Eating at a Banana Leaf Restaurant in Melaka: the Gentle Joy of Bare Hands and a Breeze

Pickled stuff on a banana leaf

The Heat of Malaysia

It was a hot, hot day in Melaka, Malaysia.

It was the kind of heat that feels less like weather and more like divine punishment. The air had the texture of old gravy.

My shirt clung to me like it had trauma.

Even the ceiling fan seemed to have given up, spinning just enough to mock us while slowly roasting our collective will to live.

It was beautiful. It was unbearable. It was Malaysia in July.

Selvam: a Banana Leaf Restaurant in Melaka

We were at a place called Selvam that we had noticed earlier. It’s a "banana leaf restaurant" (meaning banana leafs are used as plates) tucked into a street corner in Little India. It’s a hole in the wall in the real sense of the word. The front of the shop is open. No AC. Fans spin, but only “kind of.”

The best strategy is to move as little as possible.

We were tucked back in a corner. The table was meant for four, but it was not difficult to make it fit five. Bonus: it was directly under a fan! The hint of a breeze cooled my back, which was double-soaked from carrying my camera backpack.

All the workers at the restaurant were young men, except the woman taking money at the counter. Each young man had the same complexion, but that’s where the similarities ended. One was large and soft and flowed from one place to another. Another was thin, almost wiry. He stepped birdlike from table to table, offering dishes of deliciousness.

Ordering is simple at Selvam: do you want biriyani or plain rice?  Easy: both. One of each. The five of us will share two sets, and that should leave room to seek out something else yummy on the walk back to the hotel for our afternoon siesta.

Shortly, banana leaves were set down in front of us. The biriyani was placed on one, and the rice on the other. Then pickled onion and cucumber. Then sauces (not sure what they were — but when an Indian splashes something bright orange across a mound of rice, you just eat it and deal with the consequences later).

Locals in the place were eating with their hands, so we did too. We had been practicing for this for a long time.

This often caused a bit of a stir. All over Malaysia and South India, we would walk into a place where all the patrons were locals, and all the locals were eating with bare hands. The servers would take one look at the five white people walking in and panic, starting to search desperately for a spoon (“I know there is one somewhere!”). When we told them we would eat with our hands like everyone else, their faces would show relief . . . and then curiosity. More than once a crowd of lunch-goes had paused their eating to watch the cute little American girls dig into a pile of curry and rice with their hands (right hand only, of course—we had been practicing).

So, we washed our hands and dove in.

The feel of the rice. The smell of the spices. The embarrassment of getting rice ALL OVER THE PLACE.

It was wonderful. Daughter 2 straight up gnawed on a chicken bone because it was so good.

It was great to get a filling, delicious meal for about 24RM (US$8). But then were were completely done. When did we become the family that is totally full after eating two meals for the five of us? There was no room leaf for the walk home.

Sometimes, the silliest thing can make you sad, because travel.

Daughters 2 and 3 at Selvam