THE freshness, subtlety, and exoticism of Thai food lead people to think that the country responsible for such food must be beautiful, and of course they're right. When the opportunity to visit Thailand presented itself last year, I pursued my favorite way to understand a country's culture -- through its cuisine. My idea was to take and compare several cooking courses; because Thais are well aware that food is a draw for tourists, I was able to choose from a number of courses taught in English. (In recent months the unstable Thai currency has led to political and economic instability, and so tourists are well advised to keep an eye on international news when planning a trip.) The places I visited to take courses are on the itineraries of many first-time visitors: Bangkok; Phuket, the resort island in the south; and Chiang Mai, an inviting and human-scaled city in the north.
Class-going gave my days structure, and because most classes ended with lunch, leaving the rest of the day free, I could do all the sightseeing I wanted. When I got back to the United States, I was able to relive the trip far more evocatively than I ever could by looking at snapshots -- by making my hands lemony with lemongrass pounded to release its fresh juices, staining them orange with fresh turmeric, and smelling the essential oils of kaffir lime leaves, a flavoring ubiquitous in Thai cooking. Getting the scent of a country's food on your hands helps you get its spirit in your mind.
MOST visitors pass through Bangkok, the wise ones as quickly as possible. I took to traveling by water only, the best way to avoid the notorious traffic. Taking a motor-powered "long-tail" boat or a steamboat shuttle down the Chao Phraya, the wide river that curves through the city, is still enchanting, offering views of gilded, brightly painted temples and the few low white-stucco buildings that have escaped demolition in the city's ceaseless construction (the buildings would be described as colonial-era had Thailand ever been a colony). Fifty miles down the river is Ayuthaya, the royal capital that Bangkok replaced; its extraordinary pylon-like temples, now magnificent ruins on neatly tended lawns, were the models for Bangkok's better-known but relatively mechanical-looking temples. Ayuthaya is as memorable as it is obligatory to visit, and as tranquil as Bangkok is frenetic.
My most pleasurable Bangkok excursion was heading up the river a much shorter distance to a cooking class at the Thai House, a small hotel built in the form of a traditional raised wooden Thai home, with temple-like pitched roofs. Gliding through the klongs, or canals, provides a tour of the city's back streets, where the pace is relaxed. People stroll in and out of the markets and ornate temples that face the canals; children paddle in the water and women wash their hair in it. By the time you arrive on the porch of the intimate hotel, having traversed progressively narrower canals, you feel much farther from the city center than the fourteen miles and forty-five minutes of travel would imply.
Pip and Paiboone Fragrajang, the couple who built and run the hotel, want to immerse guests in typical Thai village life. Even if the immersion is actually into the upper middle class in a suburb of a surprisingly modern city (Bangkok was founded only in 1782), it still seems like a journey into the past. I didn't stay at the hotel, with its traditional grouping of bedrooms around a second-floor courtyard, but I longed to try the teak-lined repose offered by the low beds, away from modern conveniences: there are fans but no air-conditioners in the surprisingly fresh rooms; bathrooms are shared.
Classes here are relaxed, familial, and fun. Students sit around a wooden trestle table and listen to Pip explain in her imperfect but confident English the ingredients for the few simple dishes that everyone will spend the day preparing together. Some mornings begin with a trip to the local market in the village. Demonstrations are outdoors, near the garden and a small orchard where students can pick herbs, mangoes, and bananas. The full course lasts four days, but you may attend a day at a time. If you call a day ahead (the number is 011-662-280-0740), someone will fetch you early in the morning at your downtown hotel, take you by van and boat to class, and bring you back in the late afternoon. The daily charge is about $80, including transportation, and the four-day program, including room and board, costs about $500.
Pip wants students to enjoy themselves and to take initiative, and they do. A fundamental of Thai cooking is pounding chile paste with a mortar and pestle; the ingredients of the paste change by region and dish, but the repetitive motion and releasing of fragrance produces what Patience Gray calls, in her 1986 book "an alteration in one's being -- from sighing with fatigue to inhaling with pleasure." After we had each taken a turn pounding a green-chile paste for kaeng kheo waan neua, or green beef curry -- which included the always refreshing lemongrass, gingerlike galanga, sweet fresh coconut milk, and several pungent fresh chiles -- I happened on an old woman sitting on the concrete path beside the kitchen, making the same paste for everyone's lunch. As she cradled the family-size mortar in one arm and pounded and stirred with the other, she looked deeply content.
IN the city itself the oases are the luxury hotels, including the Regent, the Sukhothai, and the Shangri-La, and -- perhaps the most tranquilizing oasis of all -- the Oriental Spa, which includes a professional-caliber cooking school, just across the Chao Phraya from the legendary Oriental Hotel. Private ferries shuttle between the hotel, which has a stolid British modernity, and the spa's charming turn-of-the-century buildings, which once housed a paper factory. The school has an international reputation because of the curriculum established by its founder, Chalie Amatyakul.