The Thai That Binds

Yamo Thai Kitchen doesn't serve the best Thai food in San Francisco, nor, for that matter, does it claim to. In fact, Yamo doesn't even claim to have the best Thai food in the Mission, but rather the best Thai food in "the area," which in Yamo's case would be an undefined region centered around a tiny red awning near the corner of 18th and Mission streets. Yamo doesn't offer the most extensive menu, the poshest setting, or the most expertly trained chefs. It doesn't boast of the new-school innovation of Basil Thai, the elaborate showmanship of Khan Toke, the dedicated following of Marnee Thai -- or even the ubiquitous larb you'll find on most Thai menus. What Yamo does have are 36 relatively simple dishes prepared by one chef, meant to be eaten at home or on the premises while seated on one of nine stools. The place may play the most outdated music in the history of Thai restaurateuring (I've heard Journey), but makes up for it by serving the soul-searingest spicy-sour soup in the entire universe.

I've eaten at Yamo a half-dozen times now, and though it lacks just about all of my favorite Thai dishes, I like the place more with each visit. Perhaps it's the soup (which I'll get to), or maybe it's the sheer unlikelihood of the setup: an approximately 12-foot-wide space divided by a long, narrow counter, with red stools for customers on one side and a Thai family of three on the other. The owner, Nanthana Sorathorn -- who is also the chef and mother -- was once described to me as a bit of a "soup nazi," which took me back to the first time I stepped through the door of Yamo Thai. All at once, I faced stacks of woks, styrofoam carryout boxes, bare fluorescent lights, and a question so curt it felt like an interrogation: "For here or to go?" A Thai family of three awaited my answer. I hadn't even looked at a menu. My first instinct was to run, the next to opt for "to go," which I did.

Perhaps 15 minutes later, at home, I tried the soup mentioned above, which was a bit like savoring liquid electricity.

Or maybe it was like discovering the sensation we call taste for the very first time.

Regardless, long live Yamo Thai.

Of course, the true beauty of Yamo is that the chef/owner isn't a soup nazi at all. I can't imagine her tolerating any monkey business on the premises, but once you've come into the fold (i.e., once you've eaten there a second time), her face brightens as you belly up to the counter and join an eclectic, largely regular crowd that never complains when the words "I just called to say I love you" begin emanating from the sound system. The intimate setup allows for few secrets: For example, I've noticed that a few dishes begin in a microwave and that the chef's palette consists of only 30 or so ingredients. But then, the tight quarters also allow you to watch as Yamo Thai's exquisitely intense, made-to-order soups take shape.

The soup selection is limited to two Thai classics -- chicken with coconut milk (tom ka), and spicy-sour soup with prawns (tom yum), both of which can be served vegetarian. The former is decidedly excellent -- a rich, sultry blend of coconut milk, slippery-skinned straw mushrooms, lemongrass, and lime juice, the whole deeply infused with gingery galangal -- while the latter is so far beyond excellent there may not be a word for it. It's an experience: Clouds of spice flow like churning galaxies through a dense, murky, orangish-brown broth, caressing prawns, straw mushrooms, flecks of cilantro, and tomatoes. The chef's extreme use of lemongrass and lime juice approaches the limits of bearable piquancy, the sharpness underscored by an invigorating dose of chilies. The last time I ordered a bowl (extra spicy on request), this combination caused streams of sweat to begin rolling down my face.

Since she was standing only four feet away, the chef noticed my condition and pointed it out. "Hot soup," I gasped. She suggested I take my jacket off. I did, which helped somewhat. We then began a lengthy discussion during which she told me this soup of hers is rumored to be of a curative nature. Funny thing was, I'd been spreading the same rumor a week earlier after a bowl staved off what felt like an impending cold, although I imagine others have experienced the same magic and have set out across the neighborhood to preach the gospel.

As for the rest of the menu: I've tried about half of the large, relatively affordable dishes so far, and my only real gripe stems from the use of the word "barbecued" (Yamo has no barbecue in the traditional, wood- or coal-fired sense). Thus, the spice-marinated chicken satay isn't cloaked with the smokiness I've enjoyed in other versions, and the barbecued chicken consists of boneless, marinated thighs, pounded flat and cooked on a gas grill, then served with a spicy sweet-and-sour sauce not quite lively enough to elevate the otherwise unexciting bits of meat.