I've always loved garlic. In my cooking, restaurant meals, as a health remedy, as vampire protection. I support any restaurant that uses a heavy hand with the garlic in their preparations. And I especially get behind restaurants that use so much of the bulb that it becomes the namesake of their establish. Thus, we eat at Garlic 1992 for our final dinner on Phi Phi.
I order their green curry, filled with shrimp, Thai basil, coriander, long beans, carrots, green eggplant, bean sprouts, kaffir lime, and coconut milk. It's simultaneously garlicky, gingery, herbal and quite spicy. If I was congested due to the jungle walk to dinner, it's not a problem any more. The spice levels clears my senses like a gust of wind.
With rank, potent breath and pores oozing garlic, we head out to meet new friends. We run into Kirsty, Molly, and Alison from Koh Tao and join them ringside at a Muay Thai match. Despite offers of a free bucket of booze for any amateur fighters, I'm fine with my Chang. We sit about two feet away from the ropes, where the sound of each blow is magnified. Each fight is three rounds, lasting for roughly thirty minutes in total. It's incredibly brutal, with each kick to the face the opponents fly across the ring. We're sitting so close that we can hear each kick and punch make contact and see beads of sweat flying from each man's brow. Ringside coaches yell tactics and give between fight massages. Each power movie reminds me of Taratino movies where the punch wind-up is captured in slow-motion while the resulting impact is sped up.
I'm rooting for red shorts, who is clearly fighting dirty, throwing team blue outside of the ring and continuing to throw punches after the bell. He eventually prevails, and though Muay Thai is traditionally a noble sport in which competitors share a drink post-fight, team blue is so enraged that he refuses and handshake and leaves the ring in a fit of fury.
The night ends dancing on the beach in the rain until 3am.
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