RobbieS
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Would love to have a few of these.... 
Personally, I don't think there's any comparison between our street foods and the western fast food chains. I'd go for a Khan Chacha's kebab roll over a McChicken any day.Those who frequent Delhi's Khan Market would agree with me.
DAWN.COM | Culture | Food for thought
Ive always been a roadside attraction. You dont necessarily need to have bills of cash in your designer jeans to get a piece of me. You dont need to belong to a particular socio-economic class either and if someone says you do they are lying. Just watch, theyll be at the stall when their stomachs growl. I dont offer a fancy air-conditioned seating arrangement, nor do I want you to have an unforgettable experience when you visit. Im going to offer you exactly what you came for: a quick bite in an extremely polluted, over-crowded and noisy environment. And itll be well-worth the Rs. 20 you pay in return.
Thats what a bun-kebab would say to you if it could talk. Karachi has become a city of over 18 million people, growing at a rate of five per cent a year, offering the latest culinary attractions from the western world and undermining the indigenous treats, such as the bun-kebab. But like most aspects of the city, this impression too is a façade.
The glitz and glamour of new shops and restaurant cant mask the poverty peeping out of every corner; shiny cars arent enough to hide the over-crowded, broken-down buses; and the almost-sturdy looking bridges cant hide the dozens of slums in the city. For all its claims of being a world-class city, advanced, metropolitan, and comparable to Dubai, Karachi remains where it was a couple of decades ago. It may even be worse off.
But this is not meant to be a critique of this city of candle lights. This is simply a reminder that the more things change, the more they stay the same. And while the city modernises at an astonishing pace, constants remain. And nothing defines Karachis consistency more than the bun-kebabs that continue to indicate the citys true identity.
Roadside vendors littered the city for a long time before Tandoori Hut and Pizza Hut made it to Boat Basin. These tiny carts dotted the pavements of Tariq Road long before there were food courts in the shopping centres. Bun-kebabs once harmoniously shared their road-side turf with the likes of gola-gandas, bhel-puri and biryani.
But as restaurants and cafes sprouted in different localities, vendors suddenly underwent an inferiority complex. The makers and sellers of local delicacies such as nihari and haleem, packed up their metal pots, moved into fancy indoor shops, and added an Inn to their names. The various puris were affected too, and so eventually they went to into semi-indoor shops such as Nimco, and from there, moved on to create places such as Gazebo and Chatkharay which were considered more hygienic. Why? Probably because their food was prepared under a roof and cost triple the amount charged by street-vendors.
Why hasnt the burger affected me, you ask? Why should it? Others may be born, but your identity remains yours. Thats what the Tipu Bun-Kebab brothers of Karachi would tell you too. If you are craving a burger, a bun-kebab cant be a substitute. And if you are hungry for a bun-kebab, even a mouth-watering burger with melted cheese and a deep-fried patty cant lure you away from me.
Over the years, the bun-kebab has remained a staple, even as the city around it has succumbed to the forces of globalisation. Mr. Burger, which was established on Tariq Road in the 1980s, was considered as respectable an eatery as a restaurant in a five-star hotel. KFC and McDonalds also entered Pakistan in the late 1990s, as part of a wave of foreign investment in the country. But Karachis bun-kebab vendors proudly claim that their business wasnt affected much by the advent of these international franchises.
Apparently, a slice of thick cheddar cheese on a grilled patty cant compete with the taste of a fried egg on a mysterious kebab patty. Vendors across the city insist that both of these can not be compared to the other as they offer completely different tastes. One comes with crisp green lettuce, tomatoes, cheese and French fries on the side, while the other comes with a mush of cabbage and onions along with spicy ketchup or watery chatni. Angrezi taste hai woh, volunteers one bun-kebab vendor, dismissing any comparison between his speciality and the western import, the burger.
The differing tastes of the bun-kebab and burger, and their appeal for different palates, became an apt metaphor for heightening class distinctions in Karachi. In the 1980s, when Karachiites began moving towards the posh residential areas of Defence and Clifton and attending elite English-medium schools, they were labelled as burgers.
Since bun-kebabs were the local favourite and burgers the new thing from the West, it seemed natural to label Karachis elite class as burger-log. The burger-log, not too happy with their new label, in turn resorted to labelling those from different socio-economic classes with other disparaging terms. Perhaps calling this group bun-kebab wouldnt have had the same impact as burger (pronounced with a prominent rolling of the rs). Either way, this distinction was created on a basis of vast characteristics ranging from eating habits, spoken language and social activities.
At my thela, there is no distinction between different types of Karachiites. Bankers swing by after work, loosen their ties and devour me in four bites. Then there are those who dont want to make the effort of getting off their cars, so they have me delivered right to their windows. And then, of course, the truck drivers stop by and yell out orders for several of my kind. Even those rich kids from Defence, who supposedly prefer burgers, come by to order diet colas and expensive Marlboros and, almost as an afterthought, add me on the list too.
There was a time when I was new in town, and could only be had outside Karachis numerous cinemas for a few rupees. Spreading over to Nursery Market and Burns Road in the late 1980s, growing with the city that Ive called home, my popularity soared further. Today, I can be found throughout this city, being sold for five times my original amount, tasty as ever. Well-established vendors sell about 800 to 1000 bun-kebabs in a single day! Weve evolved, no doubt. Karachis newest cinema, an expensive multiplex in Defence, serves nachos instead of bun-kebabs. But thats fine because those who still want me will always know where to find me.
Personally, I don't think there's any comparison between our street foods and the western fast food chains. I'd go for a Khan Chacha's kebab roll over a McChicken any day.Those who frequent Delhi's Khan Market would agree with me.
DAWN.COM | Culture | Food for thought
Ive always been a roadside attraction. You dont necessarily need to have bills of cash in your designer jeans to get a piece of me. You dont need to belong to a particular socio-economic class either and if someone says you do they are lying. Just watch, theyll be at the stall when their stomachs growl. I dont offer a fancy air-conditioned seating arrangement, nor do I want you to have an unforgettable experience when you visit. Im going to offer you exactly what you came for: a quick bite in an extremely polluted, over-crowded and noisy environment. And itll be well-worth the Rs. 20 you pay in return.
Thats what a bun-kebab would say to you if it could talk. Karachi has become a city of over 18 million people, growing at a rate of five per cent a year, offering the latest culinary attractions from the western world and undermining the indigenous treats, such as the bun-kebab. But like most aspects of the city, this impression too is a façade.
The glitz and glamour of new shops and restaurant cant mask the poverty peeping out of every corner; shiny cars arent enough to hide the over-crowded, broken-down buses; and the almost-sturdy looking bridges cant hide the dozens of slums in the city. For all its claims of being a world-class city, advanced, metropolitan, and comparable to Dubai, Karachi remains where it was a couple of decades ago. It may even be worse off.
But this is not meant to be a critique of this city of candle lights. This is simply a reminder that the more things change, the more they stay the same. And while the city modernises at an astonishing pace, constants remain. And nothing defines Karachis consistency more than the bun-kebabs that continue to indicate the citys true identity.
Roadside vendors littered the city for a long time before Tandoori Hut and Pizza Hut made it to Boat Basin. These tiny carts dotted the pavements of Tariq Road long before there were food courts in the shopping centres. Bun-kebabs once harmoniously shared their road-side turf with the likes of gola-gandas, bhel-puri and biryani.
But as restaurants and cafes sprouted in different localities, vendors suddenly underwent an inferiority complex. The makers and sellers of local delicacies such as nihari and haleem, packed up their metal pots, moved into fancy indoor shops, and added an Inn to their names. The various puris were affected too, and so eventually they went to into semi-indoor shops such as Nimco, and from there, moved on to create places such as Gazebo and Chatkharay which were considered more hygienic. Why? Probably because their food was prepared under a roof and cost triple the amount charged by street-vendors.
Why hasnt the burger affected me, you ask? Why should it? Others may be born, but your identity remains yours. Thats what the Tipu Bun-Kebab brothers of Karachi would tell you too. If you are craving a burger, a bun-kebab cant be a substitute. And if you are hungry for a bun-kebab, even a mouth-watering burger with melted cheese and a deep-fried patty cant lure you away from me.
Over the years, the bun-kebab has remained a staple, even as the city around it has succumbed to the forces of globalisation. Mr. Burger, which was established on Tariq Road in the 1980s, was considered as respectable an eatery as a restaurant in a five-star hotel. KFC and McDonalds also entered Pakistan in the late 1990s, as part of a wave of foreign investment in the country. But Karachis bun-kebab vendors proudly claim that their business wasnt affected much by the advent of these international franchises.
Apparently, a slice of thick cheddar cheese on a grilled patty cant compete with the taste of a fried egg on a mysterious kebab patty. Vendors across the city insist that both of these can not be compared to the other as they offer completely different tastes. One comes with crisp green lettuce, tomatoes, cheese and French fries on the side, while the other comes with a mush of cabbage and onions along with spicy ketchup or watery chatni. Angrezi taste hai woh, volunteers one bun-kebab vendor, dismissing any comparison between his speciality and the western import, the burger.
The differing tastes of the bun-kebab and burger, and their appeal for different palates, became an apt metaphor for heightening class distinctions in Karachi. In the 1980s, when Karachiites began moving towards the posh residential areas of Defence and Clifton and attending elite English-medium schools, they were labelled as burgers.
Since bun-kebabs were the local favourite and burgers the new thing from the West, it seemed natural to label Karachis elite class as burger-log. The burger-log, not too happy with their new label, in turn resorted to labelling those from different socio-economic classes with other disparaging terms. Perhaps calling this group bun-kebab wouldnt have had the same impact as burger (pronounced with a prominent rolling of the rs). Either way, this distinction was created on a basis of vast characteristics ranging from eating habits, spoken language and social activities.
At my thela, there is no distinction between different types of Karachiites. Bankers swing by after work, loosen their ties and devour me in four bites. Then there are those who dont want to make the effort of getting off their cars, so they have me delivered right to their windows. And then, of course, the truck drivers stop by and yell out orders for several of my kind. Even those rich kids from Defence, who supposedly prefer burgers, come by to order diet colas and expensive Marlboros and, almost as an afterthought, add me on the list too.
There was a time when I was new in town, and could only be had outside Karachis numerous cinemas for a few rupees. Spreading over to Nursery Market and Burns Road in the late 1980s, growing with the city that Ive called home, my popularity soared further. Today, I can be found throughout this city, being sold for five times my original amount, tasty as ever. Well-established vendors sell about 800 to 1000 bun-kebabs in a single day! Weve evolved, no doubt. Karachis newest cinema, an expensive multiplex in Defence, serves nachos instead of bun-kebabs. But thats fine because those who still want me will always know where to find me.
