Opinion From galawat ke kabab to malai gilori, Lucknow asks you to take a pause and savour it

In a culinary world that prioritises experimentation, invention and novel presentation, Lucknow says, “hold my chai”. This city may not have invented kababs or kulfi, but it has shown us that restraint is an art form and that the right spice, space and time can change a lot. It shows why there is no need to overload or experiment for the sake of it, no need for gimmicks, and all that is required is pure love on a plate. Traditional cuisine in Lucknow is refined, aromatic, aesthetically creative, and it is served with a greater nazaqat. This city is one of the rare places where the classics are still made the way they always were. If it ain’t broke, why fix it?

There is a reason why the people of Lucknow prize a good pulao — a technically demanding dish in which more is expressed with less — over the universally-loved biryani. Not that there is anything wrong with biryani; I myself love it, but to quote the writer Abdul Halim Sharar, “To the uninitiated palate, both are much the same, but in the view of gourmets, a biryani is a clumsy and ill-conceived meal in comparison with a really good pulao.”

Beyond the nafasat and nazaqat of Lucknow, that subtle refinement and delicate grace, runs a deeper thread: Mehmaan-navaazi. This tradition of gracious hospitality, which permeates the ethos of the Nawabi city, infuses every dish that is made here.
Recipes hum softly, like Beghum Akhtar’s thumri drifting through a twilight courtyard. Nothing is too loud or hurried; not the flavours, not the people, not even the flow of time. In Lucknow, no dish is eaten on the run; every meal invites you to pause. Even the humble bun-makkhan and samosa — snacks that, elsewhere, one might gobble up — are savoured here, invariably paired with chai. And chai is more than just tea; it is a ritual of respite, a symbol of life’s unhurried pace. It is a gentle reminder that everything will happen in its own time.

Every walk through old Lucknow reminds me of how much this city values process. Once, just as I had placed my order at a paan shop near Chawal Wali Gali, another customer arrived in a hurry and asked to be served first. The paanwala, calm and polite, replied that if he was in a rush, he was welcome to try the next shop. “Paan takes time,” he said. “And if someone’s ahead of you, they’ll be served first.”

In Lucknow, pride is served on a plate. There’s an unspoken ease with which the city moves between simplicity and indulgence. A delicate galawat ke kabab or a towering glass of thick lassi — they might well reflect the quiet range of the city’s culinary instincts.
Everyone has their loyalties. Someone might swear by the jalebi from an old halwai near Aminabad, another won’t start the day without khasta and chai from their neighbourhood nook. These places have cult followings, and whether one is eating home-cooked dal or aloo gosht, each dish commands the same reverence.

The art of transformation, of turning the familiar into the unexpected, isn’t new here. While much of the country has only recently embraced playful reinventions, Lucknow has always known how to surprise without losing soul. Take malai gilori, which mimics the form of a paan, but instead of using betel leaf and areca nut, folds in sheets of malai, crushed nuts, and bits of crystal sugar. It’s not showy — it’s thoughtful. It is, in essence, Lucknow.

Only a handful of places in India can genuinely make you feel like time has slowed. Lucknow surely is somewhere at the top of that list. The UNESCO title is welcome. It makes for a good headline. But what truly matters is this: Someone finally looked beyond the Instagram loops and noticed the rhythm underneath. The stillness. The restraint. The quiet defiance of speed.

The writer is a chef and author