Old City Courtyard: A Lanna Feast Begins

I begin my evening in the heart of Chiang Mai’s Old City, where the ancient moat and brick walls quietly guard a world apart. Down a small lane, a traditional Lanna-style house welcomes me into its courtyard. Lanterns cast a soft golden glow on teakwood carvings, and the air carries the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine.

I sit on a floor cushion at a low wooden table, the kind of communal tray meal the Lanna people have shared for generations. In this serene setting, time seems to slow down. The bustle of the city fades behind the crumbling walls, replaced by the soft chirping of cicadas and the distant gong of a temple bell. It’s the perfect calm start for my self-guided food tour, as if the Old City itself is offering a gentle embrace before the feast. Before me is a spread of Northern Thai dishes served in small bowls, each one a gateway into local culture. I lift the lid of a woven bamboo basket to find warm sticky rice inside.

Sticky rice is the lifeblood of northern cuisine – khao niao in Thai. It’s a staple born of the region’s paddies, a glutinous rice that the Lanna have favored for centuries. I reach in and pinch a small ball of the rice with my fingers; it’s pleasantly warm and slightly sweet, with a chewy comfort. In the Lanna way, this rice isn’t just a side dish but the centerpiece of the meal – everything else is meant to complement it. I remember that “Lanna” means “the land of a million rice fields,” and here I am, tasting that heritage in its simplest, purest form. With my little ball of sticky rice, I’m ready to scoop up the rich flavors that await.

The first dish I delve into is gaeng hang lay, a curry so renowned up here that locals serve it at festivals and family gatherings. Its aroma greets me even before I taste it – an earthy mix of ginger, garlic, and spices that feels both exotic and comforting. The curry is a deep reddish-brown, clinging to tender chunks of pork. I spoon some over a bite of sticky rice and take a slow taste. The pork practically melts on my tongue, having been simmered for hours in a blend of herbs and a hint of tamarind. There’s a gentle sweetness from palm sugar and an intriguing tanginess that cuts through the richness. I recall a bit of history as I savor it: gaeng hang lay isn’t originally Thai at all, but a dish carried from neighboring Myanmar long ago. In fact, the very name “hang lay” comes from Burmese, meaning a “heavy curry.”

Centuries back, Chiang Mai was part of the Lanna Kingdom under Burmese rule, and through those years this curry made its way into local kitchens. Tasting it now, I can sense that heritage – the use of Burmese-style spices like cumin and turmeric that are rare in other Thai curries. It’s a dish that tells a story of cultural exchange. Each bite of the silky curry, with its notes of tangy tamarind and warm ginger, speaks of celebrations in wooden houses and handed-down family recipes.

In the quiet of this courtyard, with ancient walls nearby, the Burmese-inspired curry feels like a bridge between past and present, connecting me to a Chiang Mai of long ago. Beside the curry is a small bowl of nam prik ong, its bright red color beckoning in the lantern light. This is a classic northern chili relish, often called the soul of Lanna tables. I scoop a bit out with a spoon and see the texture: coarsely minced pork and tomatoes bound together with roasted chili paste. A platter of accompaniments surrounds it – crisp cucumber slices, blanched greens, and a handful of crispy pork rinds known as kab moo.

I remember that in northern Thai homes, a meal often isn’t complete without a nam prik – a chili dip – to spice up the rice. I place a dab of the nam prik ong onto a cucumber and take a bite. The flavor is a delightful balance: spicy but also tangy and comforting. The tomatoes give it a mellow sweetness and a slight acidity, almost like a Thai take on a rustic Bolognese, while the chilies and garlic remind me I’m squarely in Thailand. It’s hearty from the pork, yet bright from the tomatoes and lemongrass in the paste. I munch on a piece of the pork rind with it – the crunch and saltiness of the crackling is the perfect contrast to the savory dip. As I eat, I think about how nam prik ong is more than just a dish; it’s a symbol of northern hospitality. This recipe, likely passed down from someone’s grandmother, carries the warmth of home cooking.

In Lanna tradition, friends and family gather around a bowl of nam prik, each person dipping vegetables or sticky rice into the communal dish. Tasting it here, I feel a bit like an honored guest at a local family’s dinner. The chili warmth builds slowly, and I take a sip of cool water and glance around the courtyard. The wooden eaves above are decorated with hanging sa paper lanterns, and their soft glow mixes with the spice on my tongue to create a feeling of gentle celebration. I linger over this first feast, eating slowly and soaking in the atmosphere. A mild breeze carries the scent of grilled lemongrass from a nearby grill and causes the lanterns to sway lazily.

I notice a few other small dishes on the tray – maybe some pickled vegetables and a bowl of clear soup with local greens – simple sides that complete the meal. Every flavor here is distinct yet harmonious. The sticky rice ties it all together; I use it to pick up the last remnants of curry and chili dip. By now I’m comfortably full and deeply content. In this courtyard, within the Old City that was once the cradle of the Lanna Kingdom, I’ve experienced more than just delicious food. I’ve tasted a bit of history and a lot of heart. The night is young though, and there are more corners of Chiang Mai – and more flavors – waiting to be discovered. With a grateful nod to the staff and one last look at that beautiful wooden house, I step back out into the narrow street, ready to continue my slow journey through the city’s culinary heritage. Chiang Mai Gate: Night Falls and Street Food Calls Walking through the Old City at night, I make my way south toward Chiang Mai Gate.

The streets grow a bit livelier as I approach the gate’s vicinity. Soon, I see the outline of the old brick gate itself – centuries old and bathed in the soft glow of floodlights. This gate once guarded the southern entrance to the walled city; now it stands as a backdrop to a nightly food market. The scene feels like a friendly nightly carnival. Locals and a few in-the-know travelers mill about, drawn like moths to the bright lights of food stalls lined up along the road. The aromas hit me first: charcoal smoke swirling up from grills, the irresistible perfume of garlic and chili being wok-fried, and the sweet note of crepes and roti on hot griddles. After the calm of the courtyard, Chiang Mai Gate’s bustle is invigorating.

The sizzle of oil and the chatter of vendors form a chorus that fills the warm night air. I wander from stall to stall, eyes wide at the variety of street food on offer. Each small cart or table has its specialty proudly on display. One vendor tends a grill laden with sai ua – the famous Chiang Mai sausage – curling like golden-brown snakes over the coals. The air around him is thick with the fragrance of lemongrass, chilies, and kaffir lime leaves stuffed into those sausages. A few steps further, a lady in a wide-brimmed hat is frying up pork skewers, moo ping, basting them with a coconut milk and garlic marinade that drips and sizzles on the charcoal. I can’t resist; I order one. The vendor hands it to me wrapped in a small piece of banana leaf along with a sticky rice packet. I take a bite and am greeted by smoky, sweet, and savory all at once – the grilled pork is juicy and tinged with a caramelized sweetness, the perfect quick snack.

This kind of simple pleasure, a 5-baht skewer eaten on a sidewalk under the stars, is the essence of Thai street food bliss. Craving something to drink, I follow the whir of a blender to a stall blending fresh fruit shakes. Piles of ripe mangoes, pineapples, and watermelon are on display, and I opt for a mango smoothie. The vendor smiles as she tosses chunks of golden mango and ice into the blender, adding a dash of condensed milk. In moments I have an icy cup in hand. It’s pure refreshment – the mango is lusciously sweet and the cold drink revives me from the spice of the sausage and skewer. With my drink in hand, I continue exploring. Around me, small plastic tables and stools are set up wherever there’s space.

A group of university students share a large bowl of soup, laughing and chatting in musical Northern Thai dialect. An older couple sits shoulder to shoulder, quietly enjoying bowls of khao kha moo – braised pork leg over rice – from a famous stall that sports a red neon sign. This market has a democratic charm; everyone is welcome at Chiang Mai Gate, whether you’re a suited office worker or a backpacker in flip-flops. We’re all united by the love of good food. As I nibble and sip, I take in the surroundings with all my senses. The gate’s ancient bricks loom to one side, silently witnessing the scene. It’s humbling to think this gate has seen centuries of history – traders from faraway provinces entering the city with their caravans, perhaps stopping right here to rest and eat long ago. Now, instead of horse or ox carts, there are rows of scooters parked, and the trade is in flavors and aromas.

A young boy runs past me with a skewer of grilled squid in hand, chasing after his sister. The air is filled with laughter, the clink of metal spoons against bowls, and calls from vendors announcing their treats: “โรตี โรตี – Roti, sweet roti here!” sings one, enticing me toward a cart where a man is deftly flipping dough on a hot oiled pan. Even though I’m getting full, I decide a little dessert can’t hurt – especially when in Thailand. I find myself at the roti cart, watching the vendor stretch a ball of dough until it’s paper-thin and toss it onto the griddle. I order a banana roti. He cracks an egg onto the dough, adds slices of banana, then folds it into a neat square package, sizzling in butter until crisp and golden. With a flourish, he drizzles it with condensed milk and hands it over, cut into bite-sized pieces. I take a bite and grin – it’s crispy on the outside, soft and sweet inside, with the banana almost caramelized and the condensed milk adding a sugary richness. It’s not a traditional Lanna dessert by any means (it actually has origins in Indian roti, adapted by Thai-Muslim vendors), but it has become a beloved street sweet all over Thailand. Enjoying this hot, sweet treat under the night sky, I feel a childlike delight.

By now, I’ve had spicy, salty, and sweet in one stop, a true street food spectrum. To wash down the sweetness, I grab a small bottle of cold water from a stall – even at night the tropical air is warm – and find a spot to sit at the edge of the market. From here I watch the flow of Chiang Mai Gate Market. It’s a scene of organized chaos that somehow feels cozy. Travelers with guidebooks in hand queue up for a famous noodle stall, while monks from a nearby temple, their orange robes visible even in the dim light, pick up late dinners to-go. I chat briefly with a local man at my table, who proudly tells me he’s been coming to these stalls since he was a child. “Best dinner in the world, and cheapest,” he laughs. I have to agree – the richness of this experience isn’t just in the flavors, but in the atmosphere of community around this ancient gate. As I finish the last sip of my mango shake, I realize I’m happily losing track of time. The night is deepening, but Chiang Mai’s food journey still has one more chapter for me. Thanking the vendors and throwing away my paper cup, I decide to head onward for a final little adventure.

Warorot Market: Midnight Bites and the Gentle Ping

The final stop of the evening takes me out of the Old City and towards the Ping River, where Chiang Mai’s busiest market, Warorot Market (Kad Luang), sits nearby. I hop on a red songthaew – the shared taxi truck – for a short ride, and hop off as we near the market. Even before I see it, I know we’ve arrived: the smell of spices, fresh flowers, and grilling food drifts through the open-air. Warorot Market is mostly quiet at this late hour, its indoor stalls long closed after dusk, but the night market around it is still alive in pockets. This market is over a hundred years old and was once the hub of all trading in the north.

In the early 20th century, Chinese merchants set up shop here by the river, ferrying goods on boats. The result is a marketplace that became the heart of Chiang Mai’s commercial and culinary life. Locals call it Kad Luang, the “Great Market,” and I can feel why. Even at night, there’s an energy in the maze of vendor carts and pop-up stalls, as if the spirit of a busy day lingers after hours.

I stroll through a small alley next to the main market building. Under swaying bare lightbulbs, vendors spread out an array of northern delicacies and late-night eats. One table is covered in hill tribe textiles and has silver jewelry – a hint of the daytime bazaar – but most others are food-focused now. I pass an old woman packing up bags of dried longan fruit and tamarind candies, likely for tomorrow’s shoppers.

Next to her, a young man grills sai ua sausage over a tiny charcoal brazier. The coil of sausage spits and crackles, releasing that unmistakable herbal aroma again. I’ve had a bite of sai ua earlier, but this is reputedly one of the best spots for it, so I can’t resist another taste. I buy a few small slices, and he serves them to me with a toothpick and a smile. The sausage is still sizzling hot. As I bite in, the flavors burst in my mouth – even more intense than the one I tried at Chiang Mai Gate. This one is incredibly smoky, and I detect extra ginger and maybe makrut lime zest. It’s delicious and vividly home-made, a recipe probably passed through his family. I thank him and continue, nibbling slowly. Warorot at night has a different vibe than the earlier market – quieter, more intimate. Fewer tourists venture here in the late hours; the crowd is mainly Chiang Mai locals grabbing a bite after an evening out or workers heading home late. I notice the Ton Lamyai flower market just across the road is still open, as it runs almost all night. The sweet fragrance of jasmine garlands and roses wafts over, blending with the savory smells of food.

This juxtaposition feels uniquely Chiang Mai: flowers and food, commerce and culture, side by side. Under a striped awning, I spot a stall selling khao tom (rice soup) and jok (congee) – those soothing rice porridge dishes that Thais often enjoy late at night or early morning.

A few people are perched on stools there, slurping quietly, probably wrapping up their night or fueling an overnight shift. It looks tempting, but I’m almost at capacity from the evening’s indulgences. Instead, I’m drawn to a small cart where a cheerful lady is ladling a warm, milky liquid into cups. The sign says “Nam Tao Hu” – sweet soy milk – and beside her, a glass case displays stacks of crispy patonggo (Thai doughnut crullers) ready to go. This is a beloved Thai-Chinese late-night snack: hot soy milk often served with those lightly fried dough pieces for dipping. I order a cup of the hot soy milk, and she adds a spoonful of sugar and some fresh ginger slices to it for flavor. I also take a couple of the little dough fritters, which she tosses in a paper bag. With my hands now full – one hand warming around the cup, the other holding my treats – I make my way toward the river just a block away. I find a quiet spot where a few stone steps lead down to the water’s edge. Here I sit with a contented sigh, placing the patonggo beside me. The Ping River flows languidly in front of me, dark but for the glints of city lights reflecting on its surface.

A gentle breeze off the water brushes against my face, cooling after the heat of the food stalls. In the distance, I can see the silhouettes of Chiang Mai’s bridges – one of them the Iron Bridge, known for its own little cluster of late-night food carts and a vintage bus bar lit up with fairy lights. But where I sit is calmer, a little removed from the remaining hubbub. I take a sip of the warm soy milk. It’s lightly sweet and velvety, with that touch of ginger giving it a soothing spice. Each sip feels restorative, settling the spices of the night’s foods in my belly. I tear a piece of the patonggo – it pulls apart with a satisfying elasticity – and dunk it into the soy milk. It soaks up the liquid like a sponge. The combination of the mildly sweet milk and the soft, fried dough is simple but comforting, a modest nightcap that locals swear by.

As I enjoy this, I reflect on the evening. Around me, the city is mostly at rest now. A few last motorbikes hum in the distance and I hear laughter from a group of friends sitting farther down along the bank, but otherwise it’s peaceful. The Ping River has been the lifeline of Chiang Mai for over seven hundred years, carrying timber and spices in old times, and nurturing the rice fields that fed the Lanna Kingdom. Tonight, it carries the gentle sounds of a city at ease – a dog barking somewhere across the water, leaves rustling, faint music from a radio. Looking back on my three-stop journey, I’m struck by how much of Chiang Mai’s character I tasted in just a few hours.

In the Old City courtyard, I experienced the depth of Lanna cuisine – recipes influenced by history, prepared with love, meant to be savored slowly. At Chiang Mai Gate, I felt the city’s vibrant street soul, where food is casual, adventurous, and brings everyone together under the night sky. And here at Warorot Market by the Ping River, I connected with Chiang Mai’s everyday life and its roots as a trading crossroads – a mix of aromas and cultures, winding down calmly by the water. Each stop offered not just new flavors but a story: of ancient kingdoms and foreign influence, of community and tradition, of how food in Chiang Mai is never just about eating, but about celebrating heritage and enjoying the present moment. I finish the last of my soy milk, now just pleasantly warm at the bottom of the cup.

Above me, a few stars peek out from the haze and the moonlight silverens the edges of the river. My stomach is full and happy, and so is my heart. I toss the empty cup in a nearby bin and stand up, taking one last look at the Ping. Tonight, this gentle riverbank has been my dining room, just as a lantern-lit courtyard and a bustling gate were before. I feel deeply connected to Chiang Mai – its past and its present – through the food I’ve eaten and the people I’ve met. There is a saying here that to know a place, you should dine with its locals. This slow evening of food has been exactly that: a meandering, delicious conversation with the city itself.

As I walk away from the water and wave down a tuk-tuk to head back to my lodge, I carry with me the warmth of sticky rice and curry, the spice of chili and sausage, the sweetness of mango and roti, and the soothing comfort of soy milk. Chiang Mai has treated me to a feast of flavors and memories, and I savor the thought that in this city, there’s always another delightful bite waiting tomorrow.