Pudu, Kuala Lumpur 

Dinner time rolled around and I tried to do some research on Malaysian food that needed to be eaten. Something I had read earlier was haunting me though. It had said something about how all these hip, atmospheric restaurants aren’t the real Malaysia, that’s just he Western influence. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll take a hip brunch hangout anywhere in the world I go, but whoever had written that was right. Why travel all the way here just to experience the things we like back home? I needed something raw and authentic, and I had a suspicion it was hiding right around the corner from where I was stying. 

The Airbnb I had booked was located in Pudu, which some sources call the “historic district” of Kuala Lumpur. That is quickly changing though, as efforts are made to modernize everything in a way that is reminiscent of Singapore’s makeover. It was an interesting little area, that had that dirty, smelly, quintessential Southeast Asia city vibe to it. I would walk around to the back of the building, where a rickety staircase led up to the ancient, covered, pedestrian walkway. The walkway would lead me to the train station across the street. It all looked pretty grungy in the daylight, but I had noticed walking back during the evening, that there were streets around the back side that were alive with restaurant goers sitting at humble plastic tables and a symphony of sizzles coming from every grill. Yes, there was a food scene hiding in my own backyard and I hadn’t even scoped it out yet. 

I searched ‘vegetarian restaurant’ on Google Maps to see if anything happened to pop up in the area and voila! I grabbed my purse and left. 

The 7 minute walk had me zig zagging through one hole-in-the-wall restaurant after another. All the kitchens were exposed. The the aromas were intoxicating. This was the old-fashioned Asia, the backbone of the city that existed before the shiny sky rises and glamorous shopping malls. These were the mas and pas cooking homemade noodles all day from secret family recipes, and serving them to clientele on a scattering of the cheapest plastic tables ever produced. Here there were no sidewalks. Cars parked wherever they wished on the narrow roads. Vehicles somehow found ways to drive around. People walked like they weren’t about to get hit by a moving automobile at any given moment. 

A line of something being cooked in clay pots over a chargrill almost stopped me. I kept going though. I knew nothing about Malaysian food, and at least at a vegetarian restaurant I could just point and not have to worry about what was set in front of me. (This was also before I realized that most Malaysians spoke excellent English).

I found my place and studied the menu on the wall. One wall was covered in bright paper, with every menu item hand written in Malay and in English. Of course none of the strange words meant anything to me and there were no descriptions. The other wall actually had 5 pictures, but upon closer inspection, 4 of them were specials for various days of the week. I ordered the one dish that wasn’t. 

“Soup?” The guy asked, figuring out that I had no idea what I was doing and making sure I was ok with my selection. 

“Yes, please. No chicken?” I asked, just to double check. Some places in the world, vegetarian means vegan. Some places, vegetarian means fish and chicken are still ok. Other places it’s anywhere in between. 

“All vegetarian,” he confirmed. 

The meal was only 6 ringgit ($1.50 US), half of what I had paid for every other meal so far. Heck, my four bite-sized dim sum from the street food market the night before had come to 12 ringgit. 6 ringgit for soup couldn’t be much food. I mentally prepared to have to order another dish. 

I did not have to order more food. I received a heaping, steaming hot bowl of a light broth filled with more noodles than should have rightfully fit in the bowl, and spinach (or some sort of similar green). Seaweed and numerous different kinds of tofu products were also recognizable, some chewy, some crunchy, some with the texture of a pork rind. In fact, I had to examine the pork rind tofu closely to make sure it actually wasn’t meat, it looked so much like it. 

The meal was delicious. I made a mess of slurping it off of the flimsy plastic spoon, which is a minor annoyance at truly authentic Southeast Asian restaurants, because there are never any napkins around. A lack of napkins couldn’t spoil a great meal though. The textures from all the different tofus made it especially unique. It is common for such soups in this part of the world to have very small amounts of different kinds of meat, so why not different consistencies of tofu for a similar culinary experience? After inhaling the entire bowl and not caring about burning my mouth in the process, I couldn’t help but pat myself on the back for finding a good, authentic meal without the help of any guide books or word-of-mouth. Such things become habit after enough time traveling, but the first time (even the first time in a while) always feels like a great accomplishment. 

If you are ever traveling through Kuala Lumpur, remember to get out of the touristy areas and experience something authentic, someplace with plastic chairs that are too small and no napkins. I’m sure there are endless such food-centered areas all over the city, but the blocks east of Pudu station will excite your culinary sense of adventure for sure.