The Perfect Biryani

This is a new version of a story published here some time ago.

Once more my friends I greet you and thank you for turning up in such huge numbers in spite of this horrible sirocco. May Allah’s blessings be visited upon you and your family for supporting this ageing hukkawati who gets his stories mixed up.

Kind of them to protest. Of course I don’t get my stories mixed-up, and they know it. If it was true I’d be the last person who!d say it.

Let me begin by telling you about Sher Khan, who was an ancestor of mine, on my mother’s side.

Now that’s untrue, and my listeners know it, but the little lie helps make your characters more vivid. Sher Khan was real enough, and the story I’m going to tell them today is a true one, but he was from Hindustan, and came to Baghdad as a young man. I was of course born on the bank of the Tigris, but my mentor Quayyum bin Quayyum took us to Hindustan when I was apprenticed to him. A good hukkawati, he said, must not only speak Arabic, but Urdu and Persian.

Sher Khan never used hackneyed and commonplace recipes, but invented his own, or at the very least, modified traditional ones beyond recognition. He used herbs hitherto thought to be poisonous. Just by listening to the rustle of the wind among their leaves and smelling them, he could tell with certainty whether or not they were toxic or fragrant, safe and delightful.

I think I’ve got them hooked already. A story about food always grips. My mentor never ceased telling us that a good start helps the momentum of the narration. I worked hard on this overture.

Naturally he had a palate to match. When he tasted a sauce, he could tell whether the onions were sliced longitudinally or latitudinally.

One should never be afraid of using difficult words when they are necessary. Even if your audience don’t fully understand their meanings, they will usually work them out. I never patronise.

Now the story proper. Sher Khan had a young kitchen boy, Jabar, a spotty youth of about fourteen or fifteen, a sparse bristle under his chin, but who had the mental age of eight _ or so Sher Khan told him ten times every day. He was completely useless, and loved nothing better than to pick his nose, roll the wax into tiny balls and flick them into the wood fire, and watch it burn with a small bright flame. You might well wonder why the illustrious Wizard of the Spices who was famed for his precision and punctiliousness put up with him. And I will reveal all to you dear listeners. Now, you know me, I am not the sort of storyteller who indulges in lubricious talk of female comeliness or lascivious curves … nor do I keep harping on about what happens between lovers within the walls of their bedrooms.

Of course I do, but best to mislead the spies from the wilayat. They have the power to muzzle you. My listeners know that for all I say, I am not going to deprive them of salacious and saucy bits. And that’s the best way to whet the appetite of one’s audience and keep them hooked.

I will just give you a hint: Jabar’s mother Khatoon, once a court dancer of unparalleled excellence and beauty, and some said, dubious morality, was now widowed, and had caught the eyes of my ancestor, eh, I mean the Master of the Caliph’s kitchens, I mean Sher Khan. She now lived a quiet life, barely making ends meet, but in the eyes of the culinary genius, she was still the most desirable woman living in the empire. Unfortunately for him, however, he was not alone in this belief. She had been celebrated by no less than the poet Rashid Ibn Abdullah Ali Rashid in his masterwork Ain el Khatoon, Khatoon’s Eyes. It was an open secret that even Hamid el Karim, the old Caliph had… No, I’m not going there, will definitely not stoop to gossip.

This is an old trick enabling hukkuwatis from time immemorial to indulge in gossip.

Oh yes, we need to talk about Jabar. If Sher Khan ordered Jabar to cut the onions small, he would cut them large, which was not too bad, as large pieces could conceivably be made smaller, but he also cut them small when his master ordered him to make them large, which, you will agree is not something which could be put right.

In one chronicle, Sher Khan is said to claim to have invented the biryani, but others, whilst not entirely disputing this, qualify the opinion in this way: whilst Ustad Sher Khan did not actually invent the recipe, Professor Karim Ahmadovitch Amirov of Tashkent concedes in his History of Pilaos and Allied Dishes (published Bokhara,1889) he modified it so substantially, in taste as well as appearance that one could in fact attribute the invention to him. All available sources agree that he was the first to use saffron growing on the slopes of Khorasan in his recipe. He cooked his biryani in special deghs, copper cauldrons you know, commissioned from a top metallurgist in Aleppo who mined and smelted his own copper. As none of you ignore, copper can be dangerous, even poisonous in sufficient doses, so the inside of the pots was lined with a secret silvery lining, which is now known to be tin-based. Sher Khan was definitely the perpetrator of the tradition of cooking everything alfresco. He had discovered that for a biryani to reach hitherto hidden heights of culinary Himalayas, the finish was the most important factor. And that finish was indubitably the subtle soupçon of smoke wrapping it all up, which is imparted when cooking over an open wood fire. Ordinary food makers, as the grand master dismissively called them, were in the habit of ordering their helpers to dismount the deghs from the still raging fire full two hours or so after having started the cooking process, when they judged that cooking had been completed.

Not Sher Khan.

To really understand the methodology of Sher Khan’s approach to cuisine, I need to give you a clear idea of how the Master worked: First, he would let his meticulously prepared mix macerate in its juices for a whole night in the cool palace well, suspended by a system of pulleys that he had devised. The fire had to be made from a mixture of six different woods, which he had taken years to elaborate. Some were chosen for their burning capacity, others for the aroma they released as they burned, and one variety of neem for endowing the flames with a colour that was pleasing to the eyes. You see, dear listeners, the Master was an artist, not a food maker, and he saw his art as an aesthetic ensemble. Close your eyes and imagine it: Multicoloured flames under the pot, the air filled with intoxicating aromas, to say nothing of the anticipation of tastes surreal!

After the cauldron had been on a fierce flame for no more than one hour, he would allow the flame to die off, but only gradually. He would then let the cooking continue for hours, on the slowly dying embers. Further, as he proudly told his disciples, a real biryani needs to be roasted from all sides. He saw how to do this in a dream, and started the unthinkable practice of placing hot embers on top of the lid of the degh. Roasted with love, he would explain, closing his eyes and waggling his head happily. Not bullied with heat and haste. The geometry of how he spread his live coals over the lid, was a secret which only Jabar was let into, and that only because Sher Khan was convinced that the lad was too stupid to cotton on to go reveal his secrets to “those cookers of grub”, which he called lesser cooks. But he explained to whoever wanted to know that half the battle was making sure the rice, the potatoes and the meat absorbed the right amount of moisture.

Ha! Look at them. I have them in my power. I am making them smell the aroma of my biryani. Their mouths are already watering.

Now, if the lid did not fit properly, steam escapes and your biryani fails the test and quarrelsome princes refuse compromise and wars are declared. Not even the best Arab metallurgists, though undeniably the most skilful of the age, were able to produce a lid that fitted a degh in the manner exacted by the formidable Sher Khan. Once the cooking had reached a crucial stage, and it became necessary to change gear, moisture could be seen escaping through the imperfect fit. That had to be avoided. He obviated this shortcoming by placing a number of pebbles over the lid and by moving them judiciously around from time to time, the pesky gaps are neutralised. This usually did the trick, but still Sher Khan’s ambition was to find a foolproof method to tackle this contretemps.

The plot thickens, as minor hukkawatis would say. I don’t. If I’ve done my job properly my audience does not need to be told.

And this is the manner in which he was rewarded: The handsome Yusuf Ali Ramzanov Shikhandrov Ali, Prince of Azerbaijan had come to the court of Aleem El Hakim Khan to attend the annual international music and dance festival, and the moment the apple of the Alam Panna’s eyes, Her Highness Princess Najmat E-Fairouz, had cast eyes upon him, it was like she had been struck by lightning and had sworn that she would lock herself up in her room and await death if she could not have him. Oh, Alam Panna is how the Maharajahs of Hindustan were addressed, but many eastern kingdoms had adopted the title. The princess had run to the empress Noor E-Aleem and confided to her beloved mother her determination to die in the hope that she would then meet her beloved Prince in the afterlife if she could not have him for husband on this earth. I think you will agree that the young princess would easily qualify for the title of Drama Queen. But she was a delightful and gracious young lady, pretty as a peri, and on top of that, sweet, charming, and virtuous. The Empress was by far the wisest person at court, but this was the best-kept secret in the land, as she was the only one who knew this, and (wisely) chose not to broadcast the fact, lest it reflected badly on her husband. Leave it to me sweetheart, mummy empress will make sure the Prince will want no one else, she promised.

She then summoned Sher Khan. ‘Oh worker of Miracles Culinary,’ she began_ verily the man had so many titles. ‘I am planning a feast in honour of the prince from Azerbaijan, and I want you to surpass yourself this time. The happiness of my beloved daughter is at stake. Sources inimical to the palace have reported that she used threats, but the more serious historians disagree vehemently. I’ll make sure you never cook another biryani ever again if you fail me, she is quoted as saying by that disgruntled scholar Amr El Orabi, but Professor Hamza Ibn Haqquna disproves this by pointing out examples of her unique wisdom and tempered speech. Other sources conjecture that the gourmet emperor would sooner have got rid of his empress, however much he is said to have cherished her, even before he would have contemplated signifying his discontent to the famed Magician of the Marinades and Sophist of The Spices. But let us not dwell on sterile controversy which leads nowhere and only strengthens bigotry. Now, unavoidably I must go against my nature and seemingly indulge in a little ribaldry (Allah who knows how much I despise gossip will have mercy upon my soul!)

Look at them with their tongues hanging out, their ears open wide so as not to miss one syllable.

For three years, three months three weeks and three days, Sher Khan had pined for that delightful temptress Khatoon_ Jabar’s mother, you remember? He had lavished upon her jewellery and silks fit for royalty, but so far had only received vague promises from her. He had wondered how much longer his ageing heart could put up with the sight of the Gates of Jannat without being allowed to cross its hallowed portals. The time has come for me to reveal now that he had only agreed to let the inept Jabar come work for him in the palace kitchens in the hope that this might finally open the way for him to get to the hitherto unattained heights of libidinous Himalayas in the arms, and between the legs, of the voluptuous ex-court dancer… pardon my slip of the tongue, I meant in the arms of the ex-court dancer, not between the legs. Will the man from the wilayat please note. And as luck (or Shaitan) would have it, he had received this very morning the clearest invitation that he ever had had from the widow.

A little nasal mimicry here.

‘Maajan will be waiting for you to discuss my apprenticeship at four o’clock sharp tomorrow,’ Jabar had said.

Obviously that was when he would be up to his eyeballs in his sauces. Never had anybody at the palace, not even the Emperor, the Alam Panna himself, been confronted by an enigma of such enormity. As a true artist, there was no way he could give anything but his best for the banquet, but, on the other hand, besotted as he was by the wiles of the wickedly whimsical widow, there was no way he could resist her call and retain his sanity. Should he miss the tryst, the volatile and tempestuous Khatoon might decide she did not wish to see him ever again. He had often overheard the Emperor discussing the problem of squaring the circle with the court mathematicians, and he felt sure that compared with his dilemma, that was as easy as it was for him to light a Lucifer stick with one hand _ a technique which had taken him five years to perfect.

In the end, Sher Khan did square that circle. He did everything in his power to prepare a masterpiece fit for the occasion, and, viewing the facts through the lens of his longing for the lascivious widow, he ended up by convincing himself that if he did all the essential work and left Jabar in charge only once all the serious work had been done, nothing even that idiot could do would spoil things, even if he tried.

Yes, dear friends, you’ve guessed it, he will be proved wrong.

You my listeners, are so much cleverer than us poor storytellers, grounded by facts. A little after half past three, after having accomplished the change of gear, as he called it, he explained to Jabar that all he had to do was to sit at the side of the degh and turn the lid round by so much and place a stone exactly where he saw steam escaping, as he had taught him many times before, and not to move a hair’s breath away from it. I will do my best, said Jabar in his impossibly irritating nasal tone of voice. Do your best, you Haram Khorr_ a bad swear word he had learnt when in the land of his birth_ I don’t want you to do your best, your best is shit, I just want you to do as I am telling. Well uncle, wailed Jabar, it’s not my fault, but if I sit near the degh and watch the sparks flying, I will not be able to stop myself nodding off. How can I turn the lid around if I am asleep? Then don’t fall asleep, you bewaqoof (half-wit) eater of pig’s meat, said the artist murderously, in his great booming voice. But gifted men always find a solution to every problem. He scratched his head and came up with this: Jabar, he said, imagining the gate of Jannat beginning to swing open for him at last, sit at the side of the degh, but at the same time begin preparing the dough for tomorrow’s naan. That should keep you occupied and stop you from falling asleep. The young man beamed at him. Thank you uncle, he said. Verily the Master has a solution for all problems, the boy thought. He loved kneading naan dough almost as much as he loved poking his nose. The poor boy, bullied and sneered at by everybody, felt a sense of power as he dug fist and fingers in the mush pummelling it until it became so smooth and malleable that breathing on it created a little crater. But he had another very good reason for liking that task, which I will reveal to you shortly.

Do not reveal too much in one go, Quayyum Bin Quayyum taught us.

Perhaps, generous listener, you will have guessed that this is crucial to the tale now enfolding: At various stages of the kneading, Jabar would pluck a small lump of the mix, roll it into a perfect little marble, toss it into his mouth and suck it like sweet, before gulping it down. Later historians would suggest that this was how the chewing gum was invented, and this has created many controversies, but we will not pursue this thread this time.

Now, this, as I already hinted, was what sowed the seed of the troubles you must know lie ahead. Sophisticated aficionados of fiction that you are, are well aware that a tale falls flat if it flows smoothly into the sea of Happy Ending. The baklava must have a few hard bits of almond. The meat of the korma must have a bit of bone.

With the boss out of the way, the boy rather over indulged, and in no time at all, the odours emanating from his nether part and the rumblings in his bowels showed that he was beginning to feel a very human need. And for the second time that day, a member of the palace was confronted by a dilemma of hitherto unknown magnitude to him. If he stayed put, he ran the risk of soiling his garment and imparting unacceptable odours to His Master’s oeuvre.There is no way I am going not to have a shit, he told himself rather crudely, and there is no way I am going to allow the biryani to go wrong by allowing the moisture to escape. I must square this circle, he said to himself, repeating parrot fashion what he had so often heard his lord and master say to himself. His eyes fell on the naan dough and rested there for a while vacantly. Suddenly an idea hit him, but he shook his head. Naaah! My ideas never work, I am a brainless idiot, he said to himself. No, this one just might, an inner voice pressed him, don’t be an ass. But I am an ass, he said aloud, and dismissed this thought for a while. Still, as his tummy began to rumble more persistently, the thought kept creeping back, and he was left with no choice. He tore a small lump of dough, made it into a small sausage and applied it to where steam was beginning to hiss up, pressing it firmly with both hands at the rim. To his surprise, that arrested the leak, but another one sprang a short distance away. It’s like borrowing from Hasan to pay your debt to Hossen, he mused, you still have the debt. He tore a bigger lump, rolled it as before and applied it at the leak, with the same result. In the end, in desperation he coiled enough dough into a rope and applied it all round the entire circumference of the lid. There was not one hiss to disturb the music of the crackling embers, not one droplet of moisture coming out. Therefore, manifestly, not one single gap left. He fairly ran to the servants’ pit and emptied his bowels to his heart’s content.

To cut a long story short, Sher Khan came back from his tryst with destiny — a successful one, according to the court chronicler Abbas Ibn Fakir- whistling merrily, as one does when one is fulfilled, swearing to himself that whatever that fool Jabar might have done today, would not succeed in dampening his serenity, or incurring his wrath. He would simply put things right and say nothing to the poor lad, who had not had an easy life, as he had only been reminded of a short while ago.

However, the moment he found his masterpiece-in-the-making unattended and some mysterious white stuff coiled round the lid of his degh, he forgot all resolutions and flew into a rage and nearly had a fit. Khatoon or no Khatoon, when I catch that mangy kutta (dog), I will make kheema (mincemeat) of him, he swore. At the same moment, the relieved Jabar, re-entered the cooking area, he too smiling, he too whistling, as one does after having gained a different relief. Bowel relief in his case. Where the hell have you been, you Haram Khorr, you pig eater? The Grand Master screamed at him expecting no answer. Now you’ve only caused a disaster of… of … disastrous proportions, and he aimed a hard kick at the poor youth’s behind, and hit a bulls’ eye. The boy fell on the ground whimpering, screaming ‘Ayo!’. Then like a man possessed, the poet of prandial perfection tore the crusts of dried flour from around the rim in a frenzied effort to limit the damage, his alert mind already sifting through a battery of potential remedies available to him. A plop sound greeted him as he lifted the lid, and the steam trapped inside fairly bounced on his face. He instinctively combed the surface of the rice with his unwashed fingers, as he always did, expecting a mush, but was amazed to find that each grain of rice was firm but cooked to perfection, seeming to respond merrily to his touch. He grabbed a long wooden ladle and scooped out a sample from deep down, and the aroma that invaded his expert nostrils as the movement liberated the fragrance which was locked underneath the rice told him that he need investigate no further. Still he tipped a piece of meat in his mouth and could not believe it when it melted almost unaided by teeth activity, between his palates. The involuntary ‘Aahaahaah!’ which escaped from his lips was a delayed echo of an earlier ‘Aahaahaah!’ born from another type of ecstasy about which, as you well know, respecter of morality that I am, I am not going to talk about. This tale is about the biryani, it’s about the pressure cooker, not about congress between a man and a woman playing the beast with two backs. Not about … no I am no pornographer, imagine it yourselves if you must. The biryani had cooked to the sort of perfection that he had always aspired to and had not dared believe could be achieved on this paltry earth. If the Greek Archimedes cried Eureka, Eureka! what Sher Khan came out with is not recorded. Ibn Fakir’s prose was definitely not commensurate with excellence of the culinary creation. The handsome Yusuf Ali Ramzanov Shikhandrov Ali, Prince of Azerbaijan thought that if Her Highness Princess Najmat E-Fairouz, came from people who could produce a biryani the like of which he had not imagined he could taste on this side of Jannat, then he would be an idiot not to fall in love with her. So yes, they married and lived happily ever after. But this story is not about them, but about Sher Khan and Jabar, the biryani, and … the first pressure cooker!

Tradition has it that Sher Khan picked up the unhappy Jabar, who fearing strangulation, recoiled instinctively, but instead of fingers round his neck, he felt the wet lips of the Master’s kiss on his left cheek. My boy, he heard the Master say, as the only male member of your household, can I beg you to give us, myself and your esteemed mother permission so she can become my fourth wife? Think for a bit, and when you say yes, I will give you a kiss on the other cheek. Thank you dear friends, for the polite attention you have paid to my yarn. Huda hafiz.