The Cooking Class – Part 1: Chilli

"Smell this," said Somchai.

Maya sniffed the bundle of herbs he held out and sneezed. The wet market was a roar of colour and noise: pyramids of green mango, buckets of flapping fish, a woman chopping a coconut with one swing of a cleaver. Steam rose from the food stalls. It was six in the morning and thirty degrees.

"Lemongrass," she said, wiping her eyes.

"Kaffir lime leaf. Again."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Everyone sneezes." He grinned. He was thirty-four, lithe and sun-browned, in a loose cotton shirt, with a mischievous face and a cleaver slung through his belt like a pirate's cutlass. "Welcome to the class. Today, we cook seven dishes. You will cry, a little."

She was thirty, an American pastry chef on a three-week trip, proud of her palate and entirely out of her depth. He led her through the market, haggling cheerfully, letting her taste everything: sticky rice, grilled pork, a tiny sour orange. She tripped over a crate. He caught her elbow without breaking stride.

At the school, in an open-air kitchen beside a canal, he taught her to pound curry paste in a stone mortar. Sweat ran down her back. Her arms ached. The smells were extraordinary.

"Harder," said Somchai.

"I'm pounding as hard as I can."

"Pretend it's your enemy."

"I don't have enemies."

"Pretend it's your boss."

She pounded. The paste flew. They both laughed so hard they had to hold on to the bench.

"Can I ask you something?" said Maya, wiping her face.

"Yes."

"Why do you teach?"

"Because people come in afraid of the food," said Somchai, "and leave in love with it."

"Green?" she said, the word for a green curry.

"Green," said Somchai, delighted. "Very green. We make it now."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Night Market.