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at Khao Noodle Shop, each only a few
bites or spoonfuls, and none costs more
than $8. So in my attempt to understand
what exactly the chef and owner Donny
Sirisavath was trying to do, it was easiest
just to order them all.
After one slurp of painstakingly hand-
made noodles in a savory, complex pork
blood broth, the restaurant’s roots came
through clearly: This is the cooking of Laos,
the country the chef ’s mother fled after its
civil war before resettling in Texas in 1977.
Sirisavath, who was born in Amarillo,
grew up helping his mom in the kitchen of
her Thai restaurant, learning how to make
pad kee mao and wok-fried rice. Years
later, after his mom died, he began hosting
Lao pop-ups as a side project (he was a
Hewlett-Packard engineer by day), then
left his job to open Khao Noodle.
Now, in a strip mall in East Dallas—an
area once home to many Southeast Asian
refugees in the late ’70s and early ’80s—
Sirisavath serves a menu inspired not by
books or classes or other restaurants but by
his own singular vision, rooted in family and
place. This is a rare thing to find, and I felt
lucky just to be there.
But Khao Noodle Shop is not a restau-
rant that looks only to the past. From the
laid-back vibe inside—the high-top tables,
the stools spray-painted by friends, the
tight-knit staff, the sheer fun of the place—
I could feel Sirisavath’s excitement at doing
things his way. And once I tried the deep-
fried tripe chicharrones and the musubi-
like moutsayhang (a two-bite stack of crispy
pork patty, sticky rice, and a thin layer of
omelet), it was clear that Sirisavath was
telling a story all his own. —J.K.
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