The Jesmin Hotel is little more than a hole in the wall, typical of most eateries in the south of Sri Lanka. A case in the front displays a variety of roti and doughnuts for takeaway.  Walk past those temptations and a collection of tables and distressed looking plastic chairs are shoved into the back under dim, naked lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling by a wire. A pair of lethargic fans weakly attempt to circulate the humid air. There are no napkins. But it’s where the locals eat and you can’t go wrong with that. 

A lanky waiter with sunken eyes and a weathered face clad in a blue sarong and a stained grey polo shirt straightens the chairs at my table when I sit down. I order a vegetarian rice and curry, and he saunters off to the curry counter.

A moment later he’s back bearing a metal tray and a collection of small metal bowls, themselves bearing the curries. The rice is red rice today on a plate.

The waiter perches on the table across from mine watching as I unload the curries onto the rice, then he collects the serving bowls and returns to the counter. Before I can start eating he’s back with more.

First a dhal, a staple of south asian cuisine, made from stewed lentils and spices. The salty and earthy flavour goes well with rice, and roti, and papadom. You can really eat it with anything.

Next a dish of caramelised onions, and formerly green beans, which is sweet and somewhat spicy.

Then coconut sambol, unofficially a national dish of Sri Lanka, brings heat, texture and colour to the mix. This one is bright yellow from the curry powder and a deep green from some kind of finely chopped leaf matter.

A bowl of very spicy and sweet relish, this one is very spicy and enigmatic. You can see the chilli flakes, and it’s a bit sweet, but there are some hard shelled fruits of some sort complicating matters. Boy does this dish bring the heat.

The final bowl holds a red and spicy looking curry broth, in reality it’s more savoury and packs a flavourful punch when poured over the rice.

Eat it how you like, with your hands like the locals do or with the spoon provided. 

I’m acutely aware of the waiter hovering nearby as I get to work on the pile of food on my plate, sampling each individual curry and then trying different combinations. He asks if I’d like more shortly after I have a particularly spicy bite and start sweating bullets and I wave him off. He ambles to the other end of the dining room.

In the end, the rice and curry (and the obligatory curry refill) and a soda cost me 400 rupees, which right now works out to be $1.25. A bargain for the hungry traveler, or surfer.

If you’d like to know more about Sri Lankan cooking and would like to sample some recipes, check out The Hungry Lankan, Roshani Wickramasinghe’s collection of Sri Lankan recipes he learned from his mother.