Desi Delicacies: Food Writing from Muslim South Asia
Edited by Claire Chambers
Liberty, Karachi
ISBN: 978-9698729813
274pp.

Edited by Eos’s regular columnist Claire Chambers, Desi Delicacies: Food Writing from Muslim South Asia perfectly encapsulates food’s vital role in Muslim culture, as sustenance as well as a social service.

Writing about abstaining from it during Ramzan, then congregating at mosques and dining tables to break the fast together, and the Islamic tradition of feeding the sick and the poor, Chambers says: “food is a spine running through one of Islam’s five pillars, that of zakat or charity.”

Chambers — who’s had a long association with Muslim South Asia, and Pakistan in particular — brings together 22 writers to share their own experience of food and dining as well as a recipe that has either been passed down to, or is important for, them.

To review the book properly, I spent a month trying out the recipes because I felt that was essential to connect with the spirit of the writings. But it was a tall order, since many of the recipes seemed to be the domain of skilled grandmothers, aunts and khansaamas [cooks], who make food by instinct. I didn’t succeed every time — some ingredients were out of season and sometimes my skills ran short — but the journey was fruitful in many respects.

An anthology brings together 22 writers’ experiences and writings on the culture of food in Muslim South Asia as well as their favourite recipes

The anthology begins with British Pakistani novelist Nadeem Aslam taking us down memory lane. He writes about the diaspora experience, the constant search for familiarity despite being far away from your motherland and how food becomes extraordinary because of the experiences attached to it: “We reminisced as we ate, each new mouthful sending us deeper into our memories.” Unfortunately, the two main ingredients of Aslam’s recipe — fenugreek and spinach — were out of season at the time of reading, so I couldn’t cook it.

Indian writer and translator Rana Safvi continues the ode to food with what is certainly my favourite essay in the book, ‘Qissa, Qorma Aur Qaliya Ka’[All About Qorma and Qaliya].

She writes how the process of procuring, cooking and serving food has evolved over time in a Muslim household. Islam dictates the running of the kitchen — “there are many dos and don’ts for cooking and eating” — and she gives a comprehensive list of halaal [permitted], makrooh [better avoided] and haraam [completely prohibited] foods. Then come instructions on animal slaughter. Safvi writes of a zero-waste policy and measuring ingredients in“pinches and handfuls” and how, despite this rather judicious approach, the results can be astounding.

I followed Safvi’s recipe for qorma to the letter, working with khoya [curd] for the first time. It didn’t disappoint; my kitchen was soon filled with the delightful smell of nutmeg and condensed milk wrapped around rich mutton. Noting the variations in how the name of the dish is spelled, Safvi is right when she writes, “Like the rose, it tastes just as spectacular by any other name.” Thanks to her generous sprinkling of cooking tips, I’m happy to report that my first time making qorma was a resounding success!

Sauleha Kamal, a PhD candidate and Oversees Research Fellow at the University of York in the United Kingdom, writes about living as a student in America and searching for the tangible comfort found in food that reminds one of home. In tracing her culinary journey, she acknowledges that, when women such as herself and so many of us “who have been afforded … immense privilege choose to step into the kitchen, we do it on the shoulders of entire communities.”

Perhaps this is why her recipe involves the humble yet flavourful brinjal. It’s difficult to put into words the explosion of aroma and flavour resulting from her recipe for baingan ka bharta [mashed aubergine]. Conceding to the heat of the roasting oven, the deep purple vegetable exuded a warm, earthy smell. Add to it golden fried onions, tomatoes and dry-roasted spices. I served it with fluffy white basmati rice and with the first bite, was sold. Admittedly, it was also surprising that Kamal, raised in Islamabad, the self-proclaimed ‘city of burgers’, chose to share a recipe the exact opposite of that.

On the subject of burgers, journalist Sanam Maher’s ‘The Rise of Pakistan’s “Burger” Generation’ is an ode to both the popular fast food and those who are called ‘burgers’. Explaining the label — ‘burgers’ are persons believed to be largely detached from the everyday challenges faced by the majority of Pakistanis — Maher says: “Since 2013, there has been a slow but steady evolution of the term ‘burger’ beyond its pejorative context.”

This stands true as the ‘burger’ generation is becoming more vocal about its political beliefs and ambitions. Like its namesake food, there’s much more to them than meets the eye.

It was the always trailblazing Karachi, writes Maher, where the first burger was served up in its original American form at the eatery called Mr Burger. Her recipe, however, is the beloved desi variation: the vegetarian bun kebab.

My kitchen help — by now enjoying my experiments — approved of this meeting of East and West. Everyone, from the cook to the gardener to the security guard, thoroughly appreciated this karaara [tangy and spicy] version and I realised how food can be such a powerful equaliser. Bring in the familiarity of spices and local ingredients and it breaks down the barriers put up by privilege and wealth.

In the essay ‘Jootha’ — a word that can be loosely translated as ‘contaminated’ — Indian author Tabish Khair explores the stark differences in Islamic and Hindu preparation and consumption of food. He writes how it was managed in the past by ancestors who often went to great lengths to ensure that, despite the differences, there was always a sense of ownership and hospitality, especially on occasions of a “pluralistic nature”, such as weddings. If that meant erecting two separate tents to cook meals according to religious requirements, then so be it.

About this vague yet very tangible concept of ‘jootha’ — one that still exists on both sides of the border — Khair writes: “Jootha is a reminder of all that cannot be translated, and hence narrated, about food in South Asia. It is not jhoota, which would mean ‘liar’; it is also not joota, which would mean ‘shoe’. It is jootha.”

In ‘Alhamdulillah: With Gratitude and Relish’, Bangladeshi critic, academic and translator Kaiser Haq writes about his childhood and the omnipotent presence of food that binds family together. He shares a recipe for kachchi biryani, where the meat is layered uncooked, as opposed to the predominant method of layering cooked meat and cooked rice.

Haq’s recipe was my Everest. The ingredients take up almost an entire page and I spent two days translating the English names of the spices and understanding the ingredients with my mother-in-law’s help, after which I began half-a-day’s work.

My cook was not pleased — he was worried that his biryani might be upstaged by mine — so helped begrudgingly. The marinade required laborious pounding and grinding. The potatoes were caramelised in sugar and the rice scientifically divided into three parts: one part infused with food colouring, one with ghee, one left plain.

I layered the rice and raw meat as instructed, sealed the pot with dough and prayed for the mutton to cook. It was nerve-wracking waiting for the elements to play their part but, just as Rome wasn’t built in a day, the epic kachchi biryani was going to take its own sweet time.

Fast forward to much later. I broke the dough seal and was hit by the aroma of saffron-infused milk and spiced meat. The proof, however, lay in the proverbial pudding. I dug deep into the pot to scoop out the perfect layer of biryani but, although it smelled right, the meat was slightly undercooked and the rice overcooked.

My cook was equally disappointed — after all, we’d worked on this for almost four hours. But cooking is a science and anything could be the reason why results were not as expected. I blamed my pot and the layering process. Uncharacteristically generous, my cook reassured me: “Baji, we’ll try again. The khushboo [fragrance] is still better than the one I make.”

Yet again, food-the-great-equaliser had broken down the barrier of employer-employee and brought us on the same side. It was a comforting thought.

Generosity is the greatest lesson learned from this experience. As Chambers explains: “The subject of food and the pleasure of eating was, in part, chosen because it differs from the issue-based or problem-centred topics Muslims are often expected to write about.” This generosity of intent is carried forward by all the contributing writers.

Their experiences and writings on the culture of food have brought about a book that will take you down a familiar road, one that reminds you of home, wherever that may be in Muslim South Asia. The anthology is a treasure trove, but be warned: making any of the recipes will have your entire family flocking to the dining table. This togetherness is what Desi Delicacies, its writers and Claire Chambers achieve.

In keeping with this spirit, I’d like to share a recipe given to me by my grandmother-in-law, who got it from her mother as they migrated from Kashmir to Pakistan.

Naani’s Murghi Ka Achaar [Grandmother’s Chicken Pickle]

Ingredients:

1 whole chicken cut into 12 pieces
1 tbsp fenugreek seeds
1 tbsp aniseed
Salt to taste
Red chillies to taste
Mustard oil (enough to cover the chicken)
1.5 cups vinegar
2-3 cloves of garlic

Method:

Place cleaned chicken in a deep pot with all ingredients except mustard oil and garlic. Cook on low heat until vinegar dries up. In a separate pan, gently heat mustard oil and fry garlic cloves to a golden brown. Let cool completely. Pour oil and garlic over the chicken to fully submerge it. Eat with rice or roti.

The reviewer is a freelance writer with a background in law and literature. She tweets @ShehryarSahar

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, October 23rd, 2022