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| Kolkata Biryani |
In Kolkata, Biryani Isn’t Just a Dish—It’s a Legacy.
The word biryani may have Persian roots, but its soul resides in India—nowhere more passionately than in Kolkata. Here, biryani transcends mere sustenance. It is a cultural heirloom, infused with the longing of a displaced nawab, shaped by royal kitchens, and embraced by generations of everyday Kolkatans.
But what makes Kolkata’s biryani truly unique? It's not just the tender meat or fragrant rice—it’s the potatoes. Yes, potatoes. Introduced as a clever innovation by royal Awadhi chefs adapting to scarcity, they’ve since become an irreplaceable signature of the city’s beloved biryani.
The Quest Begins: In Search of the Secrets
As I wandered Kolkata’s maze-like streets, this wasn’t just a food journey—it was an odyssey. Tales of legendary eateries, elusive chefs, and whispered recipes lured me deeper. Some eateries shut their doors on curious seekers, others answered with smirks and silence. Yet every dead-end only fueled my curiosity.
Could the humble suta kabab be a street-born marvel or a gift from Lucknow’s grand culinary past? “So soft, even the toothless can enjoy it,” one vendor boasted with pride. A casual spice debate—Lucknowi finesse or Bihari boldness?—ended with a grin: “All Bihar!”
Soon, all signs pointed to one place: Zakaria Street.
Zakaria Street: Where Time Stands Still and Biryani Speaks
A yellow taxi zipped through the city’s chaos toward Zakaria Street, nestled near the Hooghly River in Chitpur—a neighborhood once graced by Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s exile. Here, amidst crumbling buildings and spice-laden air, history clings to every corner. “Five generations we’ve lived here,” a shopkeeper said, eyes gleaming with pride. “And we’ve kept the flame alive.”
As Friday prayers echoed from the majestic Nakhoda Masjid, food lovers converged on the narrow lanes. It was here that I found the legendary Royal India Hotel, a culinary time capsule born from royal downfall and resilience.
Royal India Hotel: From Nawab’s Court to Kolkata’s Soul
The story of Royal India Hotel begins in 1856 when Nawab Wajid Ali Shah was exiled by the British East India Company. His royal chefs followed him, hearts heavy but hands steady. In Kolkata’s Metiabruz, they recreated Lucknow in exile. Short on money but rich in skill, they made do—adding potatoes to stretch the biryani.
In 1905, one of those chefs, Ahmad Hussain, set up a small stall on Zakaria Street. That stall would grow into the Royal India Hotel.
Inside, time had barely touched the place—white tiles, a fading signboard, and a giant copper kadhai bubbling over tamarind coals. I tried the chap, a rich, fatty meat patty fried over clay ovens. The shami kabab, pure meat without lentils, fried in spiced oil, exploded with boldness. But where was the biryani?
Finally, a peek into the massive degs revealed something unexpected—no potatoes. Instead, tender koftas nestled among the rice. It wasn’t the version I knew, but hunger overruled nostalgia. One plate of biryani, chap, and rumali roti later, I was spellbound. Fragrant with saffron, kewra, and rose water, the dish whispered tales of Awadh in every bite.
The Sweets of Legacy: Haji Allauddin’s Mughal Confections
Before I left Zakaria, I detoured to Haji Allauddin Sweets—a 102-year-old shop steeped in Mughal tradition. The battisa halwa (made with 32 ingredients) melted into nutty richness. The gajar and akhrot halwa, and mawa laddoo, were equally divine. Every bite tasted like history lovingly preserved in sugar and ghee.
A Smoky Lane and a 105-Year-Old Kabab
As dusk settled, I stumbled upon Adam’s Kabab. Here, suta kababs—minced meat wrapped in thread—sizzled on open flames. Each bite was a revelation—spices bloomed, fat melted, and the taste lingered long after. The boti kabab, bold and rustic, was a masterstroke of Bihari-Awadhi fusion.
Arsalan: The Crown Jewel of Kolkata Biryani
But the journey wasn’t over. I found myself at Arsalan, the biryani juggernaut of Park Circus.
Chef welcomed me into the kitchen—a fragrant, bustling sanctuary. Here were the real stars: triple-excel basmati rice, Kashmir saffron, and mutton from Uttar Pradesh. The potatoes—Jyoti variety—were boiled in rich yakhni, marrying flavor and function.
In a polished copper handi, the layers began: potatoes, mutton, spiced broth, ground masalas, dried plums, browned onions, and mawa. Finally, saffron-tinted rice blanketed the blend, sealed with saffron dough for 25 minutes of dum pukht magic.
When the lid lifted, steam curled into the air, rich with the aroma of slow-cooked spices. The scent was irresistible. Served with egg, two mutton pieces, and a single potato, this was biryani perfected. Each grain was soft yet separate, each bite a balance of subtlety and warmth. The Arsalan kabab, layered with cheese and egg, and mutton barra, golden and crisp, rounded off the feast. A gentle firni ended the evening in creamy bliss.
A Story of Exile, Invention, and Eternal Flavor
Kolkata’s biryani is more than a recipe—it’s a story of exile and adaptation. Nawab Wajid Ali Shah never returned to Lucknow, but his chefs brought its soul to Bengal. The potato, a symbol of scarcity, became the identity of a city’s culinary pride.
As I walked away from the chaos of Zakaria Street and the comfort of Arsalan’s kitchen, I didn’t just carry the taste—I carried the tale.
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