Whenever Biriyani content in my blood drops, I panic. Angelic and wicked remedies are invoked if only the obvious appears far-fetched. #uncookedwords
It was one such day when again the giddiness gripped – a symptom observable when my biology craves the lush rice teeming with mellow mutton cooked to doneness. However, my woe was soon quelled by a kind-hearted aunt who treated me to a Biriyani I only fancy in Lucknow. Or, in dreams. Even memories of it made me, well, drool. Prepared in Dumphukt, where spices, herbs, fine rice and marinated mutton are all thrown into a sealed pot to commingle and slow-cooked, the Biriyani proved on all counts fit to be called a masterpiece.
Cooked meat to me is what tinned Spinach is to Popeye. Too inbred is my love of it to be rationally rebuffed. And, perhaps none in the orient draws on meat’s absorbent potential like the Biriyani. Along the lines of Kachchi, the heightened meat content in my serving made the cradling rice look richer and overflow with aroma. Meat fell off the bones like honey dribbling off a dipper. Lean grains of rice hopelessly clinging to mutton cubes suggested a tale of timeless love being told with delicious poise.
True Biriyani makes one eloquent and noisy. Now allow me my bits of both, and guzzle the leftover on the quiet!
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