It’s probably not surprising that in a city, and for that matter a country, where eating is more or less the national sport, that one of the signature treatments on the spa menu at the hotel where I’m staying should involve a foodstuff. And chosen for me is the traditional egg roll therapy. As I lie face down on the massage table, there is the disconcerting, though unmistakable, sound of boiling in the background. I can’t be sure if I’m getting my eggs hard or runny and I have to trust that they won’t make their way to my breakfast table tomorrow.
Surely not. I’m staying at the Majestic Malacca, the classiest place in town. At the end of the massage I ask to see the eggs.