Delhi on My Plate

I had only ever passed through Delhi on my way to other places; I never actually stayed to discover it. But having decided to map India’s culinary experiences for Masala Trails, my new food-tourism venture, which will showcase Indian cuisine to travelers coming to India, last month I had the perfect excuse to stop and smell the, well, kebabs in Old Delhi en route to Rajasthan.

I met with a foodie friend in the shadow of the Jama Masjid mosque inside the walled-city area. It was an overcast day, and the air smelled of dust, fuel, freshly baked bread and spices. We let go of the safety of the main road that surrounds the mosque and plunged into the churning mass of vehicles, street carts and cycle rickshaws (a three-wheeled cycle with a carriage for riders to sit on that is pulled by a man) winding their way around cows that had parked themselves, like little traffic islands, placidly masticating their cud.

Old Delhi is a different world, with its warren of narrow lanes connecting a conglomeration of historic sites, where phone booths and cyber-cafés peek from windows, and niches of crumbling residences and shadowy ghosts of history shimmer amid life in the 21st century.

Today, ordinary citizens throng the streets of Old Delhi, going about their daily lives, but a few hundred centuries ago, if you were royalty, this is where you would have come to shop for exotica from all over the world: rich Persian carpets, exotic perfumes and spices, fine jewellery and intricate textiles. This area, formerly the city of Shahjahanabad, was the capital of Muslim India from the 17th to the 19th century. The city was established by Mughal emperor Shah Jahan, and the remains of its glorious past can still be seen in not only the crumbling forts, monuments and mosques but also the shops and establishments run by descendants of families who served the Mughal Empire.

Our plan was to start with an early lunch at Karim’s and then meander through the lanes to our designated dessert stop, Gyani, for its legendary rabri falooda. But first I wanted to find Noori Masallawaley, a spice shop that a fellow food-loving friend had told me about. We set off in the general direction of Noori and at once found the source of the aroma of freshly baked bread: A baker’s shop was selling sheermal still warm from a tandoor oven built into the ground! Hunger pangs struck, so we bought one of the irresistible, subtly sweet, saffron-scented breads to nibble on the way.

We had assumed that ferreting out the spice shop, located in the busy Chitli Qabar bazaar area, would be like looking for the proverbial needle. But we quickly learned that locating anything in Old Delhi was almost too easy – one simply had to ask! And Noori, the source of spices for any chef worth his kebabs, is very well known. Noori Masallawaley is an 80-year-old shop run by Mohammed and Akif Azam. A one-stop shop for spice mixes, it offers prepared packages of mixed spices or open mounds of individual spices that can be combined into custom blends. I was handed a menu and asked to choose.

With the help of the Azams, I chose korma masala, for a curry enriched with yoghurt, cream, nut and seed pastes or coconut milk; kofta masala, for spiced meatball curry; nahari masala, for a hearty breakfast curry that is simmered overnight; and a rather intriguing stew masala. The stew masala caught my attention because although stew is not indigenous to Indian cuisine (it was a legacy of the British Raj), we have a delicious coconut-based version spiced with pepper in the cuisine of Kerala from South India. Finding a version of stew in Delhi was thought-provoking. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would taste like. I didn’t know it then, but my question was going to be answered very soon at Karim’s.

Karim’s is an Old Delhi institution rooted in history. Legend has it that a forefather of Haji Zahiruddin, who opened the first Karim’s, was a soldier who came to India seeking his fortune. He wound up in the employ of Emperor Babur at which time his abilities as a cook came to the fore. His talent was honed, and he quickly rose in the ranks to become Babur’s personal chef. Zahiruddin’s ancestors served as imperial cooks for the next three centuries, passing on recipes and techniques from generation to generation until the British exiled the Mughals from Delhi. 

But let’s cut to the meat of the matter – literally! – because that is what Karim’s is: meat heaven! Vegetarians are welcome but should not expect too much; the focus here is on the meat. Karim’s can be found at the end of an alley appropriately named Gali Kababian (Street of Kebabs). The menu is simple, consisting of 30-odd dishes. What I appreciated was that you could order half portions, which allowed me to sample a lot more dishes. We began with the kebabs, which are central to Mughal cuisine in India. We chose Chicken Tikka, Mutton Seekh and Mutton Burra. Since I am most familiar with Chicken Tikka, I ordered it here so that I could compare it to what I had tasted previously in Mumbai. Mutton Burra is a dish that defies description: It’s no more than a chunk of meat and bone, but it is cooked to perfection and so tender that it almost seems eager to part ways with the bone.

It seems appropriate to pause and savour the fact that this is probably the sort of food that Mughal royalty ate in a bygone era. Zahiruddin was the head of the family when it finally returned to Delhi in 1911 at the time of the coronation of George IV. By then, there was no royalty left to cater to, but Zahiruddin decided to garner fame and fortune by “serving royal food to the common man.” He began with a small stall that sold simple meals of dal (lentils), aloo gosht (a potato and meat curry) with rotis (griddle breads) and went on to open this small restaurant in 1913. Today, under the careful nurturing of four generations of his descendants, this unpretentious little restaurant has grown into a thriving chain.

For the main course, we ordered Mutton Korma, Mutton Stew and more sheermal to sop up the delicious gravies with. The food here is obviously cooked the old way, without stinting on anything, because our server very deftly poured off a rather thick layer of melted fat from our curries before placing them before us. The korma was delicious, with the meat literally falling off the bone, but it was the stew that intrigued me. A pale greenish white, flecked with bits of chili and other spices, it was delicately spiced with coriander seed, spiked with chili and deliciously tangy.

While I could ascertain the spices used, I was flummoxed by the tanginess. I loved it so much that I couldn’t help but ask my server how it was made. But Karim’s does not share such treasured family secrets. He mumbled something about enjoying the food and he would tell us later. In a few minutes, he was back with our bill. Bending down, he furtively whispered that the base of this stew was fresh yoghurt, cooked slowly until all its fat was released. He wasn’t able to share anything about the spices because they are prepared by a member of the family and delivered to the kitchen daily. After declining dessert and paying the princely sum of 650 rupees(only), we moved on.

We took a cycle rickshaw for the next bit of our exploration. Asking another human being to pull my weight did not seem right to me, but I was told that it was the most prudent form of transport in this area: The ancient streets were built narrow to keep hot weather and enemies out. It was also the only way these men could earn a living. We went via Kinari Bazaar, a street of shops that sell all things shiny and shimmering to adorn the clothes that women in our country usually wear on festive occasions. I struck a great bargain on a beautiful sari border that I would use on a sari for my sister’s wedding the following month.

Farther down this lane is the famous Gali Paranthe Wali, which has been eulogized by many a foodie for its delicious, cholesterol-inducing, deep-fried flatbreads that come stuffed with a variety of fillings. We elected to leave them for another day and drove on, past the imposing Gurdwara Sis Ganj Sahib, to Gyani’s rabri falooda shop on Church Mission Road.

We got off at the corner and walked to our destination. Gyani, more than five decades old, is famous for its rabri falooda, milkshakes and ice cream, but it also does a seasonal dessert daily, such as the delicious dal (lentil) halwa. We got ourselves tokens and lined up at the counter where the rabri falooda was deftly and quickly assembled: a ladle of rabri (rich with nuts, such as pistachios and almonds), a large handful of crushed ice and a fistful of falooda. The mixture was drizzled with scented water, given a vigorous shake and then handed over to eager takers like us. Cool and sweet, the noodles from the falooda slid lusciously down our throats as we spooned it into our mouths.

As I was finishing my rabri, I spotted a lassiwalla. Lassi is a beverage made of fresh yoghurt blended with a little water and sugar or salt, depending on how you want it. Lassi from the street stalls in the north of India is especially delicious, so I simply had to make room for it! It comes in a disposable clay cup, so I was able to sip the sweet, chilled elixir as we continued on our way.

We walked on to Khari Baoli, Asia’s largest wholesale spice market. You know when you’ve arrived because, even before you enter, your eyes begin to burn and your throat gets so irritated that you begin to cough. And once you enter, you see why: This is a place where tons of spices are traded every second. There are carts loaded with chilies, men carrying sacks of more chilies, and chilies underfoot as well, getting crushed and letting their vapours into the air. Most of the chili traders couldn’t be bothered with people coming to have a look around, but since I am particularly fond of chilies, I persevered. I managed to find a chili trader willing to talk to me for a second. He reluctantly gave me a few free samples and then literally shooed us out! But I had gotten what I wanted, so we left the spice market and headed toward our waiting taxi.   

As we drove out of the walled city, past the Red Fort and onto Rajpath, I couldn’t help but think what a city of contradictions Delhi is: Rajpath, literally translated, is “The Imperial Way.” Home to the most haute addresses of Delhi, this tree-lined avenue, flanked by regimental lawns of neat flowerbeds and manicured hedges, could just as easily be anywhere in the world – so far removed from Purani Dilli or the chaotic clutter and utter mayhem of Old Delhi!