The first meal I had in Bangkok unfolded on a sidewalk in the city’s historic Chinatown, where a man with a round belly whipped up little bowls of noodles from a minuscule cart.
It was nearly 11 p.m., but I was starving and tired after a six-hour flight from Korea. I pointed at a sign that read “tom yum” in English, and handed over 30 baht — just under a buck.
The bowl that landed on my folding table about 45 seconds later woke me right up. Who knew such a tiny vessel could contain such a riot of fermented funk and prickly heat? The broth was perfumed with lemongrass and fish sauce, with ground pork and thin slices of offal as garnishes. I inhaled those noodles while sitting on the edge of the roadway, paying no mind to the river of exhaust from passing mopeds.
I thought a lot about that trip while at Zen Yai in the Tenderloin, wolfing down a little bowl of noodles — the kind I’d feared I would not find in San Francisco.
The restaurant at Ellis and Polk streets specializes in boat noodles, a beloved dish from Bangkok, invented by floating vendors who navigate the city’s canals. These noodles traditionally come in tiny portions, easier for a single cook on a wobbly canoe to prepare and hand over to hungry patrons.
Zen Yai isn’t the only place in the city that serves boat noodles. But it is the (very) rare Thai eatery that offers OG-sized bowls, paying tribute to how these noodles are eaten in Thailand. And they command a tiny price by SF standards, too, at just $5-6 a pop.
The classic beef-and-meatball version, served in a murky broth infused with herbs and spices, is a rightful classic. But this week, I fell head over heels for a different offering: Zen Yai’s yen ta fo — aka Thai pink noodles, stained rose by red fermented bean curd. It comes adorned with a bouquet of savory treats, including fish balls, squid, spinach, and tender cubes of pork blood (don’t be alarmed; it just tastes like tofu).
Zen Yai offers a choice of noodle types, but I think the best move is to ask one of the Thai folks who work there for a preferred pairing; I appreciated the server recommending I try sen yai, flat rice noodles that look like miniature handkerchiefs, in my yen ta fo. Another winner came in the form of hot-and-sour tom yum soup with skinny rice noodles, which showed off the choreography of sweet, salty, sour, and umami that defines Thai cuisine.
The smaller portions encourage you to have multiple bowls, mixing and matching at will. You can get a full-size version of all these noodles, of course — but I think that kills the charm of the traditional method.
Credit for the cuisine goes to Suriya Suksamran, who has owned and cooked at Zen Yai for nearly two decades.
In 2006, after years of working in Bay Area Thai restaurants, Suksamran decided to open his own joint. He chose the Tenderloin for its reasonable rent and central location, and initially stuck to the Americanized hits: Pad Thai, pad see yew, and the usual trio of red-yellow-green curries.
Business was “just okay,” he told me, and by 2010, Suksamran was on the verge of closing his venture. But a Thai friend who ran a restaurant in Atlanta urged Suksamran to take a final swing by offering Thai specialities that are less familiar to the American palate. So Suksamran launched a “secret” menu, focused on the boat noodles he had grown fond of while living in the town of Suphan Buri in central Thailand.
“This is more like the original, from Bangkok. I love how quick they cook it,” he said, miming a vendor whipping noodles and broth into a bowl. “But the small boat noodle is a lot of work, too.”
That is perhaps an understatement, given the finesse and care required to craft multiple broths and cook a smorgasbord of garnishes for the boat noodle menu. Then again, that attention to detail pops off elsewhere on the diverse menu, too.
I loved the appetizer of tod mun, fried patties of ground fish flavored with curry paste and topped with pickled onions and cucumbers. Zen Yai also makes a stunning som tum, the legendary green papaya salad beloved throughout Thailand. They offer the full-bore puu pla raa version, smashed with salted crab and a Lao-style fermented fish sauce that smacks you in the nostrils.
I got mine “Thai spicy,” complete with the mandatory “you sure?” and a raised eyebrow from my server. It was appropriately fiery, but still balanced — the burn dancing alongside the brine of preserved seafood and the tangy crunch of shaved papaya.
Zen Yai survived thanks largely to its Thai customers, who began to flock to Suksamran’s restaurant after hearing about a “secret” menu written in Thai, for Thais. The boat noodles are now just printed in English on the main menu, but there remains a board on the wall with an off-menu special written only in Thai. It currently features jok, or rice porridge topped with treats like sliced pork and salted egg — a perfect breakfast for a chilly morning.
The Tenderloin remains a destination for unbelievable southeast Asian food, from the banh mi sandwiches at Saigon Sandwiches and L&G to the lush Teochew noodles at Hai Ky Mi Gia. Many have been around for decades, which is a stark contrast to the contemporary churn of ambitious new restaurants that open and quietly close after a short stint in the Bay.
But when I asked Suksamran how he feels after two decades in the Tenderloin, he paused and pursed his lips. “It bring up a lot of thoughts,” he said.
“I have customers call and text telling me that I have to move. Others say, ‘I love your food, but I don’t want to go there.’ Weekend, we’re normally packed. We have big families coming in. But when it’s like this,” Suksamran said, gesturing at empty tables and the quiet street outside, “it hurt a lot.”
Even if he wanted to move, Suksamran isn’t sure where in the city he could afford to re-open anymore.
“I love this neighborhood. I’ve been here 20 years. Friends, businesses, I know them all. We help each other. Watch each other’s backs. But things have changed. I talk to supervisors, police, D.A. And I just hope,” he told me.
Enough ink has been spilled about the crisis of poverty and addiction in the Tenderloin. That’s perhaps what makes it so critical to maintain optimism about the arc of the neighborhood and its people — including Suksamran, who took a chance on Ellis Street and built a legacy by serving food that inspires the community. Recent immigrants can find a foothold in a city as expensive and challenging as SF because of, not in spite of, the Tenderloin’s working-class history and affordability. And so Suksamran remains here, working in the kitchen six days a week alongside his staff.
While some fans may want Suksamran to leave the block, I hope he sticks it out. The neighborhood doesn’t need more flight. I plan to return with a giant group of friends, to commune over little bowls of fiery, fishy, meaty goodness while city life swirls outside.
