Nizamuddin 06: Nahari at Moniskda

[NB: This is part of an ongoing series on the Nizamuddin locality of New Delhi. For a brief background, please read the prefatory note.]

Nahari seems to be a recurring theme in this blog, almost a leitmotif. I confess I just love the stuff. Have never taken to Siri and Paya. Somehow, the very idea of head meat or trotters congealing in the cold puts me off. But a steaming bowl of Nahari gives me an almost ambrosial kick on foggy winter mornings. Or even on hot, humid July evenings, it turned out.

I had talked of Moradabadi Biryani in an earlier write-up. In this post, I continue from there. We had just come out of the Biryani shop somewhat undecided. The stuff we bought looked rather dry; the accompanying chutney didn't seem too appetising either. All of us present agreed the Biryani needed some sort of gravy to go with it.

Korma was vetoed outright. I looked for a Haleem-vendor. All I could find was a character selling repulsive yellow gunk from an aluminium Handi. I recalled having tried the same guy's stuff once, many years ago; it was so horrible I had to throw it away after a couple of mouthfuls. So that left Nahari, surely a strange combination with Biryani.

I've had Nahari in Nizamuddin before on several occasions. They have ranged from the OK to the downright insipid. But never yet had I come across anything even close to the awe-inspiring heights of Haji Noora's stuff. This time, I decided to ask around. People uninamously recommended Moniskda Hotel. Even Hanif Qureshi Sa'ab of Ghalib did, albeit after a long, tortuous interrogation why I was insane enough to want Nahari at this hour and in this weather.

Moniskda is located near the Mathura Road entrance to Basti Nizamuddin. After entering, one needs to take a left that goes past Zaeqa Hotel, once a favourite of mine. Past Zaeqa, one comes across a bunch of small eateries, including a pretty indifferent Wazwan shop. Moniskda is located somewhere there; one needs to ask around a bit. Business is usually transacted in the common open area fronting these shops. That's where most tables, chairs, cashiers' desks and all are located.

In the case of Moniskda, much of the foodstuff prepared beforehand was also kept out there; great saucepans mounted on a wooden platform. They sell a wide variety of curries - trotter, brain, kidney, liver, Ishtoo, Alu Gosht and Gobhi Gosht, made from both goat and buffalo. Nahari, however, is exclusively buffalo.

I asked for two plates of Nahari, and was charged Rs. 48. Twenty-four chips a plate did seem excessive, even with the addition of Ghee ka Tadka. Even the superlative Nahari from Haji Noora's cost only fifteen with Ghee. On the other hand, the helpings were substantial.

So how was the stuff? Haji Noora still reigns supreme, no two ways to it. That said, this stuff was pretty good. By far the best Nahari I've sourced from Nizamuddin. The meat was tender, juicy, and flaked easily. Slow-cooking precluded the need for marination. It was thus free of vinegary overtones.

The gravy was full-bodied, richly flavoured, and neither oily, nor greasy, nor excessively spicy. Most important, it was permeated with the taste of the meat. I could also detect clear notes of fennel, fenugreek, cumin, and maybe a touch of cilantro in the Masala used. It also had a sweetish aftertaste. (Did they add a touch of sugar to it?) Incidentally, it formed a surprisingly cohesive combination with the Biryani.

So why do I still insist on the superiority of Haji Noora? Perhaps the explanation lies in that mysterious, elusive quality called 'depth'. It is impossible to render this in words. Let's just say this. The Nahari at Moniskda was competent in every respect - good meat, rich gravy, the right spices, proper stewing time, and so on. But the final outcome amounted to little more than the sum of all these factors put together.

In the case of Haji Noora, on the other hand, the whole was vastly and qualitative superior to the sum of its parts. How so, I have no idea. But I have every belief that even a cursory sampling of the two Naharis will establish the difference between them. Beyond this, I cannot say more.

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Nizamuddin 05: Moradabadi Biryani

[NB: This is part of an ongoing series on the Nizamuddin locality of New Delhi. For a brief background, please read the prefatory note.]

Many foodies I know swear by the cuisine of Rampur-Moradabad. They insist it is one of the most refined India has ever produced, and feel it has been unjustly overshadowed by the more glamorous Lucknow. I'd tried to organise several trip to the region, with zilch success. The only time in recent years I actually passed through the place (en route to Nainital), I was in strict vegetarian company. Then years later I spotted this Moradabadi Biryani shop in Nizamuddin. Even then I couldn't immediately try it out. The first time I came across it I was with a dedicated kabab-freak, and the second time the shop was closed.

Last month I finally got my chance. Some family friends had come over from Bangladesh to attend the Urs at Ajmer Sharif. As per custom they were also required to pay obesiance at Hazrat Nizamuddin's Dargah too. I decided to accompany them. The experience was, ahem, interesting. We reached there just in time for Namaz. Magically, the entire crowd veered westwards. Everyone except yours truly, who was standing there looking thoroughly bewildered. This elderly bearded gentleman glared: 'Namaz nahin padhni kya?' I just about managed to shake my head. He took about half a second to digest this astounding statement, and then said, 'OK, you stand to a side.' The rest of the process went off just fine.

Obesiance done, we decided to pack some food for home. I suggested Moradabadi Biryani, and they readily agreed. I had also wanted to try their Shab Degh, but that was not available. So we packed two plates of Biryani, along with some Nahari from Moniskda Hotel, and Mutton Tikka from Ghalib.

Frankly, the Biryani was a disappointment. For 25 Rupees a plate, it had lots of meat, and mutton at that. Fairly soft the meat was, but not exactly rich in aroma. More important, it did not impart any flavour to the rice, which remained bland apart from the occasional whiff of spices.

Moradabadi Biryani is eaten not with Raita, but with a kind of thin, sweetish Chutney. I could detect tomato, coriander, sugar, cucumber and chili powder in it. Adding it to the Biryani did enhance taste levels, but not by much. All in all, therefore, a fairly mediocre concoction, at least the stuff this shop churned out. Maybe it was a bad day for them; after all the Urs crowd was pretty dense that day. I still harbour the dream of going to Rampur to try out the real McCoy.

In view of the disappointing fare, though, I shall refrain from giving directions. At least, till such time I go back there and come out satisfied.

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Nizamuddin 04: Ghalib Kabab Corner

[NB: This is part of an ongoing series on the Nizamuddin locality of New Delhi. For a brief background, please read the prefatory note.]

I get irritated when people ask me why I don't use Google Maps or other online guides to mark out featured eateries. I did try out Google Maps some time ago, when writing the 'Makkhan Wali Chai' post. It turned out simply far too limited in its detailing. And when discussing obscure eateries even local denizens might not know about, exactitude in directions is surely vital. I am naturally not against 'bells and whistles' per se, but unless they add meaningfully to the blog, I see no reason to include them and unnecessarily clutter things up.

Take Nizamuddin. For me, those wonderful narrow, smoky, twisting, labyrinthine alleys quivering with life are among the most evocative aspects of the locality. And for newcomers, a source of confusion more than anything else. Google Maps chooses to depict it as a barren grey-brown lump with not even a single lane marked out. To what end, I wonder. Useless as a direction-finder and, for good measure, callous to the beauty of the place as well. Thanks for nothing, mate!

The 'satellite' view gives a better idea of how vibrant Nizamuddin is. (Unfortunately, it does not support zooming at the highest level, and is packed with too many distracting details. Hence it too is of little use as a guide.) Indeed, very few localities in the city can match it in this regard. I know; I've been a Nizamuddin regular for upwards of 22 years.

Ghalib Kabab Corner is where it all started. I remember my father taking mother and self there when I was eight. Those days, we could take our '62-vintage Fiat 1100 inside the alleys right up to the shop, park, eat, and have enough space to turn the car around. On that occasion, we propped our plates of Tikka and Seekh Kabab right on the bonnet.

This was necessary; the shop was too dingy and cramped for comfort. It was also a rather jerry-rigged affair. Crude benches, faded rexine flooring and, usual for most shops in the vicinity, saucepans of food placed on platforms of sunbaked earth. An irascible man in kurta-pyjama and a greying stubble sat behind the saucepans and kept barking orders. We ate to our hearts' content for six Rupees, even in those days an absurdly low figure. I can still recall my father chuckling.

Today, the place has revamped itself completely. Spotlessly clean, brightly lit, it even exudes a feeling of airiness. Narrow, rather uncomfortable benches flank mica-topped tables. The walls are lined with coloured ceramic tiles. Pictures of Mecca share wall space with framed testimonials certifying they had supplied food for Iftar parties at some of Delhi's poshest hotels(!). The old man, by name Haneef Qureshi, is still going strong, as dour as ever. (Except now and then he unbends slightly to welcome a regular, for example - heh heh - yours truly.)

One thing that has not changed is the reasonableness of the prices. Mutton Seekh Kababs and Tikkas still sell for thirty-six Rupees a plate, while their buff counterparts sell for sixteen. One word of caution, though. The buff Tikka is made not of meat as we know it, but of heart muscle. This Qureshi Sahab himself told me one day. It should have grossed me out, but did not. I promptly ordered a plate.

The stuff was far softer and juicier than the Tikkas other shops generate. In other respects it was hardly different in taste from regular meat. As a matter of fact, it was more succulent, juicier, and far richer in flavour than most buff Kababs I have eaten.

Kababs (in which class I also include Tikkas) are the specialties of the house. I don't know what they use for marinating the meat, but the end products have none of that overpowering vinegary aftertaste common to Kababs even from significantly higher-priced outlets. At the same time, the meat comes out much more tender than usual.

Ghalib's output does not aspire to the melt-in-the-mouth sophistication of Kakori Kababs. Short of that, they rank among the most wonderful you can get get in the town. They are surprisingly tender, and not the slightest bit chewy. Ghalib's makes them the traditional way, with skewers mounted on braziers. Drops of fat melting from the meat and dropping onto the coals impart a natural smokiness to the Kababs. (Punjabi cooks are wont to shove 'em skewers into tandoors, which prevents this, and so makes the Kababs more insipid.)

Spice levels are comparably low, though if you want the cook will happily smother it in red-pepper powder. This way, the natural flavour of the meat comes through nicely. The Kababs are thus juicy, never dry. The mutton tikkas are made from regular goat-meat (no heart-stuff). They may reek of vinegar at times, but I've had this happen to me only rarely.

In recent times, the shop has tried to expand its horizons, with mixed results, Their mutton Korma's pretty good, though oily. The Biryani's average, rather dry. Somehow the meat juices don't permeate through the rice. The only time I bought chicken Tikka I was sorely disappointed. The same vinegar problem, magnified tenfold due to the chicken's delicate natural flavour. Indeed, the vinegar smothers out the taste of the meat completely. These days, Ghalib's also sells what it calls 'Tandoori Chicken'. Fortunately, this is nothing but chicken legs grilled on braziers. I've never tried it, but people who have say it's pretty good.

Never ever try their Shami Kababs. They are doughy, bland, and about twice the thickness of regular Shamis; in dimensions they resemble ice-hockey pucks more than anything else. Chomping through the chickpea paste, one can detect the occasional whiff of meat, but only just. My hunch says they've been outsourced from McDonalds.

Possibly the Firni is also outsourced, but it sure doesn't disappoint. Light, not too sweet, and very easy on the palate, it makes for a wonderful end to a heavy, meaty meal. And at ten Rupees a good-sized serving, it also represents excellent value for money.

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Nizamuddin 03: Political Economy - III

[NB: This is part of an ongoing series on the Nizamuddin locality of New Delhi. For a brief background, please read the prefatory note.]

[Continued from Part II]

Post-Ghiyasuddin, such threats receded into the past. Mohammad bin Tughlaq recognised Nizamuddin as a spiritual guide. After the death of the seer, subsequent rulers right up to the time of Bahadur Shah Zafar made it a practice to pay homage at his shrine. Nizamuddin, the locality, continued to prosper in other ways too. It established itself as a centre of piety, culture, learning and the arts. Many chose to be buried in the vicinity, notably emperor Humayun; Abdur Rahim Khan-e-Khanan, the multifaceted genius - general, poet, astrologer, translator and food connoisseur; Ghalib, possibly the greatest Urdu poet ever; and Jahan Ara, the favourite daughter of emperor Shah Jahan.

It became one of the most important pilgrimage centres of the country. For one, it started attracting the devout on its own standing. Further, a tradition was established that pilgrims attending the Urs of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti of Ajmer must also pay homage to the shrine of Nizamuddin Aulia.

A steady flow of pilgrims ensued over the centuries. Eight hundred years of political stability make for ideal conditions in which to incubate local commerce. Inevitably, an industry developed to care of pilgrims' needs. Nizamuddin gained, and sustains even now, a reputation for hotels, travel agencies, souvenir shops and, most important, food outlets!

And as with all pilgrim centres, most of these cater to the lower end of the market. Especially the eateries. Karim's forms possibly the sole exception, and endeavours to provide a fine dining experience in the true sense of the term.

Today, Nizamuddin offers you easily some of the best food deals in the city. Years and years' worth of competition has kept prices low and quality high. I have seen very few shops or kiosks lacking for customers. High turnovers usually means only fresh food is sold. (I'm not sure, but I think leftovers are usually turned over to the Dargah to feed the poor.) Certainly, in the twenty-odd years I've frequented the place, I don't recall even once getting an upset stomach from Nizamuddin food.

Some joints have jazzed themselves up to an extent. They feature coloured ceramic tiles on the walls; prices marginally raised (but still laughably low by Delhi standards) ; and soft-drink coolers strewn in the background. Others resist such trends. These range from the spartan-but-clean to the downright dingy. A few don't even run to concrete structures. They make do with a few rickety benches in thatched courtyards, and large steaming saucepans mounted on raised earthen platforms.

Whatever be the decor, ambience, or price range, one thing is for certain. Nizamuddin gives you an opportunity very few other places in the sub-continent can provide, the chance to bite into eight hundred years of unbroken tradition.

[Concluded]

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Nizamuddin 02: Political Economy - II

[NB: This is part of an ongoing series on the Nizamuddin locality of New Delhi. For a brief background, please read the prefatory note.]

[Continued from Part I]

Unrest and discontinuity thus characterise the history of the Walled City. In a span of 273 years from 1638 to 1911, it witnessed the decline of the Mughal empire from the glorious days of Shah Jahan and Aurangzeb; the weak later Mughals; internecine fights and succession squabbles; sackings by Nadir Shah and Ahmed Shah Abdali; gradual intrusion by the East India Company; the 1857 Revolt and its bloody aftermath; being sidelined; and finally, reduction to playing second fiddle to New Delhi.

In contrast, Nizamuddin's existence of over eight hundred years has been relatively placid. Owing largely to the Dargah of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya, it has come to acquire considerable spiritual significance over the centuries. This has also served to protect it, especially from invaders and other plunderers.

Historians note that most emperors of Delhi actively sought the patronage of Sufi saints. The holy men guided them in matters both religious and temporal, and interceded on their behalf for divine beneficence. As a result, the monarchs invested the saints and their monasteries with a considerable degree of protection.

Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia's turbulent relationships with reigning monarchs constitutes an exception to this. Nizamuddin lived through one of Delhi's most unstable times. His life spanned no less than three major imperial lineages, namely the so-called Mamluk dynasty, the Khiljis and the Tughlaqs.

Parricides and fratricides were the order of the day. Loyalties changed frequently and viciously. And the enormous influence wielded by the mystic only added to the ruler's insecurities. To add to this, Nizamuddin remained steadfast to his principles throughout his life. He treated all human beings as equal, irrespective of caste, creed or birth. Moreover, he refused to kowtow to any temporal ruler.

Alauddin Khilji was convinced Nizamuddin intended to seize power at the first opportunity. He tried to test Nizamuddin, who rebuffed him asking him not to waste his (Nizamuddin's) time on temporal matters. Alauddin's successor Qutubuddin Mubarak Shah repeatedly asked Nizamuddin to pay obeisance at his court. Nizamuddin refused each time. When things became particularly ominous, the seer is supposed to have said:

The king will not be victorious over me for I have had a certain dream. I saw that an animal with horns was attacking me. Upon it coming closer, I took hold of its horns and threw the animal on the earth in such a way that it was killed.

That very night, Mubarak Shah was killed by his catamite Khusro Khan.

Relations with Sultan Ghiyasuddin Tughlaq were especially discordant. According to one account, the Sultan was wont to make a show of donating money to Sufi orders; the recipients were expected to return the amount in full later. Nizamuddin instead distributed the money amongst the poor, as was his practice.

Another version has it that when the emperor began to build his capital Tughlaqabad, he pressganged all available workers to work on the site, and forbade them from working anywhere else. At that time, Nizamuddin was getting a Baoli built, and refused to stop work.

Some even say the workers so loved and respected Nizamuddin that they volunteered to work at night by the light of oil lamps. In response, Tughlaq banned the sale of oil. Nizamuddin ordered water from the well be poured into the lamps; miraculously, this fuelled the lamps and kept them lit. By then, the emperor's behaviour had infuriated the seer enough to condemn the new capital city to barrenness:

Ya rahe usar, ya base Gujjar
(May it be deserted, or become a dwelling for Gujjars)

[NB: At the time of Nizamuddin Auliya, and to an extent even today, the term 'Gujjar' denoted a community of semi-nomadic herdsmen]

The Sultan was at that time fighting a campaign in Bengal. He sent word he would deal with the 'turbulent priest' as soon as he returned to Delhi. To which Nizamuddin riposted, 'Hunuz, Dilli duur ast (Delhi is yet far away).'

[Interestingly, the same momentous phrase was uttered on another historic occasion. In 1739, when the plunderer Nadir Shah was poised outside Delhi, the sybarite emperor Mohammad Shah 'Rangile' responded to his generals' warnings with an identical 'Dilli duur ast'. Whereas the seer's prophecy paved the way for abiding peace, the emperor's complacency led to one of the most horrific carnages of all times.]

Nizamuddin's predictions proved remarkably accurate. On the emperor's return from Bengal in 1324, his son Mohammad bin Tughlaq organised a grand parade just outside Delhi to welcome him. There, a canopy mysteriously collapsed and killed him; historians credit this to a conspiracy allegedly hatched by the son. In 1327, three years after ascending to the throne, the parricide emperor shifted the administration to his own capital, Jahanpanah. Tughlaqabad was reduced to a ghost town.

[Continued in Part III]

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Nizamuddin 01: Political Economy - I

[NB: This is part of an ongoing series on the Nizamuddin locality of New Delhi. For a brief background, please read the prefatory note.]

It started with a joke, the substance of this post. I was having a big argument with Nasir, a friend and former colleague. Like all denizens of the Walled City, he was incapable of contemplating anything beyond Jama Masjid as a source of Kababs. So Nasir was rattling on and on as usual about Matia Mahal Kababiyas. After a point I felt compelled to interject and advance, tongue firmly in cheek, an argument rooted in history and political economy to demonstrate the superiority of Nizamuddin kababs. Nasir didn't like it one bit!

Later on it occurred to me, this might be an interesting idea after all. Lots of studies have been conducted on the sociology of food, how societal and anthropological factors determined what people ate. So the question what people sold as food, and how socio-economic considerations influenced it, could make for a pretty interesting area of investigation.

Old Delhi or the Walled City became the capital of India in 1638. From then on, it gained importance as a political and commercial centre and, thanks mainly to its splendid mosques like the Jama Masjid, as a religious centre as well.

But did all this boost the food business? Difficult to say. Satish Jacob mentions: 'The tea houses in the walled city were frequented by intellectuals, poets, royal courtiers and scholars who would spend hours discussing the topics of the day.' Ghantewala, the legendary confectioner's, also dates back to that era.

Against this must be set the fact that fine dining as we know it didn't exist as a concept then. Presumably, most eating houses catered to travellers, working men, artisans, and others to whom food purchased from outside comprised a necessity, not a luxury. The city elite took enormous pride in their private chefs, and would rather die than purchase food from outside.

As mentioned earlier, even Ghantewala was not an eatery in the proper sense, merely a sweets shop. Moreover, it was established in 1790, when the empire was at its steepest phase of decline. Legend has it that Shah Alam II himself patronised Ghantewala. To my mind, this is is as telling a commentary on the emperor's poverty as on the sweetmaker's excellence. By then the empire had dwindled literally to the level of a standing joke:

Az Dilli ta Palam/ Badshah Shah Alam
(loose translation: 'From Delhi to Palam/ Reigns Shah Alam')

[NB: For those not in the know, Palam is a hamlet on the outskirts of Delhi, and presently home to the eponymous airport that services the metropolis.]

Delhi's misfortunes reached their lowest ebb in the years immediately following the 1857 revolt, when the capital shifted to Calcutta. By this time, the city had been reduced to a provincial town.

It began to regain some of its glory in the following decades. First it was made the capital of the Punjab province. Then in 1911, the capital of India shifted back to Delhi. A new city adjoining Old Delhi was established in 1930. The Walled City continues to exist as an enclave of what is known as the National Capital Region (NCR). It remains an important commercial centre in its own right.

These upheavals in the city's political economy find a startling resonance in the food business. The history of Karim's, without doubt the best known eatery in the Walled City, is a case in point. The progenitors of its founder, Haji Karimuddin, were cooks in the Mughal emperors' palaces. During the 1857 revolt, they remained loyal to the emperor. Once peace was restored, they were forced to run away from Delhi and seek shelter in outlying towns, often in disguise.

In 1911, Karimuddin moved back to Delhi. He decided to cash in on the business opportunity the Durbar generated, and opened a Dhaba to cater to visitors. The bill of fare was limited to Dal, Alu Gosht, and Rumali Roti. Its humble beginnings notwithstanding, the venture proved so successful that in 1913 he re-cast it on a firmer footing. That's how Karim's Hotel was born.

[Continued in Part II]

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Nizamuddin 00: Prefatory Note

Surprising how self-styled custodians of Delhi's cultural heritage tend to ignore the uniqueness of Nizamuddin. At best, they harness it into a backdrop for Sufi Music Festivals. Or club it with Tughlaqabad, the Old Fort and the Qutub Minar as remnants of the city's Glorious Past.

No doubt, Nizamuddin's contribution to our culture is immense. A staggering proportion of the finest philosophy, literature, polemics and music ever produced in our country has its roots here. But it is much, much more than that.

In a city pockmarked by violent upheavals and discontinuities, Nizamuddin stands out for its uninterrupted, unbroken eight hundred years of existence. It comprises Delhi's last living link with its past, right upto the Khilji era. It embodies a living culture, a living spiritual tradition, where the past merges seamlessly with the present. And this is the point those custodians miss.

Any living entity must grow organically, or die. Other parts of the city could not manage organic growth. So they sprang up, and then died. A recurring feature of Delhi's history involves a strange, savage violence perpetrated by the present on its own mute past. Encroachments in Tughlaqabad, fountains near Darya Khan's tomb, modifications to Lutyens' bungalows, we seem congenitally incapable of coexisting with what we once were.

Nizamuddin, on the other hand, has evolved organically over the years. It has made its peace with its past. The old and the new coexist, both flourish in equal measure. The Nizamuddin Dargah neighbours the present-day shrine to Hazrat Inayat Khan. Poets Amir Khusro, Rahim and Ghalib, born in the 13th, 16th and 18th Centuries respectively, lie interred within furlongs of each other; for good measure, the modern Ghalib Academy is also situated nearby.

Respect for life, peace and coexistence finds expression in commerce too. Prêt-à-porter outlets; crafts shops; bookshops; perfumeries; little kiosks selling compasses (for devout Muslims) and Chinese toys; travel agencies; florists and abattoirs all thrive cheerfully cheek by incongruous jowl. As do eateries of various descriptions.

And yes, the food! Nizamuddin has on offer Kababs and Tikkas that rank among the finest in Delhi. I have also encountered indifferent Nahari, downright inedible Haleem, varying grades of Biryani, Korma, Shirmal, Ishtoo, and much much more. Political and economic developments have led to the introduction of new cuisines. I remember a short-lived Afghan shop, an odious little place that seemed to specialise in leftovers. Presently, Kashimiri and Rampuri shops appear to be doing decent business.

In this series, I seek to explore in its larger context Nizamuddin's culinary wealth. As with the Street Food and the Law series, this prefatory note will also feature a list of articles. Other articles, as and when they are posted, will be hyperlinked to it.

List of Articles

1. Political Economy - I
2. Political Economy - II
3. Political Economy - III
4. Ghalib Kabab Corner
5. Moradabadi Biryani
6. Nahari at Moniskda Hotel
7. Rajdhani Hotel
8. Parvez Grand Restaurant
   

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