I still remember the first time I truly tasted something. Not just chewing, not just eating—but tasting, in a way that struck deep. It wasn’t during culinary school, or while staging in Michelin kitchens. It wasn’t even in the bustling kitchens of Chicago where I earned my whites.
It was in a small kampung house in Selangor, barefoot on warm tile, watching my grandmother stir sambal in a cast iron wok, the air thick with the scent of chilies, onions, and something deeply familiar—like love made edible.
I had finally made it back to Malaysia.
A Culinary Homecoming
I’m a third-generation Malaysian-American. Born and raised in the U.S., I grew up on two kinds of food: the fast and forgettable kind that gets you through school days, and the weekend kind—the food of stories and longing. My mom would make ayam goreng, fried chicken soaked in turmeric and spices. She’d boil eggs with sambal and toast ikan bilis (anchovies) in the oven while muttering how it “never smells the same.”
It wasn’t until I stepped off that plane, greeted by my grinning cousins and a wall of humid, spice-laced air, that I realized I’d spent my whole life cooking food, but only now was I learning to understand it.
Nasi Lemak: The Dish That Binds Us
Nasi Lemak isn’t just food here. It’s morning. It’s family. It’s Malaysia. You can find it wrapped in banana leaves at petrol stations, plated on china in high-end cafes, or served up by sleepy hawkers before dawn.
It always starts with rice—cooked in coconut milk and pandan leaves—rich, aromatic, and slightly sticky. The sambal is the soul: a slow-cooked chili paste that simmers till it darkens and thickens, bold and layered. Alongside, you’ll find crunchy fried anchovies, roasted peanuts, a hard-boiled or fried egg, and slices of cucumber. Some variations go grand—with fried chicken, beef rendang, or sambal squid (sotong).
I tasted a dozen versions on this trip. Each one was different. Each one was perfect.
Street Food Diaries: A Feast for the Heart
Every evening, my cousin Farid would take me down to the pasar malam—night market. One night, I had Nasi Lemak wrapped in newspaper, the sambal so spicy I could barely breathe, but I couldn’t stop eating. Another time, I tried one with blue-tinged rice, colored naturally with bunga telang (butterfly pea flower)—floral, subtle, and stunning.
Between bites, I devoured other local legends:
- Char Kway Teow: Flat rice noodles stir-fried with shrimp, egg, chives, and cockles in a searingly hot wok that gave it the elusive wok hei.
- Satay: Skewers of marinated meat grilled over open flames, served with a chunky peanut sauce that made my American BBQ feel flat.
- Teh Tarik: Pulled tea with condensed milk, frothed like a barista’s cappuccino, but sweeter and somehow more comforting.
- Kuih: Colorful layered sweets made with glutinous rice, coconut, and palm sugar—like edible art from my childhood dreams.
Still, it was Nasi Lemak I came back to, again and again.
Learning from Ah Ma: A Recipe Etched in Time
My grandmother, Ah Ma, is a quiet legend in her village. Her sambal is famous—men have proposed marriage over it, she jokes. Watching her cook was like witnessing a ritual. No timers, no scales. Just memory and magic.
She taught me the way her mother taught her.
Here’s how we made it together—step by step:
Traditional Nasi Lemak Recipe (Serves 4)
For the Coconut Rice
Ingredients:
- 2 cups jasmine rice
- 1½ cups coconut milk
- 1½ cups water
- 2–3 pandan leaves, tied into a knot (or substitute with ½ tsp vanilla)
- ½ tsp salt
Instructions:
- Rinse rice 2–3 times until the water runs clear. Drain well.
- Add rice, coconut milk, water, salt, and pandan leaves into a rice cooker or heavy-bottomed pot.
- Cook until the rice is tender and fragrant. If using stovetop, bring to a boil, then lower heat and simmer covered until done (about 15–18 minutes).
- Fluff with a fork, and remove pandan leaves.
For the Sambal (Spicy Chili Paste)
Ingredients:
- 10 dried red chilies, soaked and deseeded
- 5 fresh red chilies
- 2 medium onions (or 6 shallots), roughly chopped
- 3 cloves garlic
- 1-inch piece of belacan (fermented shrimp paste), toasted
- 1 tbsp tamarind paste
- 2 tsp sugar (palm sugar preferred)
- Salt to taste
- ¼ cup oil (vegetable or coconut)
Instructions:
- Blend chilies, onions, garlic, and belacan into a paste. Add a little water if needed.
- Heat oil in a wok or pan over medium heat.
- Add the chili paste and stir continuously, letting it cook down slowly. It will darken and the oil will rise—this takes 20–30 minutes. Be patient.
- Add tamarind paste, sugar, and salt. Simmer another 5 minutes. Adjust for balance—sweet, tangy, salty, and spicy.
- Let cool. It can be stored refrigerated for up to a week.
For the Fried Anchovies & Peanuts
Ingredients:
- ½ cup dried ikan bilis (anchovies), cleaned
- ½ cup raw peanuts
- Oil for frying
Instructions:
- Heat oil in a small wok or pan. Fry anchovies until golden and crispy. Remove and drain on paper towels.
- In the same oil, fry peanuts until lightly browned. Drain as well.
- Mix both together just before serving for ultimate crunch.
For the Egg and Sides
Ingredients:
- 4 eggs (boiled or fried, your choice)
- ½ cucumber, sliced
Instructions:
- Boil eggs (8 minutes for soft center, 10–12 for fully cooked), or fry sunny-side up.
- Slice cucumber thinly for freshness and crunch.
Optional: Fried Chicken (Ayam Goreng)
Marinade Ingredients:
- 4 chicken drumsticks or thighs
- 1 tsp turmeric powder
- 1 tsp coriander powder
- 1 tsp chili powder
- 2 cloves garlic, minced
- Salt to taste
- 1 tbsp rice flour or cornstarch
- A squeeze of lime juice
Instructions:
- Marinate chicken for at least 1 hour (overnight preferred).
- Heat oil and deep-fry until golden and cooked through.
To Assemble
On a banana leaf or plate:
- Scoop a generous mound of coconut rice in the center.
- Add a spoonful of sambal on the side.
- Place half an egg, some fried anchovies & peanuts, cucumber slices, and chicken (if using) around it.
- Serve hot, and don’t forget a napkin—the sambal stains, but you’ll forgive it.
Final Thoughts: The Flavor of Belonging
I’ve cooked Nasi Lemak back in the States, but something always feels different. Maybe it’s the humidity, maybe it’s the pandan growing fresh in the backyard, maybe it’s my grandmother humming while she stirs the sambal. Or maybe, it’s the soul of the dish—impossible to pack into a suitcase.
But that’s the thing about food like this. You don’t just carry it in your luggage.
You carry it in your bones.
And now, every time I stir sambal in my restaurant kitchen, I hear Ah Ma’s voice over the sizzle, telling me, “Slow down. Good things need time.”
