ghazi52
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My quest for the best biryani in Karachi.
NOMAN ANSARI
Biryani is magical, containing the power to unite grumpy, hungry Pakistanis. So I set off to find the tastiest in town.
If there is one thing Pakistanis can agree on (perhaps), it is that they can hardly agree on anything.
But even in an opinionated nation of various religions, ethnicities, and social classes, where evening news programs quickly devolve into shouting matches between people who disagree on politics, sport, music, faith, world events, and the legitimacy of the 1969 moon landing, few things are capable of uniting people like biryani.
Like many Pakistanis, my love affair with the aromatic yellow spicy rice dish began at a young age in my mother’s kitchen.
Growing up in the scorching hot Middle East at a school where the Arab teachers believed in corporal punishment and the stronger students bullied the weaker ones (essentially it was the Guantanamo Bay of schools), nothing mended the soul like coming home to the delightfully intoxicating smell of home cooked Sindhi biryani.
The prickly flavour of spice coupled with the sporadic tastes of sweet plum made the dish feel like a surprise party in the mouth.
Yes, whether we celebrate life, or mourn the passing of a loved one, we invariably do so while chowing down biryani.
Having had the good fortune of travelling to Canada for my education, like any good biryani connoisseur, I made sure I tasted every type ofbiryani whenever I came across an Indian, Sri Lankan, or Bangladeshi restaurant.
The variation in the dishes—depending on the corner of South Asia they originated from was incredibly vast - yet some common themes such as yellowish coloring, spiciness, and general flavor, remained.
Admittedly, perhaps because I had been raised on them, none were as near and dear to my heart as our own biryanis.
This is a nation that loves the dish.
In my twelve years in Pakistan I’ve seen biryani served at birthdays,dholkis, mehndis, weddings, grand openings, anniversaries, graduations, and even funerals. Yes, whether we celebrate life, or mourn the passing of a loved one, we invariably do so while chowing down biryani.
Our love for the food certainly knows no bounds: I’ve witnessed a labourer feeding his poor donkey a plate of left over biryani (hopefully it was followed by some Imodium).
And an actual conversation I witnessed at a wedding recently went something like this:
Guest: “So, what kind of biryani will be served tonight? Sindhi, Hyderabadi, Kashmiri…?”
Groom’s father: “We decided to do something different and servepulao instead.”
Guest (disappointed): “What?”
Full disclosure: the guest was actually me.
My quest for the king of Karachi biryanis began a few month ago when incidentally, I was fifteen pounds lighter. The extra inches around the waist may or may not have something to do with the almost daily consumption of biryani, though I refuse to blame the heavenly meal. (My arteries will disagree, however).
...
My quest for the best biryani in Karachi.
NOMAN ANSARI
Biryani is magical, containing the power to unite grumpy, hungry Pakistanis. So I set off to find the tastiest in town.
If there is one thing Pakistanis can agree on (perhaps), it is that they can hardly agree on anything.
But even in an opinionated nation of various religions, ethnicities, and social classes, where evening news programs quickly devolve into shouting matches between people who disagree on politics, sport, music, faith, world events, and the legitimacy of the 1969 moon landing, few things are capable of uniting people like biryani.
Like many Pakistanis, my love affair with the aromatic yellow spicy rice dish began at a young age in my mother’s kitchen.
Growing up in the scorching hot Middle East at a school where the Arab teachers believed in corporal punishment and the stronger students bullied the weaker ones (essentially it was the Guantanamo Bay of schools), nothing mended the soul like coming home to the delightfully intoxicating smell of home cooked Sindhi biryani.
The prickly flavour of spice coupled with the sporadic tastes of sweet plum made the dish feel like a surprise party in the mouth.
Yes, whether we celebrate life, or mourn the passing of a loved one, we invariably do so while chowing down biryani.
Having had the good fortune of travelling to Canada for my education, like any good biryani connoisseur, I made sure I tasted every type ofbiryani whenever I came across an Indian, Sri Lankan, or Bangladeshi restaurant.
The variation in the dishes—depending on the corner of South Asia they originated from was incredibly vast - yet some common themes such as yellowish coloring, spiciness, and general flavor, remained.
Admittedly, perhaps because I had been raised on them, none were as near and dear to my heart as our own biryanis.
This is a nation that loves the dish.
In my twelve years in Pakistan I’ve seen biryani served at birthdays,dholkis, mehndis, weddings, grand openings, anniversaries, graduations, and even funerals. Yes, whether we celebrate life, or mourn the passing of a loved one, we invariably do so while chowing down biryani.
Our love for the food certainly knows no bounds: I’ve witnessed a labourer feeding his poor donkey a plate of left over biryani (hopefully it was followed by some Imodium).
And an actual conversation I witnessed at a wedding recently went something like this:
Guest: “So, what kind of biryani will be served tonight? Sindhi, Hyderabadi, Kashmiri…?”
Groom’s father: “We decided to do something different and servepulao instead.”
Guest (disappointed): “What?”
Full disclosure: the guest was actually me.
My quest for the king of Karachi biryanis began a few month ago when incidentally, I was fifteen pounds lighter. The extra inches around the waist may or may not have something to do with the almost daily consumption of biryani, though I refuse to blame the heavenly meal. (My arteries will disagree, however).
...