Dishes of various bottom-dwellers, the catch and cuisine of island life, sliced and fried in myriad ways, left to the hungry and those drawn to color. Phuket, whatever the reputation that people have chosen to ascribe to it, has a texture to it that is marked and indelible; a grain that seems to pervade each surface, like a film-stock left in a freezer ten years after its use-by date. There is color here; it is not the obstinate whites of the Grecian islands or the pea cocking of Italy’s fishing villages. The color, once the sun goes down, feels like a place that you’ve known but you’ve never seen. A nostalgia for the blind, between fluorescents and incandescents and the billowing white smoke of one too-many midnight streetcarts.