When the Ferreira family—João, Marina, and their 14–year–old daughter Beatriz—planned their Kerala holiday, they expected backwaters, houseboats, and coconut trees. They didn’t expect to find flavours that reminded them—quietly, naturally—of home.

Their journey took them from Kochi’s old Portuguese quarters to the cool hills of Wayanad. On their first night at Sterling Wayanad, they were told: “You must try The Malabar.”

Inside, the restaurant felt warm and grounded, lined with subtle hints of Kerala’s spice history. The family chose three dishes—each one a story, each one unexpectedly familiar.

 

1. Malabari Mango Cloud Fish — A Technique That Crossed the Ocean

When the server mentioned that the fish was steamed in banana leaf, João raised an eyebrow.
“Folha? Como na Madeira?” he asked softly.
Banana–leaf steaming isn’t common in mainland Portugal anymore, but in Madeira and Azores, older home cooks still prepare peixe ao vapor wrapped in hoja or parchment.
Here, the method feels older, earthier.
The menu said:
“Português method. Malabar spices. The perfect marriage.”
Wrapped at the table, the fish released an aroma of raw mango, chilli, coconut oil—nothing like Portugal’s caldeirada, yet the softness of the flesh, the citrus edge, the gentle heat from what the server called “Kerala’s version of piri–piri” made João smile.
“Different ingredients,” he said, “but the soul of coastal cooking is the same.”
Marina agreed. For her, it wasn’t nostalgia. It was recognition—two coastlines speaking a similar language through technique.

2. Koonthal Nirachathu — Kerala’s Answer to Stuffed Lulas

When the stuffed squid arrived, Beatriz leaned forward.
“Pai, parece lulas recheadas!” (Dad, it looks like stuffed squid!)
And she was right.
The dish—Koonthal Nirachathu—is described in the menu as squid stuffed with shallots, egg, and Moplah spices, roasted till the edges blister.
In Portugal, lulas recheadas are filled with breadcrumbs, herbs, and sometimes chouriço. In Malabar, the stuffing is hotter, more aromatic—shallots, turmeric, pepper, and a spice blend the server called “Moplah masala.”
João tasted it quietly and nodded.
“Not our flavours,” he said, “but the preparation… we could be eating this in Setúbal. Squid treated with respect is universal.”
Beatriz loved the light smokiness.
“It’s like someone took our dish and gave it a Kerala accent,” she said.

3. Chattipathri — A Layered Dish That Felt Comfortingly Familiar

The final dish was one the family didn’t expect to relate to: Chattipathri—Kerala’s ceremonial layered Moplah preparation.
The booklet describes it as rice pancakes layered with chicken, brushed with ghee, baked like a cake.
Marina cut through the layers and paused.
“Isto parece empadão… mas não é empadão.”
Empadão—Portugal’s layered baked pie—is thicker, usually potato–based. But the structure, the ritual of layering, and the slow baking brought a small sense of kinship.
It wasn’t similar enough to evoke memories.
It was similar enough to feel instinctively understood.
Beatriz liked it best.
“This reminds me of home,” she said, “not because it tastes like Portugal… but because the warmth feels familiar.”

What They Took Away From Wayanad

The Ferreira family didn’t leave The Malabar thinking Kerala cuisine resembled Portugal’s.
It doesn’t—and doesn’t need to.
What they felt instead was connection:
• A steaming method they recognised
• A squid dish prepared with the same respect as their lulas recheadas
• A layered celebration dish that echoed the logic of empadão
• A shared coastline culture—spice, sea, smoke, citrus
• A flavour bridge formed not by imitation, but by history
As João said later that night,
“Two places can be different in every way… and still understand each other through food.”
That was the true magic of their dinner at The Malabar— not that it reminded them of Portugal, but that it reminded them that culinary traditions travel, evolve, and greet each other across time and oceans.