Eight years ago, I went to visit a good friend who was living in Singapore and we traveled together to Thailand and Laos. We ogled temples, wandered through markets, rode in boats and rickshaws and on an elephant, and ate like nobody's business. At the Conrad in Bangkok, there was a mind-boggling breakfast buffet that lured us on a tour of global gluttony first thing in the morning—from delicate Chinese dim sum and Japanese tofu to Italian gelato in brioche and Indonesian waffles to buttery French croissants and cream-laden Bircher muesli (masquerading as a healthy option), not to mention every fruit imaginable and some heretofore unknown. It was the sort of start to the day that automatically predicted a nap in our future. But we also stayed in some modest little places, including along the river in Luang Prabang, where said boat trip led us into a lush forest with a waterfall and turquoise swimming hole that was a playground for local kids. Nearby, a couple of women pounded green papaya in big stone mortars to make a traditional Laotian salad, tam som, which they sold in small plastic to-go bags.
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