A Vegetarian in Malaysia

I found out pretty quickly my trip to Malaysia was going to be all about food. 

Spicy, meaty food. Two categories that, well, I hadn’t quite explored in the past few years. Or ever for that matter. 

First of all, I’m from the southern USA. Salt is too spicy for some of my southern counterparts. 

Second, I’ve been a vegetarian since I was five years old. Most people, surprised by this fact, never got to meet the headstrong, determined young Virginia who put down her Happy Meal burger with a flourish and boldly announced to her mother she would not, under any circumstances, be eating meat again. 

And I didn’t. That is, until I was sitting at a Chinese restaurant in Kampar, Malaysia, fried prawns and steamed chicken and fresh fish soup piled on my plate. 

I had traveled to Malaysia on the tail end of 4 months spent backpacking in Southeast Asia. Years before, my parents had also traveled to Malaysia, as my opera-singer father performed around the peninsula with one of his former students who had grown up in Kampar, a small town in the foothills of the Titiwansa Mountain Range. I remember being outraged, infuriated, and downright offended when my mother told me that no, my seven-year-old-self could not accompany them on their month-long trip to the other side of the world, but it all came around. Over fourteen years later, I stepped out of the plane in Kuala Lumpur to greet the same family who had hosted my parents years before. 

Tham Leong and Tham Annie Yong, parents of my father’s student Gloria Tham. I recognized them immediately from the pictures, even though their hair had shifted from black to grey and their skin appeared more transparent with age. Mrs. Annie, with kind eyes and a broad, wide lipped smile, Mr. Tham, with a serious expression encircled by a ring of silver hair. 

They took me to their house in Kampar, one hour from Perak state’s capital city of Ipoh. It was a simple, two story building overlooking the mountains, with cool marble floors and a lime tree providing some shade outside the front door. Red Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling of the car park, in contrast to the wall of green plants that greeted me as I stepped out of the car. 

They immediately offered me food. Fresh sliced papaya with lemon, sweet white coconut flesh, and White Coffee, a Perak state specialty where the beans are roasted with margarine and served with sweetened condensed milk. If their goal was to fatten me up, they were on the right track. 

A couple hours later it was time for the main course, a traditional Chinese dinner. Being Chinese Malaysian, Mr. Tham ensured me that this food would be authentic, not “that awful sweet and sour chicken you eat in the USA.” I heard a groan from the backseat.

“Yeh Yehhh,” it was Janessa, the Thams’ nine-year-old granddaughter. “Couldn’t we get Western food? I want mushroom soup.”

She turned to me, her face still in a scowl but her eyes earnest. 

“You’re so lucky Virginia, in the USA you get to eat mushroom soup whenever you want!”

I giggled. I have never once eaten mushroom soup.

The restaurant was about 20 minutes from the house, a simple, squat building with an old sign written in Chinese characters that I easily would have passed without a second glance had I been on my own. The tables were circular and covered in crimson tablecloths, each with a round Lazy Susan in the center. Our group shuffled over to a table in the back corner, Mr. Tham greeting a handful of people at nearby tables as we passed. 

I soon came to find that Chinese-style dining was the definition of family style. There was no menu, instead Mr. Tham hurriedly ordered for the whole table and soon steaming dishes were being stacked on the Lazy Susan one by one–leafy green choy sum steamed with garlic and spices, roasted pork, crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside, fish soup, still steaming in the pot, filling the room with it’s sweetly sour aroma. The Lazy Susan started spinning, and before I knew it a plate had been placed in front of me, piled high with a sampling of each dish on the table. It was only then that I realized my mistake. 

In the chaos and culture shock of it all, I’d forgotten to tell anyone I was a vegetarian. 

Beside me, Janessa was already chowing down on a piece of sticky roasted chicken. Her older brother Jarell scooped up soup with a deep spoon, and Mr. Tham bit straight into a small red chili pepper packed with heat. I eyed my own plate.

Maybe it was the fact that the fried prawns were still sizzling and smelled heavenly. More likely, it was the fact that I was raised in the land of southern hospitality, and in this wise words of my mother, “When someone serves you food, you eat it graciously. And be sure to say thank you!” I had a feeling my mother would not be pleased to hear that I deeply offended my new Malaysian family over a serving of fish soup. 

So with southern etiquette ringing in my head, I nibbled on a small piece of chicken, the spice tickling the back of my throat and making my nose drip. It wasn’t bad, so I hesitantly sipped on the salty, fishy soup, the broth hinted with flavors of ginger and green onion. Finally, I bit the tail straight off one of the fried prawns, the meat inside soft and white while the outside provided a satisfying crunch. With just a few bites, my seventeen years of vegetarianism were over 

At that point there was no going back. I sipped another serving of fish soup, chowed down on sardine-topped fried rice, and even tasted a small bite of ostrich meat. It was chewy and tangy and tough, but flavorful and surprisingly sweet. My Malaysian family lauded my adventurous spirit, and I surprised myself at my sudden change of heart. But that was only the beginning. 

In the following days I tried practically everything Mr. Tham piled on my plate. I sampled noodle soup with spongy fish balls, the colloquially named ‘rat-tail noodles,’ small and slippery like the vascular tails of the rodents. I burned the roof of my tongue on ayam masak merah, the red-cooked chicken flavored with spicy dried chilies and tomato paste. I even tried durian, the famous “stinky fruit,” which, to my surprise, tasted slightly like peaches and cream even though it smelled like dirty laundry.

A few days later, I mentioned my prior vegetarianism as we sat around the Lazy Susan at home, feasting on delicate tilapia and chicken soup flavored with citrusy lemongrass. Jarell stopped mid-bite, the spoon of rice poised halfway to his mouth, jaw agape. 

“You mean to tell me you didn’t eat meat for seventeen years?!” At twelve, seventeen years was longer than his entire lifetime, and the pure horror was apparent in his dark eyes. “You mean you couldn’t eat soup dumplings for seventeen years? You must have been so deprived!” He looked from me to the anchovy-topped rice on his spoon and quickly put it in his mouth, his eyes rolling back in his head as the crunchy anchovies seemingly provided a temporary cure to his dismay. 

I popped a wonton in my mouth, silently praising myself for my improving chopstick skills. The chicken filling was flavored with soy sauce and sesame, blending perfectly with the broth-soaked wrapper holding it all together. In my moment of food ecstasy, I hadn’t noticed Mr. Tham piling a heaping portion of fish on my plate and topping off my chicken soup.

“Eat Virginia,” he said, and I thought I detected a bit of a laughter hidden behind his usual serious tone. His eyes glimmered. “You need to make up for lost time.”

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