Gar firdaus bar-ru-ye zamin ast, ham-een-ast, ham-een-ast, ham-een-ast

  

The dargah of Nizamuddin Auliya, the 14th century Sufi saint of Delhi, is one of the most famous pilgrimage sites in the city, both in pious and touristic circuits. Apart from the tomb of the Sufi saint himself, the dargah complex houses those of several other religious and political bigshots from the medieval times, who chose to be buried here due to the religious halo associated with it. One of the most prominent ones is that of the celebrated Persian poet Amir Khusraw, a disciple and close associate of the saint. When I was taken here for the first time by my friend and fellow medievalist Kashshaf Ghani, he reminded me of a celebrated poem by Khusraw:

Har qaum raast raahay, din-e wa qibla gaahay,

Man qibla raast kardam, ba simt kaj kulaahay.

Sansaar har ko poojay, kul ko jagat sarahay,
Makkay mein koyi dhoondhay, Kaashi ko koi jaaye,
Guyyian main apnay pi kay payyan padun na kaahay.
Har qaum raast raahay, din-e wa qibla gaahay.

(Every community has a faith, 

a direction [Qibla] to which they turn [to pray],

I have turned my face towards the tilted cap [of Nizamudin]

The whole world worships something or the other,
Some look for God in Mecca, while some go to Kashi,
So why can’t I, oh wise people, fall onto my beloved’s feet?

Every sect has a faith, a Qibla.)

Three years down the line, my qibla is not more than 500m away from where the saint with the tilted cap lies now. (Not bad, eh Khusraw?) It's a small joint which goes by the name of Ghalib Kabab Centre. It derives its name from the street on which it stands. Turns out that Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib, arguably the greatest Urdu poet of the 19th century Delhi, also wanted to be buried in the Nizamuddin comlex. However, the dargah authorities denied this last wish of the poet, citing his drinking habits as un-Islamic. Consequently, he had to be buried outside, though near, Nizamuddin's tomb. The road leading to his tomb has been named Ghalib Road. It is on this bustling, crowded and cacophonous road that sheek kababs having been rolling out of that sizzling oven for the past forty years and in absence of the Auliya saint, soothing many a thirsty heart and salivating tongue. 

Like every religious ceremony, our visits to the joint has a specific sequence of cullinary rituals. We begin with a few plates of beef sheek kababs. As they arrive in no time, along with the rumali rotis, our lust virtually gets out of hand and there ensues a mad squabble for the meat. There can be no words for describing these, so I will not try to find any. They simply melt in the mouth, and the tastes of the meat and spices simply dissolve into each other leaving behind a strong sense of sensual pleasure.

From here we graduate onto some beef tikka kabab. This comes to us as platefuls of meat chunks. Though not as tender as the sheek kababs, tikka kabab is equally generously spiced and grilled to an alluring dark brown colour. Lemon, chopped onions and the pudina chutney come as perfect accomplices of the delicious meat.

The dessert sessions usually consist of a flurry of firni. Again, best firni I have ever had. Stopping below two/three usually proves difficult. 

Then comes the real problem -- getting up. 

Beef Divine

Couple of months back, two of my friends and me boarded a south-bound train from Sealdah. As the geography of the city around us changed rapidly, we held our breath and waited for what we had heard to be the best beef in and around the city. We alighted at Baruipur in less than an hour and started looking for this piece of heaven called Aasma. It turned out to be a humble, though bustling, joint, in the market adjoining the station, just beside the rail tracks. A big fat man sat just outside the place, stirring occasionally the sinfully spicy-looking meat sizzling on a gigantic pan. The scent of beef turned us on instantly! 


Salivating, we headed into what was a large hall, cramped with long tables and benches on both of their sides. There was hardly any empty spot around and we barely managed to sit down and grab some table-space. We ordered for beef biryani and beef chaap straightaway. These arrived in no time and in we went at once! Man, the biryani was just too good. Not only the quality of rice, or its titillating fragrance, which could compete with any Park Circus restaurant, but also the meat! It was remarkably nice, tender and juicy, inspite of it being the tougher red meat. The spices had seeped into the meat really well and brought the entirety of the rice alive. However, the goodness of the biryani  was closely contested by the quality of the chaap, which to say the least, was divine. Oil, the spices and the meat gelled so well that they were practically inseparable. The suppleness of the beef surprised us here as well. We binged on like hypnotised slaves until we could literally hold no more.

On our way back, we thanked the Cow, our Holy Mother, a million times for sacrificing herself everyday for the upliftment of our food-craving spirits in so delicious a manner! Hail the most tasty demi-god of the Pagans! 

Phuchka: Crispy Devils of Calcutta

You may have had panipuri in Mumbai, or even golgappa in Delhi, but if you haven't tasted phuchka (not puchka) in Calcutta, you have not yet known the ultimate combination that can be prepared with the crispy fried balls. The panipuris I had on Juhu beach in Mumbai were too bland and somewhat sweetish. I dared not touch many of the Delhi golgappas; the notice that some of the sellers were flaunting simply scared me off: 'served with mineral water'! For the record, phuchka cannot be served with mineral water. It would be like serving a dish of biryani without that boiled potato, or serving an egg roll without onions! If you are afraid of water-borne diseases, don't have phuchka. But if you must, have as they serve it here in the east: no mineral water crap. Mashed potatoes, some tamarind, salt, slices of green chili, some decimated phuchkas, chili powder -- all mixed into a granular paste with bare hands. No fancy gloves and all, please. Then bits of this paste are put into phuchkas, one at a time, which are then dipped straight into that container of tamarind water, and served on the small plates that one was holding all this while in one's hand. Well, go on, gobble it up!

Puchkas, like rolls, are everywhere in Calcutta. One master of the art puts his stall at the south-east corner of Deshapriyo Park in south Calcutta everyday. The other day, with dinner with friends due in an hour, I happened to pass him by. Long story short, I ended up having 25 of those crispy devils and spoiling my appetite for dinner!

Roll-Play

In the years 2001-2003, I was a student of class XI-XII in a Calcutta school. The order of the day was to take tutions in almost all the subjects after school hours. My parents were kind enough to spare me of this compulsive madness. However, I could not escape being put under special care in case of Mathematics. Well, let's just say that the subject was never my forte. So every Sunday, I would have to make a 20 minutes journey to a local school teacher's place, who would coach me, along with a dozen others, in Mathematics. Now I found a few like-minded people here, who were not quite in love with the subject in question either. Oblivious of the graveness of our academic endeavour and the concern of our parents, we would indulge in chit-chat, doodling in our notebooks or simply gazing out of the window. And in the midst of all this, throughout those two hours of intense boredom, my only consolation would be the prize that awaited me at the end of the class. 

You see, there was this roll shop nearby -- Orchid. After the classes were over, the few of us would flock there to have egg rolls. Yes, not the fancy chicken, mutton or egg-chicken ones; just the plain and simple egg roll. You see, we weren't rich in those days, and an egg roll every Sunday meant that we had to save from our paltry weekly allowances. But boy, did we love it! Lachchha parota, pan fried to a gentle crispiness on egg, rolled with onion, cucumber and some mashed potatoes, sprinkled with a little salt and lemon juice and served piping hot. We would insist that no sauce be put in there, because that invariably killed the flavour for us. We would blow into the roll, in a bid to cool it down, while not being able to control ourselves from taking the much-awaited first, and in our heads the tastiest, bite, and then usually jump around for a while, because it would invariably still be too hot.

P.S.: The egg roll is found every-single-where in Calcutta. Almost every para has its own roll joint and egg roll forms the cheapest and most basic element on its menu. Its Hot Kati on Park Street, Bedouin at Gariahat More and Campari on Dover Lane are only some of the busiest. And yes, it is best served without the tomato and chilly 'sos'.

Drowned in Butter: Chicken Ala Kiev

Chicken Ala Kiev, or simply Chicken Kiev, owes its name to the Ukranian capital, which boasts of being the birthplace of this culinary dream. This claim has not gone uncontested and some Russians have alleged that it were they who first perfected the recipe. These debates notwithstanding, Chicken Ala Kiev remains one of the most popular dishes worldwide. 


If you are looking for Chicken Ala Kiev in Calcutta, come straight to the headquarters of continental food in the city -- Park Street. There are a handful of joints that serve the dish here. But my recommendation is One Step Up. The more famous place of continental food here, Mocambo, serves the dish as well, but I found the stuffing too dry for my liking. The one at One Step Up, on the other hand, is perfect. And by all means, order some white wine. It complements the dish quite brilliantly.


The dish consists of a hollow cylinder, tapering at both ends, made of chicken and continental spices. The cylinder is deep fried, thereby giving it a brown and crispy crust. The cavity inside is filled entirely with liquid butter. The dish is served with potato mash and boiled beans and peas. As soon as one cuts the thing with the knife, warm yellow butter gushes out of it and inundates the plate. Now all you have to do is dig into the chicken, roll it on the butter and put it in your mouth. The combined taste of chicken, the fried crust and the oozing butter is, well, for the lack of a better phrase, devastatingly delicious!

The Love Story of Meat and Cheese: Mutton Arsalan Kabab

Arsalan serves some of the best kababs and arguably the best biryani in Calcutta. The restaurant has several branches. The original one stands on the Circus Avenue, beside the flyover, at a point where it just rises above one's head. The busiest one stands proudly at the Five-Points Park Circus crossing, with an open kitchen grilling kababs right in front of you. However, the most plush and spacious one is undoubtedly the one near the food capital of Calcutta, Park Street, only a few steps down Muzaffar Ahmad Street.


Now Arsalan Kabab comes in both chicken and mutton. Six pieces of smoked meat is served wrapped in delicate and fragrant cheese. I  have always liked the mutton one better. I feel that the tenderness of Arsalan's mutton goes better with the softness of the texture and fragrance of the cheese. However, due to some strange reason, the Circus Avenue one doesn't serve this. So if you are looking specifically for Mutton Arsalan Kabab, be careful about the branch you pick.


The kabab is heaven. A cliche, may be, but once you have it, you will know, that there is not another word that can describe it. As soon as you put it into your mouth, the fragrance of the cheese combines with the smoked meat and  practically melts into your mouth. Mmmm...there can't be any more words. Not only because it will be utterly futile to describe the experience any further in dry words, but also because I am salivating!