Feeding at Midnight

In 1947, a newcomer in a new nation demonstrated the spirit of Punjabi enterprise by opening a little dhaba in the Daryaganj area of Delhi (it served as a lively intersection between old and New Delhi). A refugee, Kundan Lal Gujral had apprenticed in Peshawar at what was, at the time, little more than a takeaway joint, with the grandiose name of Moti Mahal (Palace of Pearls).

As a tribute to his past employer, Gujral christened his eatery with the same name. The claim that Gujral invented tandoori chicken may or may not be true, but what is beyond dispute is that in the year of Indian independence, he created the now legendary butter chicken.

The story is that Gujral created it while working in a Peshawar dhaba after the owner requested a ‘‘light’’ meal. So ‘‘long years ago’’, little realising it, Gujral made his own ‘‘tryst with destiny’’. The veracity of this claim, I can’t vouch for; my guess is Gujral’s effort was a derivative of some Central Asian grilled fowl. Smarter still was his idea of slipping tandoori chicken into tomato sauce and slathering it with butter and cream—the now immortal butter-rrr chicken was born.

If imitation is the best form of flattery, then Gujral should certainly take a bow: Butter chicken is now synonymous with hearty Punjabi cuisine. In fact, England’s most popular Indian takeout order—chicken tikka masala— is nothing but a blow-by-blow re-creation of Gujral’s invention.

Food connoisseurs might roll their eyes, but Gujral’s creation found favour even with the Nehru-Gandhi clan, and featured at all state and private dinners.

So spare me the onslaught of contempt—butter chicken has travelled far and wide, and through the many echelons of society.

Take the other night, for instance. We were invited for drinks, to be followed by dinner at one of Delhi’s better restaurants. Good company and fine malts—it had all the ingredients of a perfect evening. But, alas, sophistication can desert one given the right stimulus. With many a single malt down our throats, the mood changed from the sublime to the ridiculous.

We were having too good a time to want to move on, so our hosts succumbed to that age-old Delhi tradition of ordering in from the king of late nights—Pandara Road.

Along with the inevitable headache the next day came some soul searching. While there may be frequent philandering with far-flung food, when the last Scotch is quaffed, the Dilliwallah attains “freedom at midnight”. Many a roving palate returns to kadak roti and butter chicken.

A trip to Pandara Road market on Thursday night (the boozy Delhi Gymkhana Club night), or on any other night for that matter, is ample proof of its popularity. I have to admit that there have been so many evenings when my intention of eating something stylish ends up in a red-orange mess of butter chicken.

Funnily enough, when I list my favourite foods, I tend to balk at admitting to this much-maligned northern favourite. The nebulous status of this dish is reflected in five-star hotel menus. All offer it, but lest they give the impression of serving something terribly plebeian, they over embellish.

And weigh it down with unnecessary ingredients including cashew and almond pastes; they even give it exotic names to justify the fancy prices. Trust me, the best butter chicken is the simplest one—tandoori chicken, tomatoes, butter and cream.

No matter how stylish or epicurean we might have become in our free, liberated and liberalised nation, when it comes to feeding at midnight, it’s probably going to be butter-rrr chicken.