The Best Malaysian Food in the United States

A lineup of house sambals lands on the table before you've made any decisions, which is a useful way to begin at this easygoing Malaysian restaurant on Beverly. Chef Johnny Lee's Chinese-Malaysian cooking runs from satay and charred okra to beef rendang with buttery roti, and the plates are sized for sharing, which softens the slightly higher tabs. It holds a Michelin Bib Gourmand.

Oma's Hideaway is the loud, shiny little sister of Gado Gado, a Division Street restaurant where psychedelic Indonesian music plays over a menu that treats the word "restraint" as a rumor. Salted egg yolk curry fries come with sambal ketchup, and lamb satay arrives tucked inside a fried steam bun. The bar glitters like a disco ball, so the drinks keep pace, and nobody here is quietly checking their phone.

Flaky roti canai folded and crisped to order, torn apart and dragged through curry, is the move that explains Phat Eatery in a single gesture. This casual Malaysian street food spot in Katy draws a crowd happy to share plates of Hainanese chicken, beef rendang, and satay across a loud, affordable table. The chef was a James Beard semifinalist for Best Chef: Texas, which for a strip-mall canteen in the Houston suburbs is a sentence worth sitting with.

The line outside this small Malaysian café in Alhambra is the first thing you notice, and it doesn't thin out much once you're in. The menu is short and focused on classics: Hainanese chicken, curry with roti canai, kaya toast. It holds a Michelin Bib Gourmand, which feels about right for a neighborhood spot where the takeout tickets never stop piling up. Come with patience and without a reservation, because neither option exists.

Nasi lemak, the Malaysian classic of coconut rice with pickled veg, crispy anchovies, and curried chicken, is what the regulars reorder without looking up. Nyonya is a no-frills Malaysian restaurant in Chinatown, brick walls and wooden tables, where the menu runs long and the servers are opinionated enough to steer you past the obvious choices. The Michelin Guide gives it a Bib Gourmand, which tracks for a room this unpretentious feeding people this well.

Exposed ducts, charcoal-gray walls, and metal chairs set the tone at this Malaysian street food restaurant on Buford Highway, designed to feel like a night market and largely succeeding. The menu is enormous, the portions match it, and everything is built for sharing. The Michelin Guide has it listed, which tracks for a place this comfortable feeding a table of eight without breaking a sweat.

Akar is a Malaysian fine dining room in Clayton with concrete walls, sparse decor, and the lighting of a place that expects you to lean in. There's no menu online and reservations happen by phone, which in this economy counts as an aggressive commitment to mystery. The curries run rich and layered, the roti arrives in flaky sheets, and the plates cost real money, so dress like you made the call on purpose.

Nasi lemak is the organizing principle here, the Malaysian national dish built around coconut rice with its constellation of sides. This quick-service counter in downtown San Jose plates it with Mamak-style fried chicken, an overnight spice-and-curry-leaf marinade under a thin cornstarch crackle that happens to be gluten-free. The San Francisco Chronicle put it on both its best San Jose restaurants and best Bay Area fried chicken lists, which is a tidy double for a $13 plate.

The menu runs to biblical length and the wall photos of dishes look like lineup shots at a precinct, but nobody in this clattery Malaysian restaurant in Elmhurst seems bothered by either. The New York Times put it on their 100 Best in New York City list, which tracks. Roti canai leaves a sheen on your fingers, and the char kway teow arrives smelling of the wok in a way that suggests Kuala Lumpur, not Queens, until you look up.

Hat Yai is a casual Southern Thai spot on Belmont where the fried chicken comes with a stack of flaky roti and a bowl of curry you will absolutely pour over everything. The breading is rice flour and tapioca, so it shatters, and the pickles on the side are there to remind you that you have a palate. Orders at nearly every table look identical, which is the closest thing Portland has to a group chat.