Rubbish Eat Rubbish Grow

For six or seven years, I walked past this place.

Aroy-Dee Thai Kitchen sits near Burlington Square. Nothing about it stopped me. Just another Thai shopfront in a city full of them, the kind you clock in passing and never enter.

I’ll be honest about why. I hold Thai food at arm’s length. Too often it arrives oily, salted past the point of taste, spiced until nothing else survives. So I kept walking. Year after year.

Then one day I didn’t.

Let’s not waste time. Here’s what actually landed on the table.

The Som Tam

I started with the mango salad. Som tam.

It came sweet, but not the flat, cloying sweet that ruins most versions. There was restraint in it. The mango held firm under the fork, crisp without turning tough. Each strand kept its shape.

I’ve had som tam in Bangkok too, including one at Som Tam Nua that set a fairly high bar for me. Aroy Dee’s wasn’t trying to overwhelm with heat or acidity. It was simply balanced, fresh and properly put together.

I paused after the first bite.

That was the moment I knew the meal would be good. A som tam done with this much care rarely stands alone. It tells you someone in the kitchen is paying attention.

The Stir-Fried Vegetables

Next came the vegetables. Petai with egg. Kailan. Kangkong.

Nothing special here. I’ll say that plainly. They were cooked correctly, plated without fuss, and they filled the table the way vegetables do.

But (and this matters) they weren’t drowning in salt. That alone set them apart from most Thai stir-fries I’ve eaten in this city. I asked the kitchen to go lighter still on the salt for the rest of the meal. They listened. Not every kitchen does.

That small exchange told me something. This is a place that cooks for you, not at you.

The Chicken Wings

Deep-fried chicken wings arrived. Decent.

The batter held its crisp. The meat inside stayed juicy, not dried out by the fryer. Good bar food, honestly done. I ate my share without complaint and without lingering on it.

I’ve had better chicken wings elsewhere. The ones at Tummour Koh Samui come to mind. I remember liking those much more, particularly for the way they carried flavour without losing that juicy meat underneath.

These were fine. But next to the Tummour version, they felt more like something to fill the table than a dish I’d make a trip for.

Not the reason to come. But nothing to send back either.

The Thai Fish Cake

Here the meal lifted.

The fish cake was very good. Firm all the way through, holding its bite, not falling apart into that soft, flaky mush most kitchens serve. You could feel the fish in it. Real texture, real work.

There’s a discipline in a fish cake that holds together like this. You can’t fake it. Either the paste was pounded right and cooked with attention, or it wasn’t. This one was.

The Steamed Tiger Prawns

Then the tiger prawns, steamed.

Fresh. Firm. The flesh snapped clean when I bit through it, that quiet resistance you only get when the prawn was handled well and cooked the moment it should be. No mushiness. No off note underneath.

Steaming hides nothing. A tired prawn tastes tired the moment it hits your tongue. These didn’t. They tasted of the sea, plain and clean, and that was enough.

The Thai Omelette

The Thai-style omelette came golden and puffed at the edges.

It was good. The flavour was there, the fluff was there. My one note: slightly oily. A touch more than I’d want, the kind of thing you notice by the third bite rather than the first.

A small mark against an otherwise honest plate. I’d order it again, and I’d ask them to ease off the oil the way I’d asked about the salt.

The Dish I Couldn’t Stop Eating

Now the one that stayed with me: Fried fish fillet, black pepper style.

This was the standout, and it wasn’t close. The fish came soft and tender, the flesh giving way without a fight. The black pepper sat over it warm and sharp, present but never shouting, framing the fish instead of burying it.

I ate a large portion. Larger than I meant to. That’s the truest thing I can tell you about a dish. Not what I thought of it, but that I kept reaching back for more without deciding to.

Clean flavours. Clear intention.

There’s a quiet skill in cooking fish this gently while the wok runs that hot. Push it a second too long and the fillet turns to rubber. This kitchen knew exactly when to pull it. Somewhere behind that counter, someone has cooked this dish a thousand times and still cares how the thousand-and-first turns out.

The Red Ruby

I ordered red ruby for dessert. Out of curiosity more than hunger.

Most Thai restaurants have quietly dropped it. When it does appear, it comes in a small, apologetic bowl, a token gesture at the end of the meal.

Not here.

The portion was generous; the kind you rarely see anymore. The water chestnut rubies had that signature give, soft on the outside with a small crunch buried inside, sitting in cool coconut milk over ice.

It rated highly with me. A proper close to a meal that kept getting better than I expected it to.

What Aroy Dee Thai Kitchen Actually Is

Sit with the meal and the shape of it shows.

This isn’t a place trading on a story. There’s no polished concept, no queue built on a viral clip, no aged-this or imported-that. It’s a Thai kitchen near Burlington Square, cooking honest food for people who walk in.

What surprised me wasn’t one dish. It was the consistency. The salt was restrained. The fish was fresh. The frying was controlled. Someone back there knows what they’re doing, and does it the same way every time.

I keep thinking about the six or seven years I walked past. All that time, this was sitting there, cooking quietly, asking nothing of me. I made an assumption about a whole cuisine and let it keep me out.

The fish fillet corrected me fast.

Would I Return

Yes. Without hesitation.

Not for the wings, though they’re fine. Not for the vegetables, though I respect that they weren’t buried in salt. I’d come back for the black pepper fish, first and foremost. For a fish cake that holds its shape. For prawns that taste like they should. For a bowl of red ruby served like the kitchen still believes in it.

That’s the honest measure of a good meal. Not whether it impressed me once, but whether I already know what I’ll order when I go back.

I do.

If you find yourself near Burlington Square, walking past the way I did for years — stop this time. Order the black pepper fish fillet. Ask them to go easy on the salt. Leave room for the red ruby.

Some meals go viral. Others just quietly change your mind. This was one of those.

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