Whether chopped cili padi in soy sauce, pickled green chillies, or a dollop of sambal, this fiery garnish is part of everyday Malaysian life.
Malaysia is often cited for its complex political landscape, but our food culture tells a different, more harmonious story. Regardless of ethnicity, there is a tacit agreement across the nation that a meal is simply incomplete without that signature kick of heat.
It is a shared language spoken through scorched tongues and beads of sweat.
“It is embedded in our DNA,” said Timothy Sebastian, founder and chef of Hungry Bacon. “Any Malaysian, be it Malay, Chinese, Indian, Portuguese or lain-lain – we love our chillies.”
He noted that the relationship with spice is a journey. “We grow up hating chillies as kids, but as you get into the teen years, you start to like that burn.”
This sentiment is echoed in kitchens across the country, where the love for spice transcends ancestral origins.
While early Chinese and Indian migrants brought their own culinary traditions to Malaya, those cuisines integrated local ingredients over time to suit the unique Malaysian palate.
For Ismail Ahmad, legendary celebrity chef and co-owner of Kuala Lumpur’s Restoran Rebung Chef Ismail, chilli is far more than just a crop or condiment: it is a way of life and a source of vitality.
He describes sambal as the “king of dishes”, noting that it is the one item that can bring a family – and a nation – together.
“If I go back to my village and want to do something to attract my cousins, it’s easy to make them cry,” Ismail shared cheerfully. “Just cook chilli and salt. They eat, they cry.
“I say, ‘Why are you crying?’ and they say, ‘Oh, I just remember grandmother’s food.'”
This memory of spicy comfort food creates a collective nostalgia that bridges generational and racial divides. “Sambal brings the whole nation together, not money!” Ismail quipped.
After all, when Malaysians stop at a roadside stall to buy a pack of nasi lemak, the first thing they ask for is more sambal. For him, the equation is simple: “No chilli is not Malaysian.”
‘Criss-cross’ of cultures
Meanwhile, traditional cuisine from China is not typically known for the heavy use of chilli outside of specific regions like Sichuan. Yet, Malaysian Chinese food has evolved into something distinct.
“We Chinese originally didn’t like spicy food. But as we explored other cultures and their dishes, we picked up certain elements,” said Ong Boon Jon, a sous chef at Hungry Bacon.
As chilli has been part of the local heritage for so many generations, he believes it has fundamentally shaped who we are. “If we lose chilli tomorrow, we will lose part of our identity.”
This adaptation is mutual and creates a “criss-cross” of cultures: just as Chinese noodles are served with pickled chillies, Indian curries in Malaysia have been tweaked to suit local spice tolerances.
“Growing up in an Indian household full of curries and peratal, chilli played a very important part in our cuisine and culture,” Sebastian shared.
“And Malaysian Indian food grew into its own thing – it’s very different from what you get in India. Here, everyone adjusts their chilli levels according to what their family, their customers, or their friends prefer.”
In the end, the heat of the humble chilli remains a warm, constant reminder that despite different backgrounds, Malaysians are united by one unique flavour profile.
“Our love for chilli makes us put aside all our racial, religious and political differences and just come together and eat,” Sebastian opined. “Food is the bridge that connects people.”
As for Ismail, chilli “opens up happiness, relationships, generosity”. So, he concluded: “To be happy, be like chilli!”
Claire Chan is an undergraduate at the University of Hong Kong, and an intern at FMT.