The Indian reluctance to codify cuisine has meant dishes like aash, murassa and dubki are all but lost, discovers Anoothi Vishal
Ever heard of mutanzan, a slightly sweet, rice-and-dried fruit mutton pulao? Or of sufiana pulao, made using fowl with khoya? Of shami kebabs dipped in sugar syrup or dubkis (breads boiled with lentils) and aash, wholesome soups with dumplings? These are but some of the lost recipes of India, records of which exist only in a handful of old texts or in the memories of grande dames, carrying on the legacies of their communities and families.
Food is not really considered “heritage”, but as part of a larger culture, it undoubtedly is. One reason why we have been unable to preserve or reclaim this heritage — far less market it — is that, unfortunately, there are very few written culinary accounts in India. Recipes and kitchen lore are passed on from mother to daughter, from one cook to his successor, but unlike, say, in France, where culinary maps and rigid rules define food, or even Thailand, where a person’s prized recipes are often published in funeral books, in India, codification has been virtually non-existent.
Which is why when researchers and chefs do stumble upon elusive accounts from the past, it is like entering Aladdin’s cave. While Ayurvedic texts detail the ancient Indian philosophy of food (and medicine) and others, including the medieval Ain-i-Akbari, have details of kitchen, accounts of recipes are not all that common. According to ITC Hotels Corporate Chef Manjeet Gill, one such rare tome is the Manasollasa, purportedly composed by an 11th century Chalukya king, Someshverdeva (the translation from Sanskrit dates back to 1925), which lies in the Central Library, Baroda. Among other things, the book lists various kinds of fish, fishing techniques and fish recipes from that time.
But even later accounts, from 19th century British-India (there were enough people recording Anglo-Indian recipes and doling out household advice to the memsahibs by then) are hugely rewarding. Published in 1865, the sixth edition of Indian Domestic Economy and Receipt Book, one of whose authors was Dr R Flower Riddell, an advisor to the Nizam of Hyderabad, talks about categories of foods in the post-Mughal period, some of which are now lost: Of these, aash, influenced by the Persians, is a startling example. The wholesome soups, typically made of vegetables, meat, pulses, some spices and their variations involving fruit, curd or milk, had samosa-like dumplings boiled in the broth —a kind of Indian wonton soup, if you like, but more nutritious. It’s a tradition we don’t find in our cuisines today and particularly revealing given the perception that soups are not intrinsic to Indian dining.
The book, says Gill, who owns a rare copy, also lists a category of chashnidar foods — items coated in sugar syrup. It may be common now for desserts to be dunked in syrup. But the Mughal era, apparently, even had versions of the flat, shami kebabs coated in syrup. Sweet in food was supposed to “cool” the stomach and hence aid digestion, says Gill, adding that these older dishes took care to be healthy, not merely exotic. Dubkis, a type of bread, were first boiled in dal and then toasted — possibly helping conserve energy from the hearth.
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The Muslim period in India is known to have left us a rich legacy of breads, many of which were fermented or slightly sweet and which travelled in various forms from Central Asia, where the prototype of the naan still exists. In old Delhi, one Baqar Khan is held to be the originator of the Baqarkhani, as columnist Sadia Dehlvi, who belongs to one of Shahjahanabad's old families, notes. But travel to other erstwhile Mughal and Nawabi centres and you are likely to encounter some other dying heritage recipes.
Researcher Salma Husain points to murassa, one such recipe from Murshidabad, a seven-layered wheat and maida roti. The layers are garnished, alternately, with fresh cream, pistachios and almonds. Syed Mustaque Murshid, a chef with The Suryaa in New Delhi, whose family is one of the earliest residents of Behrampore (he can trace back 22 generations, in a written account of the family tree), highlights another bread intrinsic to Murshidabadi food that evolved as a result of the Mughal culture interacting with the native Bengali. Chitua, made from Govindbhog rice, is unique in that it is almost like an appam (the batter is fermented overnight, sans yeast; a technique that came in with the Central Asian Muslims). It is served topped with fresh, molten jaggery. From the Konkan belt we have another interesting, barely-available, bread — maande. It is about four times the size of what is known as the roomali roti. Made on an ulta-tava (pointing to the Muslim origin), it is garnished with poppy seeds, folded into “envelopes” and made crisp. During weddings, it was traditionally had with ghee or dunked in milk.
A host of spices too have disappeared from our midst: From sandalwood powder to paan and khus roots to pathar ke phool (a kind of lichen), such spices were used in the Hyderabadi potli masala as well as in kebab recipes from Delhi and Lucknow. One kebab that uses these spices is the dorre kebab, where mutton mince (mixed with kidney fat) is put on a resham ki dor, or thread, before being skewered and roasted (much like a seekh). It is an exotic “lost” recipe, where the skill of the kebabchi lies in pulling the thread once it is cooked so that the entire kebab falls neatly on the plate. But the provenance of this recipe is debatable: Is it Shahjahanabad like Husain says, likening it to the gole kebab, whose sole practitioner remains a kebabchi called Kale Khan at Sui Wala in Old Delhi — or is it Hyderabad, as corporate executive chef Rajesh Variyath of the Radisson MBD hotel claims, who has revived the 200-year-old recipe and put it on his menu.
Kebabs came to India from Turkey, adding a whole lot of spices during the transit. An innovation that is now all but lost to us is the nargisi kofte. A Kayastha and Muslim dish (from old Delhi or Lucknow, it is not quite clear), it is a hard boiled egg, around which mince is wrapped. These are then dunked in gravy. The kofte are similar to scotch eggs, where sausage meat is wrapped around hard-boiled eggs, coated with bread crumbs, and deep fried. We don't know which inspired the other but the earliest printed recipe of scotch eggs is contained in the 1809 edition of Mrs Rundell’s A New System of Domestic Cookery, and in this, these were served with gravy — so it may be just a case of the Mughal classic inspiring an 18th century British one.
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While the Parsis may be a dying community, dhansak, patrani machchi, and salli boti roll off the tongue easily while discussing their cuisine — an amalgamation of Persian and Gujarati traditions. But one recipe that finds expression only in a handful of “elite gatherings”, according to Mumbai-based caterer Kaizad Patel, is the saasni machchi, in a white, egg-and-riceflour-based sauce. Only white fish like pomfret is used. Patel also points out that it is recipes with local, seasonal vegetables that are increasingly hard to come across. An example is the bhaji-dana nu gosht (red meat, spinach and peas were used in the recipe) that he would have at home in the past but which is no longer a favourite even in Parsi homes because of changing, more globalised tastes.
This is an observation that finds an echo universally. Mandaar Sukhantar, executive chef at The Park in Hyderabad, recalls the laal bhaji in his Konkani home-made from what in north India is called cholai greens, a little khoya, a hint of sugar and lots of onions. Very few homes make this today. Similarly, local spicing agents like tirphal (a complex spice, with two-three flavour levels), says Sukhantar, used to flavour fish, are lost. As are grains like ramdana (amaranth), or even bajra and raagi that were earlier used in much of regional cooking. “Why can’t we use these to thicken our gravies, for instance?” asks chef Gill, adding that one reason is that with Westernised curricula, Indian chefs have “lost confidence in our own ingredients”.
Salma Husain talks about lost Mughal pulao recipes such those using a mixture of wheat and rice (gandum pulao) and mutanzan (sweet and salty rice with boneless chicken, dried fruit and raisins and a hint of sugar), an 18th century Lucknowi delicacy prepared during weddings. In Hyderabad, sufiani pulao and safed qorma would come under similar nafees khana (delicate food). The former, made with a neutral-flavoured meat like chicken, has very subtle spices, and uses a stock of part water-part milk, with khoya and green chillies added finally to give it an exotic but distinctly Hyderabadi taste. The “white pulao” is something you will not find even in the city of pearls. The recipe belongs to begum Mumtaz, who used to take cooking classes for young girls till some years ago, and who The Park has consulted. The recipe has been revived at Aish, the hotel’s Tarun Tahiliani-designed Hyderabadi specialty restaurant. Safed qorma, on the other hand, says Sukhantar, is like the Italian vitello al latte (baby calf cooked in milk; here baby lamb is cooked in a milky gravy), and may have originated as an elite dish in the Nizam’s kitchen thanks to the Turkish (and, therefore, European) influence of the wives.
Hyderabadi old-timers also recall “tricky treats” such as lukmis made for bridegrooms, which would hide live quail. The pastry would be fried with the bird in it but with such skill that the bird would fly out once it was poked open. These are available today only in stories.
In Pondicherry, another unique cuisine, almost lost, was cooked by the Tamil locals for their French colonial masters. The ingredients and spices are indigenous, but French-inspired combinations make this food totally unlike what you may have experienced. Chef Praveen Anand of the Park Sheraton, who recreated some recipes after coming across an account by two women from the early 20th century, talks of curries combining prawns and local fruit such as the nungu, or with different types of seafood blended in — something that is not intrinsic to Indian cooking. It is tempting to see in this something of the bouillabaisse — a more exotic version from Madras, not Marseilles.
| DORREE KEBAB (A “lost” recipe, revived by chef Rajesh Variyath at the Radisson) Ingredients* Method *The chef declined to reveal the quantity of spices he used so feel free to experiment and come up with your own version of the legendary dorre kebab! |
