Tharathip
A long wooden table crowded with Lao dishes — noodle soups, grilled skewers, salads, sticky rice baskets, banana-leaf parcels — and eight people leaning in, talking, eating.

Los Angeles · since the backyard

Come in,
sit down.

I'm Tharathip but you can call me Thip. I'm an obsessed home cook, I am a record of Lao culture, I share the dhamma, and I put on weddings. It's all the same job.

What's happening right now
Thip laughing behind a market table crowded with jars, sauces, bags of crackling and stacked containers, a customer in front of him.

Happening now · Eat Yum Sະlut

The next pop-up

Lao refugee eats, cooked in front of you. Dates, menus, and wherever the table turns up next.

See the dates

Four doors, one house

Everything I make lives somewhere

A baci setup on the floor of a home — the pha khuan hung with flowers and white threads, bowls of leaves and plumeria, silver vessels, Thip in white preparing the offerings behind it.

The one thing under my own name

Weddings & events

The baci, the groom's procession, house blessings, the full day from the morning through the last song. Most planners can run a Lao ceremony as a checklist. Fewer can tell you why each part is there, or catch the thing quietly being left out.

Ask about a date

The shop

Everything all three of them make, one checkout.

Open the shop ↗

From the kitchen, the table and the workroom

Articles

All articles

Thip talking at a table, hands mid-gesture, a banana leaf cone and a stack of cut leaves in front of him, two people listening.

The long version

Three women taught me one thing

A grandmother who cut altar flowers out of gift wrap because Virginia had no banana leaves. A mother who sold Lao food out of a car and was never once embarrassed about it. How I lost a business, came apart, and found the thing I'd been standing next to for thirty years.

Read the story