It’s Ramzan in Hyderabad and with haleem a specialty, how can I leave town without having some? The city is a gracious host, but I’m here for less than three hours and a fortifying lunch simply isn’t part of it. In fact – and unforgivably – instead of demanding some of its excellent idlis or dosas, I’ve had a ploughman’s lunch consisting of a grilled chicken sandwich which, in a concession to provincial tastes, is accompanied by a fiery Chinese chilli sauce. The accompanying fries — let’s say, they wouldn’t inspire a cordon bleu chef or a fussy eater.
Meanwhile, instructions have come from Delhi: there are people coming home for dinner so I am to carry the city’s famous biryani back with me. “From Paradise,” insists my wife, having herself carried home a pack some months ago that lasted us — oh, well, let’s just say we didn’t feel like biryani for a long while after. “I don’t have the time,” I complain – the call is eating into my limited schedule in the Nizam’s city – “I’ll ask the office to order a takeaway from somewhere close by,” which doesn’t please her.
Fortunately, Paradise falls on the road back to the airport and I’m able to rush in. The haleem, unfortunately, will only be available later, so I must make do with the biryani. “How many people?” the polite gentleman who has taken it upon himself to fill my order asks. “Eight,” I hazard, “perhaps 10.” He nods: “You don’t eat so much, I’ll pack half of what a Hyderabadi would order,” soothing away my fears of running short of food on the dining table. When the driver collects the order, he doubles under its staggering weight, and it’s a struggle for me to carry it on board. I think it might suffice.
At home, my wife admonishes me for the excess food I’ve carried back from Hyderabad, fully half of it immediately finding its way into the freezer which must now be emptied of its contents. So there’s Thai green curry made and frozen when a friend brought freshly ground curry pastes from Bangkok, now served alongside the biryani from Hyderabad. The eclectic menu includes Afghani kebabs that, I suspect, haven’t been anywhere around Kabul, having been picked up from a local deli. There’s pate, fromage and heaps of things we aren’t quite sure about but with exciting labels that we found in grocery stores in Italy, and their contents remain a mystery even after the jars have been opened.
The frozen cake, I suspect, dates back to Christmas and came from Kolkata; there’s a box of ghee-laden sohan halwa I brought back from Bangalore when I was there a couple of months ago, and which appears fated to be served up hopefully every time there are guests. “I like a well-balanced meal,” my wife is telling the dinner guests now, “everything must be fresh, and all produce should be local.” I’m wondering why the seafood pasta tastes familiar till I remember, it’s what we’d doggie-bagged at Diva the same week that carry-home packets had arrived from Yeti’s Himalayan kitchen, and rolls from Nizam’s that no one wanted to eat any more.
As you read this, I’m in Jaipur, likely scouring the city for something to be taken back home on the evening flight. “But aren’t we out for dinner?” I’d asked my wife before leaving in the morning. “Yes,” confirmed my wife, “so we’ll just freeze whatever you bring — so we can have it fresh another day.”
