The Taco Stand

To stop himself from binge drinking so early in the afternoon, James opened a taco stand outside the bar. The small open bar was a teacher hangout, mostly because the large bottles of Leo beer were 20 baht cheaper than in the other pubs, but also because the name of the place itself reminded them of the absurdity of their otherwise dreary profession.

It had become fashionable in the last few years for Thai business owners to use English words on their signs, even if nothing else was written in English.  Happy Coffee, Nice Bear Ice Cream, Cupcake Cuddle, and Joy Burger were among the favourite local hangouts.

May, kind and soft by nature, renamed May’s Bar to Warm Heart. She had the sign installed with a thick cover and had an unveiling party complete with free barbecue and beer. When she removed the cover, she was greeted with loud laughter. “Worm Heat” was emblazoned in a bright orange against a pink background. She couldn’t understand why the farang were laughing but assumed they were happy and so laughed with them. James and the other underworked teachers like him, spent most of their afternoons at “The Worm”, drinking cheap Leo and rehashing conversations from the days before.

On one particularly sweaty and dull Thursday, James proposed his idea of setting up a taco stand. May, bored and hungry herself, shrugged an approval. “You pay. No problem.”

The next day, James arrived with a rectangular grill, a bag full of meat on skewers, balls of dough, a large bowl of pico de gallo, limes, and cilantro. He’d made a sign complete with visuals. “Worm Tacos. 1=20 baht 3 for 50 baht. Pork or shrimp”, created a facebook page, and told his students they would earn extra marks if they liked and shared it.

Word of the tacos spread fast and girls from the neighborhood schools came in small, shy groups. Many a picture was posted that first day, “V” gesture on one hand, taco in the other. The girls were also motivated by talking to the farang himself as he had three desirable qualities for girls that age: blue eyes, a full head of “yellow” hair, and a slim figure. But beyond the pull of social media and crushes, the girls found they actually liked the strange tube-like food which was spicy and easy to eat. It was a taste foreign to them but with just enough of the familiar.  The school boys, too, eventually goaded one another into joining in. And it goes without saying that the expats in the bar gladly traded the stale crisps and peanuts for a few.

Everyone was happy with the arrangement except for one. The Roti Man had been making roti for five years and there had always been a crowd waiting for roti with curried chicken or the sweet ones with Nutella or condensed milk. But for two weeks, nearly all his customers had drifted up the street to the farang bar. He sent his son to buy three, which terrified the young eight year old. The Roti Man took the bag and his change without word and went into the toilet. He came out seething with equal parts anger and pleasure and began to plot his revenge.

He first tried changing his roti to roll ups. He sold 3 for 40 baht but people just ridiculed him. He then appealed to national pride and put up signs in Thai that read, “100% Thai products” but took them down when someone pointed out that Nutella was not a Thai product. After a month with profits nearly cut in half, he implemented his final plan.

James, meanwhile, was being spiritually fulfilled by his new local fame. The expats started calling him, “Taco Jim” and consulted him for culinary advice. The bar girls flirted, and he had more than 500 likes on his facebook page. Everywhere he went, people smiled and gleefully shouted, “You, you!! Taco! Taco!” He was even making a little money, half of which he gave to the orphanage, to “build up karma”.

But there weren’t enough tacos in the world to protect him from the Roti Man’s revenge.

The Roti Man’s son had followed James for three days. The Roti Man listened intently to every bit of the minutiae of the single man’s life but only asked questions about the butcher. When he was satisfied that he knew exactly which butcher the boy described, the Roti Man gave a rare smile and retrieved some cash that was hidden in a Nutella jar in the back balcony.

The next day was relentlessly sunny. The Roti Man was eating the first (and usually best) roti of the afternoon and happily imagined the results when James did the same with his own products. However, on this particular Tuesday, James had had a big staff lunch at an Isaan restaurant complete with whole fried fish, sausages, grilled chicken, papaya salad, and enough sticky rice to stuff a sofa. James was so full that he would have rather gone to bed than go to The Worm and serve teenagers.

As it turned out, his first and last customers of the day were two girls, Fon and Gift, aged 12. Their deaths were so sudden, so dramatic—a gasp and a paralyzed collapse—there was no doubt that the cause lay half eaten in their clutched hands.

James, unsure of what had happened, but completely certain that the Thai legal system would not look upon him favorably, fled and was in Malaysia within a few hours. May, certain of her own guilt, went to Bangkok. The ex-pats moved to another pub, The Kitten Star, down the road and ignored the frosty glares of the neighboring shop owners. The Roti Man and his son dug a deep hole in their back garden and buried a small tin box. And the butcher, quietly and without smugness, enjoyed a portion of the Roti Man’s monthly profits for years to come.