An Ode to Chicken Karahi
Osama Khalid
18-06-2023
If you have had the chance to spend any time in Lahore, you will understand how it can turn you into an inadvertent foodie. Food is an integral and indispensable part of any Lahori’s life, permeating every aspect of their existence. Food is part of the Lahori circle of life. Whether it be the distribution of mithai to celebrate a birth, the chicken pulao at the weddings, or the biryani at the funerals. It is nearly impossible to visit Lahore without indulging in its cuisine. While Paris may be the city of lights, New York the city that never sleeps, Lahore undoubtedly is the city that can’t stop eating.
In Lahore, there is a dish tailored to every occasion and suited to every palate. For vegetarians, a delectable option is بھولے دے چنے (Bholay dey chanay). If, however you are somehow a pescatarian, you can relish the deep-fried, besan-covered fish from بشیر دارلماہی (Bashir Darul Mahi). If you are an insomniac and find yourself awake at an early hour, you can always go to محمدی (Muhammadi) for his mouth-watering Nihari. And if you are a masochist in need of clogged arteries you can visit Taxali Gate for a truly indulgent experience at پھجے دے پائے (Phajjay dey Pai). While I certainly invested a considerable portion of my disposable income in exploring these culinary delights, I always held a special place in my heart for Lakshmi Chowk.
The Chowk derives its name for the Lakshmi Building, which sits in at the intersection of the McLeod, Nisbat, and Abbott Roads. In years gone past, the Lakshmi Building was probably a cinema and perhaps even held greater significance before the partition. However, today most of the actual building is gone and only its facade remains — a skeletal reminder of its glorious past. While the tourists might wander to the new Food street near the Lahore Fort, or the Musharaf era food street at the nearby Gawalmandi, serious foodies will tell within the cacophony of the traffic of Lakshmi Chowk lies the true epicenter of the Lahori food scene.
It has been rumored that Shehbaz Sharif directed the Orange line of the Lahore Metro through Lakhsmi Chowk to facilitate his personal culinary trips to the city from Raiwind. If you like Shehbaz do decide to come up from the Mall via McLeod Road, you will find امرتسری ہریسہ (Amritsari Hareesa) to your left, دال چاول (Daal Chawal), and چرغا (Chargha) to your right, and in the middle of everything, you will find one of the crown jewels of Lakshmi chowk — the کڑاہی (Karahi).
The ideal karahi consists of a desi chicken slow-cooked in a wok with spices and desi ghee, creating a tantalizing combination that captivates the taste buds. Along with creating this tender gastronomic wonder, the wok also gives the dish its name. Unlike some of the more complex dishes in the cuisine, the spices in the karahi are meant to provide a fiery kick. It is true that the chicken karahi at Lakshmi Chowk may not be considered an authentic karahi, but it never claims to be one. The history of the karahi is lost to time. The general consensus chicken karahi is an offshoot of the dumbaa karahi found at the Namakmandi in Peshawar. Up in Peshawar, their karahi is pieces of دنبہ (Dumbaa) cooked in its tail fat. That karahi itself is probably a descendant of one of the meat dishes of the Central Asian steppe. When the karahi came to Lahore, the Lahoris substituted the dumbaa with the chicken and the tail fat with Dalda’s desi ghee and ended up with a rich and flavorful adaptation of their own. Us Lahoris will tell you that we started using chicken simply because we don’t have enough dumbaas in Lahore to satiate our voracious appetite, but it is equally likely that for all our intense love of all things meat, we never truly developed a palette for dumbaa or mutton in general. Ask any Lahori to rank their preferences and I guarantee you it will be chicken followed by beef and mutton in the last place. This will be followed by them defensively rationalizing their choices. They actually like beef more but their doctor has advised against it, they would like mutton more if not for its imagined musk, they wouldn’t actually rank chicken so highly if not for the gamey desi variety which has a unique depth of flavor. At the end of the day, we have to come to terms with the realization that these are all just excuses, the fact remains that we are not as carnivorous as we would like to advertise.
I would hope that you are convinced that if you are in Lahore, one way or another, you will end up at Lakshmi Chowk to satisfy your karahi cravings. Once at Lakshmi you will immediately be bombarded with its sights, sounds, and smells. Restaurants line the stretch of McLeod Road leading up to the chowk is jam-packed with and going into both Abbott and Nisbat roads. Generally, you would expect a pavement in front of the restaurants, however here you will only find monobloc chairs, whose colors have faded over time, next to cages filled with chickens of every variety. The idea of one of these poor birds becoming your dinner might stir conflicting emotions within you, but you will find yourself gravitating towards the monoblocs. The din of the traffic combined with the aromas wafting out from the kitchens will inevitably cause a sensory overload and you might not even hear the waiters telling you that they have family halls and indoor seating. With the bustling ambiance and vibrant atmosphere, why would you ever think of cooping yourself inside the family halls?
Once you have time to settle your senses, you will probably want to indulge in the karahi. However, you will soon realize it actually is not that straightforward. While there are indeed many restaurants that serve karahi, what you truly desire is Butt Karahi. Now, don't let the name mislead you. The "Butt" in this karahi refers to a Kashmiri surname and has nothing to do with dumbaa's anatomy used in Namakmandi's karahi. This Butt is a Kashmiri surname. When the Kashmiri Brahmin Bhatts of Kashmir migrated to the plains in the late 19th Century, they decided to Punjabi-ize their surnames and in response, the Punjabis decided to Kashmir-ize their cuisine. Little did anyone know that this exchange would result in a century and a half of humorous name associations but also give us the Butt Karahi, a culinary gem that showcases the fusion of Kashmiri flavors and Punjabi sensibilities.
You might have heard the old adage that there is a butt for everyone. This has never been more true than at Lakshmi Chowk. As you wander through the chowk, you will encounter enthusiastic waiters who will attempt to lure you into their respective restaurants, each claiming that their butt is the best. However, it is essential not to let their verbal, emotional, and physical coercion pressure you into making a hasty decision. Instead, if you have done your homework and read this, you should already know which Butt Karahi you want.
If you want the original and authentic karahi then you need to go to the ''اصلی اور قدیمی بٹ کڑاہی'' (asli aur qadeemi Butt karahi), but if what you actually want is the authentic and original, then ''قدیمی اور اصلی بٹ کڑاہی'' (qadeemi aur asli Butt karahi) has you covered. However, if you are coming out of DHA, and have deluded yourself into thinking that you’re better than everyone else, and yet can’t tell your meat from your mithai, then Butt® Karahi; from the makers of Butt® Sweets, is your home away from home. And if you are confused by all the choices then just stroll over to ''Butt Karahi by Nadeem Butt®''. You can be certain that this Butt Karahi was definitely cooked by an attested Butt. At the end of the day, if you have made it this far, it really doesn’t matter which Butt karahi you go to, as long as they aren’t a failing confectionary business trying to diversify.
By now the savory whiffs of barbequed meat should be overwhelming you. You decide to take a seat at the Butt karahi that’s nearest to you. The over-eager waiter drags you to the seats. You might have an inkling that the seating arrangement might hold a deeper symbolism than meets the eye. You face a decision: Should you choose the seat overlooking the bustling kitchen, a testament to the forthcoming symphony of sizzling spices and succulent meats that will fill the void within your soul? Or should you opt for the seat facing the traffic, a poignant reminder of the life you are about to leave behind?
You decide to face the kitchen, taking a seat adjacent to one of the chicken cages. At this juncture, a realization dawns upon you—a profound existential awakening awaits. It commences with you trying to befriend one of the cockerels and naming it Tim''. This cockerel has spent its entire life in and around Lahore, and yet you decide to name it ''Tim'' and not something more culturally fitting like Riaz, or Waseem, or even Ashfaq.
The waiter hands you a menu, looking at all the options listed, you have your epiphany, choice is just an illusion. You are here just for the karahi, everyone around you is here for the karahi, in the grander scheme of things. The waiter has handed you the menu because he doesn’t want your sense of existence to implode when you discover this truth. This is further emphasized when he comes back to get your drinks order. You can choose to get a soda or plain water. Again, this is just an illusion, you have no real choice. You can choose to have water, but that also means choosing to spend the next entire week in the ER. You ask for a coke, and the waiter retorts, ''صرف پپسی ہے؟'' (sirf Pepsi hai?). And with that, any shred of agency you thought you had, disintegrates.
You have a moment of contemplation for all the existentialists of the 20th century, and how they could’ve truly achieved their full potential if they had a chance to have karahi. There is a moment of mourning for Sarte who unfortunately died too young, in a car accident, probably on his way to Lakshmi. Before you can spiral deeper into these existential questions, the waiter comes back with a wok, your karahi is here, with 2 naans.
The aroma transports you back to your childhood, the emotions you felt when your crush professed their love to you, start rushing in. You take a piece of the naan and go for the karahi. The succulent meat just falls off the bone. Just as it touches your lips, you are immediately reminded of the tenderness of your first kiss. As you bite in, you have a moment of melancholic nostalgia. The intensity of the emotions you are feeling right now, far surpasses anything you have ever felt in the past. No kiss, no touch, no sex can compare to this one bite.
A sense of intense longing engulfs you. You want to share this wondrous experience with someone, anyone. You look for Tim (or Waseem or Riaz) but he is not there. The leg piece you bit into, it might be his. Normally, such a realization might have led to a bout of guilt, but instead you find yourself questioning not only your morality but also your ethics. Is it just Tim or would you eat any of your friends if they tasted this good?
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| The Karahi in all its umami glory |
Before you realize it, you are on your last bite. In what felt like a euphoric instance, you have been teleported throughout space and time, from the time of your conception to the present, having experienced truths that only a few before you had the chance to experience. As you pay the bill and get up from your seat, pangs of immense sadness overwhelm you. After this rebirth, you will now have to go back to the mundanities of life. As you are walking away from Butt Karahi, the food coma starts creeping up on you, and with that, you finally start to understand why ''لاہور لاہور ہے'' (Lahore Lahore Hai).