How Emerging Malaysian Chefs Are Transforming the Nation's Rich Culinary Heritage

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Malaysian cuisine has been a fusion of flavors long before the term became popular. Take, for instance, kari debal—translating to 'the devil's curry'—a standout dish that features native chicken and candlenut, complemented by potatoes and chili peppers introduced by Portuguese traders. Enhanced with galangal and vinegar, this fiery, slightly tangy dish lives up to its name.

This dish originates from the Kristang community, a small group based in the Malaysian port city of Melaka. They are the Roman Catholic descendants of European traders who wed Malay women. 'We function like a close-knit family,' shared Sara Santa Maria, a Kristang culinary instructor and language teacher, as we enjoyed deep-fried sea bass with pineapple curry, garlic sautéed water spinach, crispy eggplant, and chicken prepared with keluak—a slightly truffle-flavored fruit that requires boiling and fermentation to be safe to eat. 'Many enjoy our food, but we want them to recognize our community's existence.'

I could have certainly savored my way through Malaysia without knowing any of this. It would have been a delightful, and likely very affordable, experience. The generous meal I shared with Santa Maria cost $25, while the milky tea, roti, curry, and poached eggs I enjoyed for breakfast totaled a mere $1.25. An afternoon snack of heavenly banana fritters and crispy spring rolls was possibly the best 50 cents I’ve ever spent.

However, every cuisine is steeped in culture and context, and understanding these can enhance its flavors. Today’s Malaysian chefs, activists, entrepreneurs, and scholars are exploring the nation’s intricate history. As I journeyed from Melaka to Kuala Lumpur, I encountered concepts reminiscent of discussions I’ve had closer to home. Diverse histories, including the more painful aspects, need to be acknowledged. We must care for the land more thoughtfully and inclusively to honor the past and ensure a sustainable future.

Melaka, located on the eastern shore of the strategically vital Strait of Malacca (the Malaysian government officially changed the state name in 2017, though the anglicized 'Malacca' still appears on many international maps), was a Muslim sultanate until the Portuguese seized it in 1511. The Dutch took control in 1641, followed by the British in 1824. By the time Malaysia achieved independence in 1957, Melaka had endured nearly 450 years as a colonial trading hub. The remnants of this history are evident throughout the old town.

A crumbling Portuguese fort looms over narrow streets filled with Chinese shop-houses, Dutch colonial architecture, and Indian temples. The harbor is long gone, having silted up ages ago, but outside Stadthuys—the stately yet understated Dutch government building that became a museum in 1980—there's an eclectic fleet of colorful pedicabs adorned with fake flowers, streamers, and stuffed animals, all vying for attention. I spotted one decorated with SpongeBob Squarepants, several Hello Kitty-themed rides, and many celebrating My Little Pony.

The Portuguese Settlement, a charming enclave of neat bungalows where many Kristang families reside, lies a couple of miles from the city center along the bayside. The term Kristang, derived from Christian, reflects the community's lasting Catholic traditions. While Islam is the official religion of Malaysia, this village tells a different story, with nearly every home featuring a shrine dedicated to the Virgin Mary. At the center of the Portuguese Settlement, a statue of Jesus, reminiscent of Rio's Christ the Redeemer, stands with arms wide open.

Santa Maria's last name reveals her Portuguese roots, but she has a diverse heritage: one great-grandfather hailed from China, and one great-grandmother was Dutch. 'I’m like a mixed-fruit salad,' she remarked as we explored the neighborhood. The creole language she speaks fluently, known as Kristang, is itself a blend of influences, drawing grammatical structure from Malay and vocabulary from Portuguese, Tamil, Cantonese, and Dutch.

Santa Maria has dedicated her life to preserving and educating others about Kristang culture. As the language isn’t taught in schools, she conducts lessons in her living room. She’s among the few who can bake breudher, a holiday cake inspired by Dutch traditions and infused with palm wine. Just before Christmas, she bakes numerous batches for her neighbors, and curious tourists can join her on the porch for Kristang cooking lessons.

As I journeyed through Malaysia, themes of memory and visibility emerged consistently. Thirteen out of its 16 states and territories are located on Peninsular Malaysia, which resembles a ballet dancer's foot in demi-pointe, extending south from Thailand. The remaining three are found on the island of Borneo. For generations, Malaysia was divided into sultanates, all of which eventually fell under British control. Following independence in 1957, it maintained a monarchy, uniquely rotating the crown every five years among the nine states with sultans.

However, it is the prime minister who holds significant power. Under Mahathir Mohamad, who served from 1981 to 2003 and again from 2018 until recently, Malaysia experienced one of Asia's most remarkable economic transformations. One of his initiatives turned the tranquil island of Langkawi into an international beach hotspot. Where rubber and rice once thrived, hotels and resorts now dominate. Yet, as tourist numbers surged to over 3 million annually, Langkawi's rainforests diminished by half.

This situation raised concerns for the owners of Datai Langkawi, a resort that opened in 1993 and underwent renovations in 2018. The allure of Langkawi as a picture-perfect tropical haven was what initially attracted tourists. What would happen if the rainforest were destroyed or the surrounding reefs perished?

'We stand at the brink of ecological disaster,' Irshad Mobarak, the resort's resident naturalist, shared with me. 'We cannot afford to lose any more of our natural heritage. Malaysia's culture, cuisine, medicine, and art all stem from the forest. It defines us. If we lose that, what remains?'

Teaming up with other hotels, Irshad has spearheaded a reforestation initiative, creating wildlife corridors by reconnecting fragmented habitats disrupted by development. He also established an on-site nursery where a team of marine biologists cultivates corals to strengthen the reefs in the bay. Additionally, the kitchen garden now hosts beehives—home to Trigona itama, a native bee known for producing delightfully tart honey.

Irshad, whose diverse ancestry (Punjabi, Portuguese, Irish, Malay) reflects much of his nation's narrative, spent his childhood summers exploring the forest with friends from the Orang Asli—members of Malaysia's Indigenous tribes. They taught him to identify the call of the Malayan tiger, which fruits were safe to eat, and instilled in him a passion that led him to leave investment banking for a career as a naturalist. 'The land educates us,' he stated. 'We are surrounded by invaluable treasures. We must respect them.'

The name Malaysia translates to 'land of the Malays.' However, this title, created shortly after independence, overlooks the Indigenous peoples who originally inhabited these lands long before the Malays arrived.

Orang Asli serves as a broad term encompassing 18 distinct Indigenous groups. For nearly a millennium, they were systematically enslaved by Malay sultans until the British abolished slavery in the early 1800s. Following abolition, oppression continued through ongoing encroachment into their forest territories. While some tribes retreated further into the remaining forest, their seminomadic, hunter-gatherer lifestyles conflicted with modern concepts of property ownership, forcing many into settled villages.

I didn't have to travel far from Kuala Lumpur to encounter the Orang Asli striving to preserve their traditions. One afternoon, I met Jue Bah Tuin by the roadside in Gombak, just 15 miles north of the city center. We crossed a bridge, wove through two villages, ducked under a highway via a drainage tunnel, and ascended a path that steadily climbed into the forest. We passed durian and rambutan trees along with wild ginger plants, then maneuvered across a makeshift bamboo bridge. Thirty minutes later, we arrived at a clearing where Jue's father, Raman Bah Tuin, was tending a fire.

He immediately set me to work. Jue had marinated a whole chicken in turmeric, curry powder, and salt, and as Raman impaled it on a sturdy branch, he began instructing me on how to prepare the rice: Take a bamban leaf, shiny side down, and place it in your palm. Scoop three spoonfuls of rice into the center, fold in the sides, then the bottom, and finally tuck in the top to form a tidy envelope. Then, place these rice parcels inside a length of bamboo, fill the tube with water, and plug the opening with more leaves. 'Boil over an open fire for 45 minutes,' he said. 'That’s all there is to it!'

While Jue managed the fire, Raman, a member of the Semai tribe, led me further uphill. There was no clear path to follow. The forest canopy softened the blazing afternoon sun. Ferns towered around us, creating a lush, waist-high barrier in every direction. 'There are leeches,' Raman warned. 'But don’t fret.'

As we continued walking, Raman picked leaves and stalks to show me. He named each plant in Semai, explaining their uses: 'Crush this one until the juice emerges; it works as an antiseptic for cuts. Take this spongy, fuzzy leaf to the stream and rub it between your hands to create a lather for soap. Bundle six of these leaves together and wave them to drive away evil spirits.'

Gradually, I started to appreciate the intricate details around me. The surrounding forest transformed from a vague green blur into a rich source of remedies, tools, and provisions that Raman relied on daily.

'Terap,' he pointed to a tree with large, three-lobed leaves. 'You can use the bark to make clothing.'

'Tabar,' he said, gesturing towards a small shrub. 'The young shoots can be minced as an herb. When it's fully grown, it can help reduce fevers.'

He gestured towards a faint mark in the dirt nestled between two bushes: 'This is an animal path, likely from a wild cat. I could set a trap right here.'

He met my gaze, and I returned it, my bewildered admiration clearly amusing him. He flashed a grin stained with betel and led us down the slope toward our campsite.

Back by the fire, Raman handed me a betel nut he had just gathered, encouraging me to chew it. He erupted in laughter when I gagged and spit out the bitter, woody morsel. As he checked on the chicken, he shared how he founded an initiative called Jungle School years ago with scholars studying Indigenous cultures. The aim is to provide visitors with cooking and ethnobotany lessons similar to what he was demonstrating. 'I want them to understand our language, beliefs, and way of life,' he said.

Raman is eager to impart the deep wisdom he carries within him. He wishes to convey to outsiders that, for his people, the forest embodies their very essence. 'It’s the spirits that dwell here too,' Jue remarked as we savored the tender chicken and rice with our hands. 'In this place, we connect with ourselves. We find our peace.'

This initiative goes beyond mere knowledge sharing; Raman seeks respect for his culture. Malaysia has one of the highest rates of deforestation globally. While he views the jungle as a realm of heritage, culture, and spirituality, others see it as land for agriculture and profit. The rich, biodiverse tapestry of ancient trees and tropical vines is being replaced by uniform rows of palm trees, each destined to yield oil for processed foods, cosmetics, and more.

'Sitting in the branches of a tree, enjoying the fruits directly from it—there's no substitute for that visceral experience,' chef Darren Teoh shared with me later at his restaurant, Dewakan, in Kuala Lumpur. As a child, he would climb mango and rambutan trees, relishing them as if they were his personal buffet. 'It’s not merely about flavor; it’s also about connection to the land.'

His words felt oddly out of sync with our surroundings high above the city on the 48th floor of a skyscraper. Teoh's meticulously crafted tasting menus, centered on Malaysia's Indigenous ingredients, earned Dewakan a spot on San Pellegrino's 2019 list of Asia's 50 Best Restaurants, marking it as the first Malaysian establishment to receive this prestigious recognition.

Despite the stark contrast between the skyscraper and Raman Bah Tuin's humble lean-to, the philosophies behind both venues share surprising similarities. Each aims to present food not merely as a commodity but as part of a communal sustenance system. Both are concerned about the health of the forest and celebrate its rich variety of ingredients. On the restaurant's sweeping shelves, large jars contained some of this bounty: wild bananas, mulberries, and torch ginger being crafted into wine; bambangan, a mango relative, fermented into vinegar.

The ingredients Raman introduced to me in the forest also made their way into Dewakan's offerings. Daun kaduk (wild betel leaf), traditionally used for healing by Orang Asli shamans, cradled cured goat heart. For dessert, chilled rambutan added a tangy contrast to a sweet coconut caramel.

Equally noteworthy was the absence of certain ingredients. Chiles, a typical feature of Malaysian cuisine, were nearly missing. 'Chili isn't even native to Southeast Asia!' Teoh remarked. 'Yet it has become almost synonymous with this cuisine.'

Teoh's grilled vegetables would surely win Raman Bah Tuin's approval. 'I instruct the team: cook the vegetables to medium-rare,' the chef shared. 'Sear them on the outside while keeping them crunchy within. It takes me back to the jungle, cooking over an open flame.'

In Melaka, I spent a morning learning to prepare kari debal under chef Khay Tamaño at the Majestic Malacca, where he had set up a burner and all the ingredients on the veranda.

We chopped vegetables, crushed aromatics, fried potatoes, and stir-fried chicken, the ceiling fan wafting the savory scents outward. Now and then, hotel guests wandered over, curious about our cooking. Their eyes gleamed with the hope of free samples, as if we were a tropical Costco. Later, as I sat inside enjoying my meal, sweat pouring and scalp tingling, I recalled those eager onlookers. I heaped more curry onto my plate and thought with a smirk: All mine.

Eventually, I gathered the courage to prepare my own devil's curry back home. I took comfort in the words of Stefanie Shamila Pillai, a University of Malaya professor who is half Kristang and studies the language. 'There's no single recipe for kari debal. Every cook adds their own twist, their secret ingredients.' (Hers includes grainy mustard.) 'We all adapt,' she noted. 'Our heritage is one of hospitality, and we tend to be nonjudgmental.'

Inspired by Pillai's encouragement, I opted for macadamia nuts in place of candlenut. Then I ventured into my garden, explored my options, and picked my secret ingredient: Thai basil. Since it’s native to Southeast Asia, I felt it honored tradition while adding a fresh herbaceous touch.

Then came the moment to taste. And as much as can be said about this devilish dish, my kari debal turned out to be quite delicious.

Plan Your Journey to Malaysia

Getting There

Fly to Kuala Lumpur on Singapore Airlines via Singapore or Cathay Pacific through Hong Kong. From KL, you can reach Melaka with a two-hour car transfer arranged by your hotel. Air Asia and Malaysia Airlines operate flights between KL and Langkawi.

Kuala Lumpur

Established in 1932, the iconic Majestic Hotel (doubles starting at $82) stands as a city landmark, while the Chow Kit (doubles from $46) provides a stylish, modern boutique experience in its namesake area. Chef Darren Teoh's Dewakan (tasting menus from $130) offers an elaborate dinner service perfect for a special night out.

On the budget-friendly side, a meat, vegetable, and rice plate at Restoran Kudu bin Abdul (335 Jalan Tuanku Abdul Rahman) costs under $2; a simple breakfast of roti and curry at the Mansion Tea Stall (Lorong Bunus Satu) is less than $1; and snacks at Om Shakti Chelo's Appam stall (6A, Lorong Ara Kiri 3) are even cheaper.

For a diverse selection of Malaysian dishes in one place, visit the Lot 10 Hutong (entrées priced $2–$6), a food hall in central KL that features some of the country's favorite food stalls. Rise & Shine (entrées $3–$6) offers a blend of Malaysian and global brunch options.

Langkawi

The Datai Langkawi (doubles from $580) is nestled within lush rainforests and serves exceptional Malay cuisine at its signature restaurant, the Gulai House.

Melaka

The Majestic Malacca (doubles starting at $149) blends modern amenities with a beautifully preserved building from 1929. For lunch, Aunty Lee (entrées $2–$4) serves dishes inspired by Peranakan/Baba Nyonya cuisine, a delightful fusion of Chinese and Malay flavors. Another family-friendly Nyonya spot is the Unicorn Café, where most dishes are around $2. For a deeper understanding of the area, consider the Kristang cultural experience led by Sara Santa Maria ([email protected]; starting at $28 per person), which includes a tour of the Portuguese Settlement, a cooking class, and a dance performance.

How to Book

For assistance in planning your trip to Malaysia, reach out to T+L A-List travel advisor Jarrod Hobson ([email protected]; 720-881-5575).

This article first appeared in the September 2020 issue of Dinogo under the title Stirring the Melting Pot.