Mise en Place

On the Order of Things, and the Disorder of Taste

When I shifted to the southern part of the country, I was amazed at the prospect of discovering a new cuisine that differed significantly from my regular food, which consisted of the classic North Indian tadka. A tadka, for those unfamiliar, is a blend of condiments with onion, garlic, and tomatoes. It forms the basic constituent of most dishes from the part I came from. The South has its own way of making dishes, and the tadka is quite distinct. Tadka here usually means tempering spices in a bubbling ladle of oil. There is a distinct relationship with sourness here. In Kerala, they do not use tomatoes for sourness; in some Telugu recipes, tomatoes are replaced with other sour accompaniments, such as soaked tamarind water. In Hyderabad, tomatoes have been a bone of contention for the biryani purists, who despise using tomatoes and go by curd on principle.

The most intriguing food in the southern region of the subcontinent so far has been the Biryani. Purist food critics of the northern hemisphere dismiss the delicacy as an overspiced, non-coherent, and ‘impure’ version of a Pulao, which to a Lucknowi nawab is the real deal. For the non-purists and perhaps the more democratic consumers, biryani means a combination of rice and meat (usually chicken, but then again, purists will claim mutton is the real deal) with aromatic spices. Of all the spices, perhaps the most intriguing is the lichen, which owes its name to the dish it is most used for: biryani phool (translated as biryani flower). The lichen gives the rice a rich, earthy aroma, elevating the plain old side dish to the centre stage. I firmly believe the defining character of a good biryani is the rice, not the choice of meat. And chefs play around with the rice so much to make their version distinct.

In Hyderabad, a city in constant negotiations with its regal past, aromatic long-grained basmati is used for a biryani. Different regions of the city serve different biryanis, banking on the legacy of the Nizam’s durbar. The pressure to make a biryani distinct is so great that almost all the famous eateries in the city have converged to the same overtly spicy, non-coherent mush of chicken and rice, adding flavour to the Lucknowi purists’ accusations. One cannot distinguish a ‘Mehfil’ biryani from a ‘Paradise’ biryani, nor ‘Shadab’ from ‘Nayab’. It is not uncommon to hear locals lambast Paradise for their ‘unflavoured’ biryani or Peshawar for not maintaining their legacy. Despite all this, I have enjoyed every grain of rice I have eaten in a Hyderabadi biryani. Countless times, I have visited Charminar for this dish, which has shaped my relationship with the city. Almost everyone you meet in the city has an opinion on biryani, and I am pretty sure that by now, I have disappointed nearly half of my readers from the city. I discovered a new flavour in this delicacy once I shifted to Andhra Pradesh for a new job that would introduce my taste buds to a new variety of flavours that demanded an openness to an uncharted territory of flavour and texture.

In Vijayawada, I have been tasting biryanis of such distinct nature that a Hyderabadi will turn to an even higher degree of conservatism than our beloved Lucknowi nawabs. Almost all places in the city serve ‘katta’, which is a toor daal based gravy with small chunks of potatoes. I was so baffled by this combination that for the first six months, I did not dare to taste the katta with a biryani. I failed to comprehend why anyone would add a watery gravy to a biryani, reducing its characteristic velvety texture to a household dal chawal mushy combination. Often accompanying the katta is a dollop of gongura pachadi, its sharp, leafy tang quietly unsettling the cardinal biryani rule: that no tomato, or anything remotely sour like it, should come near the dish. I realised much later, after familiarising myself with Telugu food properly, that biryani here, and perhaps in other places, is not a distinct dish with a regal past. It is possibly a combination of rice and meat made in a way that does not stray much farther from the dominant texture of staple food in the region. Telugu food combines different taste profiles, as is common with most southern food. Dried and fried vegetables are combined with generously thick and creamy dal in a Telugu meal. Sourness can be softened with sweetness, like in sambar, or pushed further into sharp relief, as with the addition of mango pickle to curd rice. The rice here has its distinct taste, often short and a little harder, so much so that it can simultaneously withstand the combination of different curries, chutneys, and vegetables without dissolving in the combination. Similarly, biryani is a separate delicacy within its own right, but it is not outside the flavour profile of the general Telugu meal. While the rice is usually distinct from the one used in meals, it is not very far away in profile. It holds its ground on its own. When eaten with the katta and the gongura pachadi, it transforms into a true Telugu delicacy. Friends here often insist that to eat like a local, truly, the centre of your palm must bear the imprint of the meal, streaked with curry, rice pressed inside. And while biryani holds its own as a dish apart, it still draws from the Telugu meal’s grammar: layered textures, sharp-sour accompaniments, and a tactile engagement that leaves no hand entirely free.

I often think about one biryani in Vijayawada—a rebellious creation that seems almost intent on defying every established rule of biryani-making, yet breaks through expectations precisely by doing everything “wrong.” For starters, it is not made by a group of men with strong opinions on the variety of poultry or rice. And neither does the chef offer any promise or expectation for the feaster. The general audience is not there to write blogs (this one is an exception) or tell their friends about their novel discovery of a rare earth metal. The rice is mushy to the extent of almost being crushed into a thin paste with the slightest pressure, and the chicken is cooked separately in a pot. It isn’t a dum biryani in the strict sense. It resembles a chicken pulao to the purist’s eye. But for the regulars, mostly working-class folks, it is a biryani. Many return for second helpings, whether with chicken, an egg, or just the gravy. You can have plain rice, add an egg, or, for a modest ₹70, get two pieces of tender and succulent chicken, marinated and tossed in rich gravy. You stand by the roadside and eat, finishing your plate with the background noise of small arguments between workers, college students, and the traffic police’s loudspeakers directing the traffic.

Two ladies make it on a small makeshift stall adjoining a paan shop on Mahanadu Road. The small makeshift shop is open only for a few hours a day. Their stall is hard to miss, painted with the brightest orange and white paint. The roaring crowd will attract you to the stall if you still miss it. There, with stoic determination and a stern face, one lady manages the crowd while serving orders, as another ensures that her mise en place is regularly refreshed. In three big bowls in the wooden stall are flavoured rice, chicken pieces, and boiled eggs. Impatient workers thrust out their hands, waving crumpled notes. The lady responds to no one in particular, handing out plates to whichever note she happens to grab. With the swiftness of a seasoned acrobat, she grabs one paper plate from her collection, pours rice, looks up to see the demand of one order, and adds chicken, eggs, or nothing in the mix. To get a plate of biryani, there is a skill.

One must not yell so much that she refuses to serve, but be persistent enough to grab her attention. The lack of civility rarely bothers her, unless some sexist remarks about the service catch her attention. And if that happens, she yells profanities that sound humiliating to the ear, even if you do not understand the language. I wonder if purists can be dealt with in a similar manner. Only dominance as an idea seems capable of holding on to purity and tradition, as purists in my country often do. Every time I eat a biryani in a new city, I find myself paying attention to who is making it and who it is meant for. Most of the time, I leave a little disappointed. Many try to hold on to the authority that the word biryani carries, but few manage to create something that speaks beyond it. So far, only one stall has done it.