How to Eat Vegetarian Like an Indian

Originally written March 2012 • Updated November 2020 • Uploaded to Facebook on Mar 29, 2012, 6:32 AM

Today, I walked into a little restaurant called 'The Nepali Corner.' So far in my quest to find Malaysia's spiciest food, I have only found mild and milder. Seeing Nepali food on the horizon is usually a good sign, because it is famous for being extremely hot. I walked inside and, at first glance, it didn't look like much—just a few sparse tables and no decoration. When I asked for a menu, the waiter took me outside to point at a few pictures of food, leaving me to inquire about the specific tastes and prices.

I chose to order the spiciest dish available. I have absolutely no idea what its name was, but I'll do my best to describe it: a big silver bowl containing two copper cups and a healthy helping of rice. In one of the cups, there were potatoes swimming in a mild curry, while the other held a cumin-heavy dish of mutton. Alongside the rice sat two slices of carrot and a small sliver of onion, meant to be paired with a squeeze of lime as an appetizer.

The waiter then brought out another massive bowl full of rice and a companion bowl—complete with an equally massive spoon—brimming with daal, a lentil soup very light on lentils or anything substantial, but heavy on water. I must be honest: I was quite confused as to the hows and whys of the plate of food before me, but I tried my best to appear knowledgeable enough to enjoy my meal. Sure, the French may have a million forks and spoons, each with its own hyper-specific use, but here I had a basic selection of a single fork and spoon.

I started digging into the rice and was just about to bring the bowl of daal directly to my lips like a soup broth when the owners, who had clearly been drinking since 11:00 AM, started laughing hysterically. I tried to ignore them, but they kept right on laughing, so I finally looked over and smiled. They beckoned the waiter to come over and rescue me from my clear inexperience. The waiter proceeded to pile even more rice into my big silver bowl, took the daal, and completely drowned the rice in it. I had been wondering why the main dish came in such a wide, deep bowl; it was to hold the sheer volume of liquid mixed with the rice so it wouldn't overflow and spill onto your clothes. He looked at me and simply said, "Eat."

So, I took the spoon and fork and started to freestyle. A bit of rice here and a bit of mutton there, or a bit of potatoes paired with mutton, or a spoonful of rice mixed with a spoonful of daal. They continued to chuckle, but the food was so good in whatever random combination I made that I simply didn't care. It was only when I came down to my very last spoonful that I fully realized the proper mechanics of the meal I had ordered.

And how did I learn? The waiter who had poured the daal onto my rice and piled the grains so high I could barely see over them sat down to have his own lunch. Monkey see, monkey do.

Here is how to eat it correctly, should you ever find yourself in a Nepalese restaurant that requires you to know the proper etiquette: First, you pile the rice really high on your plate, then you pour the daal over it until the rice is basically swimming. Then, you take your right hand, form a bit of a natural scoop with your fingers, lean in close to the plate, and slide it into your mouth in a swift motion—bringing in almost enough rice to make you choke. You will quickly notice that a fork and spoon are not used at all; if you try to use them, you might be taken for a fool.

Crucially, you must always use your right hand when driving rice into your face. The reason for this is that the left hand is reserved strictly for "dirty tasks," such as taking off your shoes, blowing your nose, or wiping your backside.

The experience reminds me vividly of how I used to eat my meals in the south of India. Down there, you find many all-you-can-eat restaurants, but they are nothing like our Western buffets. Instead, you sit down and find four little bowls in front of you: one containing salt, one with sugar, one filled with spicy Indian pickles, and the last loaded with small, incredibly fiery chillies. The waiter comes by and lays a fresh banana leaf down in front of you, roughly the size of a large sheet of paper. He then proceeds to drop a massive mound of rice right in the middle.

The performance doesn't stop there. An entire army of waiters rotates around the restaurant carrying big metal buckets and oversized spoons, asking if you want more refills. Many of these curries are visually indistinguishable from prison slop, changing from one container to the next only in color. A few of the varieties are incredibly tasty, but mostly, you are just enjoying rice with various textures of seasoned slop. You are also provided with a small bowl and a cup full of water right at the table so you can periodically rinse your hand when it gets too sticky.

When you eat a Thali meal like this, you mix and match constantly, trying to transform a very simple, nutritious meal into something greater than the sum of its parts. The waiters loop back incredibly often so you can eat to your heart's content, though you will be disappointed if you are a strict meat-eater, since there will be no trace of meat in a traditional Southern Thali. After you're finished, you go wash your hands for the tenth time and proceed to pay a bill that will likely be laughably small—a Thali meal normally runs around sixty-five cents.

And there you go. Now you know how to navigate eating with your hands. Just please don't tell your mother, and if you are ever in doubt about what to do, just remember the golden rule: eat with your right hand, and handle the rest with your left!