ISAN’S LAAB KOI—THE DISH THAT SELLS HEARTACHE!

A TASTE OF HOMESICKNESS!

Panlop Samsi

The rendezvous point: 'Yai Yon Khon Chaiyaphum,' a notorious laab hotspot deep in the heart of Bang Bua Thong. It's here, just a stone's throw from his hideout, that we meet the man himself: Athit "Fai" Moolsarn. He's the visionary mastermind behind the explosive "Laab Koi Universe" exhibition, a headlining spectacle for the much-anticipated 'Isan Creative Festival 2025' in Khon Kaen.

Our interview was drowned out by a raw, chaotic symphony. The relentless CLACK-CLACK of mortar and pestle, the brutal THWACK-THWACK of a cleaver butchering meat on a wooden block. The POP of soda bottles, the heavy THUMP of an ice chest lid, the rattling of ice cubes. And above it all, a ceaseless, frenetic shouting match between delivery riders and the matriarch Yai Yon, slinging orders back and forth. It was the perfect, overwhelming soundtrack for the zaap—the spicy, scandalous heart of Isan gossip—we were about to dive into.

And cutting through this magnificent chaos was one constant sound: the booming, infectious laughter of Athit Moolsarn himself. To his mates, he's the rough-and-ready "Bak Fai." To the younger crowd, the respected "Ai Fai" (Brother Fai). The jesters dub him "Kamnan Fai" (Chief Fai). But to the entire Isan food and culture scene, he is infamously known by one name: "Fai Laab Siep."

But forget the noise—it was the smell that was the knockout punch. An intoxicating, maddening assault on the senses that drove our salivary glands into a frenzy. The smoky char of grilled beef, the pungent kick of catfish laab, the herbal depths of gaeng om, and a dizzying array of som tums hung heavy in the air. The time: high noon, the hour of truth.

Lucky for us, Fai, ever the strategist, had already infiltrated the base. A feast was laid out before us: som tum, grilled beef, and of course, the titular laab koi—the perfect opening act for cracking open the secrets of his "Laab Koi Universe."

(P.S. We got the raw, unfiltered story. Our entire conversation was a high-speed, no-holds-barred exchange in pure Isan dialect. This wasn't some polished PR interview; this was the real deal, the rapid-fire banter of two Yasothon natives going head-to-head.)

How does a street-food legend land a gig this massive?

"We were strangers!" Fai confessed. "The CEA (Creative Economy Agency) just called me out of the blue. They already had their target—this whole laab concept. And with my shop, 'Laab Siep,' and my TV stints... well, if you're talking laab, my face is the one people have seen." He'd been on the major channels, the go-to guy with the real-deal knowledge. "The CEA probably saw me on TV, then cross-referenced with the industry's inner circle... who all pointed them straight to me."

He lets out a huge laugh. "You won't believe this—when they first called, they addressed me as 'Kamnan Fai' (Chief Fai)!" he roared. "My friend Tum calls me that as a joke, and the poor secretary genuinely thought it was my official title!"

You took the job just like that?

"Absolutely," he fired back. But it wasn't all smooth sailing. The mission immediately hit a snag. "First move? I hired a team of anthropologists to dig deep. Then I brought in the creative guns from 'Tito Tito' to build the exhibition."

"But we hit a wall. A huge one."

"The CEA shot down our first approach," he revealed. "The data from the anthropologists, they said, was too dry. Academic. It wouldn't inspire anyone. They weren't looking for a history lesson; they wanted a 'WOW!' factor. It was a total clash of mindsets—the scholars versus the showmen. We had to go back to the drawing board and fight it out."

So what was the big, game-changing pivot?

"We slashed the history," he declared. "We took it from a whopping 60-70% of the exhibition and chopped it down to a mere 20-30%. We replaced it with pure creative firepower. We started hunting down the new wave of 'Isan-Izakayas' to get their story. We crunched the numbers on how many laab joints exist outside the Isan homeland."

"And that's when we hit the jackpot—a shocking discovery. The south of Thailand is CRAWLING with Isan restaurants! There's even a laab shop brazenly named 'Gateway to the South'! Even I, a guy who thought he knew everything about laab, was floored by the data."

"But the biggest bombshell," Fai leaned in, his voice dropping, "was the research confirming a theory I've been shouting about for years: the laab you eat in Isan and the laab you eat in Bangkok are two completely different beasts. They're totally disconnected."

"In Isan, laab is sacred. It’s for ceremonies, for ordinations. But in Bangkok? It's the daily grind. It's the new izakaya. It's where salarymen rip off their ties, unbutton their shirts, and just let loose. Laab is no longer for holy days—it's for getting through the week. That's the great divide, the schism between two worlds."

"And what's happening right now in the Bangkok laab scene is a powder keg of an issue," he continued, leaning forward. "These places are positioning themselves as the new izakayas, the post-work watering holes for the city's exhausted office warriors. It's a huge, untapped market."

"But here's the controversy," Fai declared, his tone shifting. "I'm calling it out: these so-called 'Isan-Izakayas' have gone too far. They're too Japanese. They are disrespecting the very soul of Isan culture. Sure, the fusion concept looks chic on Instagram, but it's a betrayal. We are losing our own identity!"

He wasn't alone in this fight. "I've spoken to the heavyweights," he revealed. "I've interviewed 'Eve' Natthida from the acclaimed 'Zao' and even the legendary Chef Chalee from '100 Mahaseth.' They all echo my warning: 'We don't need to pretend to be someone else.'"

"But Fai admits it's a strategic game," he conceded with a sly grin. "To launch this new, authentic wave of Isan, you have to first invade their market. You play their game. And then you wait... you wait for the moment everyone finally gets it: Laab is laab. Izakaya is izakaya. They are not the same thing."

So, what's the secret 70/30 formula for this explosive exhibition?

"Forget what you know about stuffy museum events!" Fai boomed. "This is no boring talk show. Over nine days, this is an all-out, no-holds-barred TASTING BATTLE! We're talking 'The Universe of Jaew' backed by the booze legends from 'On-Son' distillery. We've got 'The Universe of Blood,' a shocking display curated by the notorious 'Moo' Tikhumporn. We've unleashed 'The Universe of Bitterness' with the infamous 'Boyder' from 'Soi Tee' at the helm!"

The list was insane. "The Universe of Toasted Rice," "The Universe of Vegetables and Nutrition," "The Universe of Plant-Based Laab," and even a "Universe of Fish Laab" sponsored by the giants at Jim Thompson Farm. "And the catch?" he grinned. "You only get two chances to experience this. Two sessions only. For a scandalous 199 baht a head, you get everything. And yes, that includes booze pairings for every single dish."

He then dropped a bombshell about one of his collaborators. "Take 'The Universe of Bitterness'—Boyder is a master of the old ways. The hardcore, traditional laab. And his knowledge goes deep into the dark arts... he's an expert in the culture of butchering meat while it's still... twitching. Fresh."

"He knows secrets," Fai explained. "In Isan, you can still find phia (bile) that's fragrant and perfect. But in Bangkok? It's all industrial feedlot beef. The bile is rank, foul. It ruins the dish. But the old Isan way, with grass-fed cattle? That bile is liquid gold—bitter, fragrant, and utterly authentic."

But what's the real prize for those who get inside? Is it just a food coma?

"You're not just getting fed; you're getting armed with intelligence," Fai revealed. "This is a 'Cook & Talk.' We're cooking live, and we're spilling secrets as we do it. Don't mistake this for some polite chef's table. Think of it this way: you come to feast, and you leave with a battle plan."

The official theme for ISANCF 2025 is "Opportunity." A dangerously vague word.

"Exactly!" Fai agreed. "Opportunity... it's just smoke. It's not a number, not a hard fact. Our mission was to take this abstract idea and forge it into something real, something people could use."

So, Fai went on a covert intelligence-gathering mission, consulting the world's top culinary minds.

"I infiltrated 'Kappo Tomo,' an exclusive, reservations-only Japanese joint," he said. "The Japanese master chef told me point-blank: Laab is a dead ringer for their yukhoe. His advice for invading the Japanese market? 'Dial down the spice, but double down on the toasted rice.'"

"But then, a conflicting report from a different front!" Fai's eyes widened. "I went to Garima Arora, the Michelin-starred Indian chef behind the legendary 'Gaa'. Her verdict on Isan food? 'It's perfect. Don't touch it.' She said laab is just like the spicy, minced-meat dishes of India."

"We were caught in a crossfire!" he exclaimed. "Two culinary superpowers, two completely contradictory strategies. Japan says retreat on the spice; India says charge forward! We asked them both for the blueprint to world domination, and they handed us two different maps!"

Then came the advice from a local titan, Chef Chalee of '100 Mahaseth'. "His strategy is different. He says the soul of Isan food is its honesty and fun. But the key to victory is to make it elite. Elevate it. Worship the ingredients—even ingredients no one would dare put in laab before. His own restaurant is proof, using only the best beef from Isan farms."

"After all these interrogations," Fai concluded, "I saw it. There isn't one path to victory. There are dozens. We can attack on any front we choose."

This isn't just an exhibition; it's a GOLD RUSH for attendees and aspiring Isan entrepreneurs.

"Forget just laab!" he commanded. "The exhibition is a treasure map. You have a business mind? You can strike gold. Start a specialty farm for Isan vegetables. I just discovered a secret: hairy-leaf herbs, like our bai hoo suea, are perfect for digesting raw meat, just like Japan's oba leaf. That's a million-dollar idea right there!"

"The opportunities are everywhere!" he continued, listing them off like a general briefing his troops. "The rice industry. The livestock game—which cow for which dish? The nutrition angle. It's all on the table."

"And if you want a direct line to a business empire, we've got Boyder on hand. The man has already conquered five cities with his laab shops. He'll give you the franchising secrets right there."

But what about the poor souls who can't snag a golden ticket to the exclusive tasting sessions? Are they left out in the cold?

"Not a chance," Fai declared. "The main exhibition is where we've hidden the deepest secrets, and it's open to everyone."

"We've plastered the walls with the final 'Key Words' from every top chef—their classified intel on spices, livestock, and the lost art of butchery. It's a masterclass in code."

"This is no passive experience," he warned. "We're giving the power back to the people. There are interactive displays where you can slap down a post-it and declare your truth: What's the ultimate drink with laab? Which herbs are non-negotiable? We've even recreated the authentic soundscape with vintage transistor radios blasting forgotten laab anthems."

"And we've built a 'Keung Fai'—a raw, primal Isan kitchen. But don't expect some cute clay pot. We went for hardcore authenticity: a massive tin can, the kind used to boil bones at gritty village festivals."

Then, he dropped the biggest bombshell of the day. "We are here to expose a lie," he said, his voice deadly serious. "A lie that has been told in Isan for generations. The myth of the tamarind wood cutting board."

"Everyone thinks it's the best. That it's sacred. It's not. It's not even in the top three in the entire country. We are revealing the undisputed champions, the true trinity of cutting boards. The truth is finally coming out."

"We're showing our own people that their heritage is far richer than they've been led to believe. We'll have local liquors and wines on display, proving what really pairs with laab. We'll have the actual herbs laid out for you to grab, to smell, to taste."

"I refuse to build a boring museum," Fai concluded. "I'm not selling facts. I'm selling an atmosphere. An experience. I want you to walk in and feel it in your bones."

We had to ask the big question, the one everyone whispers but is afraid to say out loud: After years of hype, can Isan food REALLY conquer the world stage?

Fai just laughed, as if we’d asked if the sun was hot.

"It's not a question of if," he shot back, dismissing the doubt entirely. "It's already there. The invasion has begun."

He then laid out the evidence, revealing secret outposts of Isan power already operating in the West.

"Go to Soho. London," he commanded. "There's a small, unassuming restaurant there. They're pumping out authentic grilled chicken with makhwaen pepper to the post-theater crowds. And they're not holding back—they're serving up face-meltingly spicy Tom Saap, the real deal."

"And that's not all," he continued, dropping another bombshell. "There's a girl from Roi Et who married a guy in America. She got so damn homesick she opened her own shop. She didn't market it, she didn't change the recipes. And what happened? The foreigners didn't just accept it. They flocked to her. They got hooked. She brought a taste of home, and they followed."

But surely it will be a long, hard fight. It's not an overnight sensation like Pad Thai or Tom Yum.

Fai scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "Please," he shot back. "Tom Yum is a bruised champion. It's overplayed, washed up. And I'll tell you why..."

He leaned in, ready to reveal the master plan. "This isn't a food fight; it's a culture war. You can't just send in the food," he explained, revealing the secret to Korea's global blitz. "They didn't just export K-Pop and Kimchi. They launched a full-scale cultural invasion—the whole damn entourage! That's how they won."

"And I've cracked their code," he declared. "I've discovered our own secret weapon. It's a three-pronged attack. The holy trinity: Booze, Beats, and Beef."

He then unveiled a clandestine plan he's already plotting with his inner circle. "Our first target: Japan. But we're not leading with food. That's a rookie mistake. We're sending in a Trojan Horse: music. The Japanese are already hooked on our sound. We'll start with small music festivals, create a beachhead... and then we unleash the laab and Isan cuisine."

"And we're coming armed," he added with a wicked glint in his eye. "Thailand's new arsenal of craft booze—our own gins, our own sato rice wines. We're taking all three—the booze, the music, the laab. It's a package deal. An invasion.

Why does the laab in Bangkok taste like a cheap imitation? Why doesn't it taste like home?

Fai didn't hesitate. He delivered a brutal, unfiltered verdict.

"The som tum? It gets a pass... barely," he conceded. "But the laab? It's a fraud. It's not even close. The meat is dead. It's not fresh enough."

"Let me be clear," he declared. "The laab you eat in a city restaurant versus the laab you get at a real Isan wedding or ordination? It's not the same dish. It's night and day."

But then, he leaned in, ready to leak a secret. "There are, however, a few safe houses in this city. A couple of places that come dangerously close to the real thing." He named just two: 'Toey Laab Yasothon' and 'Ai Sak Laab Yasothon,' both operating deep in the same Bang Bua Thong territory. "You eat at those two places," he admitted, "and it hits you. Instant homesickness."

Then, he dropped a bombshell—a rumor of a third, almost mythical establishment.

"There's a legend," he whispered, "out on Bang Na-Trat, Km. 8. A place called 'Laab Yasothon Zing.' This place is the cult icon, the absolute idol for hardcore laab fanatics."

"Their operation is legendary. They only sell in the morning. They started out slinging laab to ten-wheel truck drivers at dawn. And their secret, the one that makes them untouchable?"

"They get their meat fresh from the slaughter. Still warm. That's the key. That's the real deal."

Tell us about the warring 'Laab Clans.'

"Ah," he said, a glint in his eye. "This is where my team of anthropologists struck gold. And we're about to expose THE GREAT LAAB CONSPIRACY."

"The shocking truth," he revealed, "is that across mainland Isan, the secret recipes for laab and koi are... almost identical! The different 'clans' are a myth!"

"BUT," he boomed, "there's a rebel faction. A schism. The provinces of Korat and Chaiyaphum have broken away. They practice a forbidden culinary art: they mix bitter and sour flavors together."

"The rest of Isan would call this a crime," he explained. "Bitter and sour are mortal enemies. They kill each other. They destroy the purity of the beef. But in Korat and Chaiyaphum, this bizarre, clashing combination is their signature—their mark."

He then recounted a chilling first-hand encounter with this taste cult.

"I was in Pak Thong Chai, and I made a classic koi manao—a dish that is supposed to be pure, sharp sourness—for some local friends. But what did they do?" he asked, still in disbelief. "They demanded I add bitter cow's bile to it! I told them they were insane, that the flavors would go to war. But they just fought back."

He mimicked their thick Korat accent, delivering their defiant retort: "'But Chief! How else will you get that bitter lime peel flavor?!'"

"I couldn't believe it," Fai concluded. "They're addicted to it. This bizarre, beautiful clash of flavors. It's what defines them."

"And their rebellion doesn't stop there!" Fai added, revealing another secret practice. "In some corners of Korat and Chaiyaphum, they commit another act of culinary heresy: they put lemongrass in their laab!"

Then, he delivered the final, devastating truth bomb that shatters everything we thought we knew about the laab world.

"This is the secret my team of investigators exposed," he declared. "After all the digging, all the data... the shocking conclusion is this: the ingredients, the core recipes... THEY'RE BARELY DIFFERENT AT ALL!"

"So why the deception? Why the warring clans?" we demanded.

"It's not about the recipe," he revealed. "It's a tribal signal. A bat-signal for the homesick. The name—'Laab Yasothon,' 'Laab Chaiyaphum,' 'Laab Roi Et'—it's a flag planted in foreign territory. It's a rallying cry to their own people: 'One of us is here! Come find us!'"

He then debunked one of the biggest laab myths of all time. "People always say the Yasothon clan is the most hardcore, the most bitter-obsessed. It's a total lie. The guys from Kalasin are just as savage. There's no real difference."

"The truth is," he concluded, laying the conspiracy bare, "the entire concept of 'laab clans' is nothing more than a brilliant marketing scheme. A brand. It’s not about food. It’s about creating a tribe. It's about selling a piece of home to the lost."

In a festival that can often feel elite and out of reach, isn't his 'Laab Koi Universe' the one true event for the people? The one you don't need a fat wallet or an art degree to understand? Is this a rebellion against the establishment?

His expression hardened. This wasn't about business anymore. This was personal.

"My only hope for this project," he confessed, his voice filled with passion, "is to kick down the door for my fellow Isan people. To give them a real opportunity.

He then exposed a long-simmering injustice.

"For too long, these events have been run by outsiders, by the Bangkok elite. It was always someone else telling our story," he revealed. "This time, it was just me and Eve from 'Zao'—two Isan natives fighting to get a seat at the creative table."

"That's why I need everyone to see this," he declared, his voice rising. "This isn't just my exhibition. This is our flag. This is our stand.

So, what's the final pitch? What's the explosive takeaway from this entire spectacle?

Fai laid out his final manifesto.

"For the rest of the world," he began, "this is your chance to see an Isan you never knew existed. An Isan of shocking creativity and spotless precision."

"But for my own people," his voice dropped, turning into a direct, urgent address. "This is a brutal wake-up call! You will see that our food can go so much further."

He then revealed a discovery that completely blindsided him. "I'll be honest, I thought the Plant-Based trend was dead. But I was dead wrong. My research uncovered a secret gold rush happening right under our noses—countless brands of plant-based fried laab, an explosion of laab seasoning powders! This is a call to arms for every Isan entrepreneur. We have to get smarter, more creative, more ruthless in business. It's time to ignite our own economy!"

Then, he dropped the final, earth-shattering statistic—the one that drives his entire mission.

"Listen to this," he said, his eyes blazing. "The researchers have proven it. If every single person in Isan earned just FOUR MORE BAHT... Isan would rocket to become the region with the highest GDP in the entire country."

"We have an army of 20 provinces. We have the numbers," he declared. "My mission is to get that four baht for my brothers and sisters. Or hell," he roared with a final, booming laugh, "even if I only get them 50 satang, it's a goddamn start!"

And with that laugh, our bombshell interview was over.

But the symphony of the restaurant raged on. The relentless pok-pek of the mortar and pestle, the war cry of a kitchen that never sleeps. Three figures behind the counter, a blur of motion, slinging orders without end. The customers, a non-stop stream of bodies and delivery riders, a living testament to the raw power of this Isan soft power.

It was a taste of home, not perfect, but intoxicatingly real. Not polished, but pulsating with life. And in that moment, we knew we'd found it. The true, unadulterated DNA of Isan food. It's not just a dish. It's the beautiful, glorious chaos of coming together. It's the flavor of pure joy.