Malaysian Food Tastes Best on Plastic Chairs

Happiness in Malaysia is sitting on a green plastic chair. It bends a little in the heat, your back curving as you hunch over a perfectly chaotic hotchpotch of Indian-Malay dishes.

Eating is as natural as breathing yet here, on this green plastic chair, I feel alien. The paralysis of choice brings on a prickly nervousness. Other diners require no prompting, barking their orders out quickly. This is not a place for hesitation. After a few sheepish splutters, my friend’s Chinese-Malay dad takes charge, ordering a maelstrom of dishes with the assertive confidence seasoned diners have etched into their reflexes. Less than five minutes later, plastic plates and metal thalis slide in front of me. 

This spot is for the locals; as fluorescent lights blink under the spinning fans, I am acutely aware that my foreignness is under spotlight. But no eyes flicker away from steaming bowls - there is simply too much eating to do, and I am far too inferior against the food to prompt any sort of gastro distraction. 

Towering cones of sweet-salty roti tissues wait to be torn apart and dipped into thick pools of condensed milk. A rich malay lamb curry basks in the sun; it demands the lull of sugary roti to offset its savouriness. In Malaysia, the barrier between dessert and dinner has been brought down. 

This food tastes best on bright green chairs.

The crown jewel of any Indian-Malay experience is the Roti Canai, a laminated buttery delight served with a rich, red coconut curry, slightly sweet but with big savoury hits from its  distinctive curry powder mix. This is followed by purist Indian plates of dosa with dal and Malay piles of nasi lemak lined with crispy anchovies that offer the ultimate umami fix. With the price of a Roti Canai starting at 20 pence, gluttony is essential, and I descend into an all-you-can-eat frenzy. By a mile, the experience supersedes the luminous gloop found in British buffets.

The streets outside are littered with the debris of hedonistic eaters. Motorbikes pull in and out in an infinity loop of petroleum, taking gargantuan plastic bags of steaming currys to high rise apartments. Workers face their back to the shop, smoking cigarettes greedily. It's hard not to breathe a little deeper and fall into the velvet folds of this India-Malay spot. 

When abroad, always seek the little plastic chairs, especially when only a handful are left to sit on. Order everything and leave nothing. Do not take the sensory onslaught of the streets as a lack of cleanliness, but as an enhancement of the food’s flavour profile. And, if you can, always make sure the chair is green.

Oliver in Malaysia, 2025, looking incredibly happy with a roti

Sri Lanka and the Bali Effect - Whitewashing Food

In a hostel hidden deep in the tea plantation fields of Nuwara Eliya, a young backpacker is getting ready to go out for dinner. “I want something authentic and traditional. Where should I go?” He asks the owner.

“You want spicy or not spicy?”

“Not spicy.”

The owner laughs. “You want traditional, but not spicy? OK.” His head bobbles as his shoulders shrug and eyebrows raise. This question isn’t new, but it’s stupidity hasn’t quite run it’s course yet.

There’s no problem with going abroad and wanting to avoid spicy food. If we confined all haters of spice to specific countries then I fear we could radicalise them further by driving them towards more straight edged cultures; a fear of the ‘other’ should be guided, when possible. The issue lies in wanting ‘authentic food’ that has been Westernised; Sri Lankan food, cooked by a white person.

The South beaches of Sri Lanka have have earned the title of Surfers Paradise. Independent businesses exist, but they’re in competition with giant hotel and restaurant chains. For a Western tourist, fresh smoothie bowls and ‘proper coffee’ is far more alluring and only marginally more expensive: when the price difference of a fiver divides eating [yet another kotthu] on wooden benches against avocado and eggs on beachside bean bags, the desire for ‘authenticity’ wanes.

For the Southern regions of Sri Lanka, it may be too late. In the picturesque haven of Hiriketiya independent restaurants are placed on the border, away from the hubbub of the central strip. Attempts to incorporate apparently popular Western foods have only worked against their favour: signs that read ‘vegeteble bugger’ and ‘prown piza’ hardly scream gastro excellence.

TripAdvisor and Google Reviews can also work against independent restaurants. The pot luck element of restaurants on Sri Lanka is what makes it fun: avoid the danger foods, and the worst you’ll come out with is being £2 down.

Instagram has done wonders for tourism: countries receive free publicity, delivered directly to the holidayer. Smaller, remote regions are sniffed out promptly; where there are attractions, beaches and landscapes, nearby villages are bound to prosper from the influx of the white personal with a thick wallet and little travel know-how.

Yet Instagram has also driven an aesthetically hashtagged whitewashing. The ultimate Instagram experience demands every element of the holiday to prove the holidayer is living a glossy, sparkling life.

Just as there was nothing wrong with the young guy who wanted his food unspicy, there’s nothing wrong with wanting some glitz on your holiday. But conflating it with a ‘real, authentic’ travel experience means you skip over publicity for the independent businesses that need it, and instead drive attention to brands that already have major shareholder backing.

For those who truly want an ‘authentic’ experience in Sri Lanka, seek out the places that others tell you to avoid. Sri Lankan cities lack the infrastructure of neighbouring Indian suburbs, but there’s a beauty in its simplicity. Foodies can delight in a range of spices, curries, fried goodies, made for the people of Sri Lanka, and not the Joe and the Juice drinkers.

Readers and travellers I urge you; live a little. The grittier the place, the greater the chance it has been made with individualism and personality.

Eat your avocado and eggs at home.

The Best Three Eats in Sri Lanka

In Sri Lanka, amber skies blaze over towering mountains awash with green rainforests. Beaches boast crystal clear seas abundant with gigantic turtles. Tea plantations cascade down misty hills. Elephants graze on hanging banana trees. TukTuk drivers beep frantically, dogs bark, street vendors call. The country is a delight to all senses.

When embarking on my last minute trip, I had just one sense on my mind: taste.

Food is integral to a good holiday. I don’t particularly care if a country boasts the biggest waterfall or brags of pitting the earth’s deepest hole. If it doesn’t taste good, I ain’t going (Budapest - you’ll never see this face again).

Unlike its larger neighbouring country, India, Sri Lankan cuisine is humbly simple. Restaurant meals offer fairly identical dishes. The trick is to do your research (more on this in a future blog) and keep an open mind. Rice and curry might sound like rice and curry, but the vegetables used, cooking technique and general know-how of the chef can make all the difference. An egg hopper is a thing of beauty when enjoyed fresh, first thing. And do not underestimate the importance of sambal.

Planning on taking a trip to Sri Lanka soon? Keep an eye out for these dishes:

Rice and Curry

You’re in England, ordering a curry with friends. You collectively decide to bin off James Corden’s classic Gavin and Stacey joke by pitching in to try a familiar range of bhunas, kormas, masalas and bhajis. The price skims £100, and the flavours melt into a comforting creamy, cumin-ed sludge.

Rice and curry in Sri Lanka is a different plate entirely. Tangy, sticky sweet aubergines come heavy with tamarind, creamy cassava curry is thick with curry leaves, fresh coconut sambal is flaked upon plates. This, plus a hefty dhal, some sharp chutney and, of course, popadoms is served alongside a pyramid of rice. All for the price of £4. In total. And that’s in the boujee places.

Kotthu

You’re going to eat a lot of kotthu. Like, a lot-a lot. My advice; go somewhere that’s known for kotthu to avoid overkill. Many places serve an OK version of this dish, but in a country where roti is aplenty, it’s easy to stumble into a carb-induced coma. Google is your friend - whichever area you’re in, make sure to type ‘best’ and ‘kotthu’ into the search engine.

In simple terms, kotthu is shredded roti, fried with curry leaves, ginger, garlic and a protein of choice. Cheese is often an added choice, one which my pre-lactose intolerant self would have been all over. Trust me, I glowed green at the sight of my peers pulling away strings of melted, cheese encased bread.

Vegetable Roti

The unsung hero of nearly all roadside food vendors. In my eyes, a vegetable roti is far superior to kotthu. At first glance, each triangular-shaped roti looks exactly the same. Upon bite, you’ll realise they vary greatly, and there’s no way to know what type of vegetable filling lies within. Plus, they can cost as little as 30p.

In England, a vegetable samosa typically consists of some heated up frozen vegetables mixed with spices and stuffed into filo. In Sri Lanka, one stall may sell a filling of spiced spinach, whereas another sells soft aubergine, and another offers plump, fragrant potatoes. During one bus side trip, on a particularly bad hangover, I chose a samosa which nearly choked me with spice. If you’re not good with hot foods, then be warned; it can be a bit of a roulette, but that makes it all the more fun.