamon. She tossed a handful of fresh herbs in at the last minute and sprinkled crispy fried onions on top for some much needed crunch.
The raw meat was surprisingly tender; the overall flavor was herbaceous and moderately spicy with a little bit of a bitter finish. The brightness of the fresh mint, coriander, basil and spring onion was a much needed foil to the richness of the blood and offal, while the diversity of spices added to the complexity of this brain-copulation of a dish.
Did I eat it all? No. Did I enjoy it? To a degree, but more than just having an unexpectedly gruesome meal, this was a palette expanding moment that moved blood from the “get that away from me” column into the “this could work” column. Stop cringing and just try it!
Mike McJunkin is a native Chattanoogan currently living abroad who has trained chefs, owned and operated restaurants. Join him on Facebook at facebook.com/SushiAndBiscuits