Biryani Quotes

Saddling another person with a book he did not ask for has always seemed to me like a huge psychological imposition, like forcing someone to eat a chicken biryani without so much as inquiring whether they like cilantro.

What wouldn’t my people give for a few bites of the biryani she ordered me to throw away yesterday because she said it smelt?

Yes, I’d still have Sonia. And Zia. And so many other things that Karim no longer had. I’d still have the Arabian Sea and Sindhri mangoes, and crabbing with Captain Saleem, who had the most popular boat of all because his business card promoted ‘Garunteed no cockroach’, and, yes, there’s still be those bottles of creamy, flavored milk from Rahat Milk Corner and drives to the airport for coffee and warm sand at the beach and Thai soup at Yuan Tung; yes, Burns Road nihari; yes, student biryani; oh, yes, yes, yes, and all that, and all that again. So why complain? Why contemplate words like ‘longing’?

On the other hand there are non-vegetarians who can’t stop pitying the poor ghas-phoos eating vegetarians. They argue that vegetarians are deprived of meat which is so rich in proteins and great in taste. But tell me how much of protein can your body assimilate when you stuff chicken biryani like there is no tomorrow or eat mutton and chicken in every form, size and shape at 3 am in the morning at Bade-miyaan after getting sloshed in the night with all the clubbing.

Welcome to Lahore, ma’am!” îmi spuse încă o dată în timp ce coborâsem în mulțime. Oprisem în fața restaurantului, iar o altă mare de oameni, gânduri și emoții mă aștepta să încep o nouă aventură. Am comandat biryani și paratha iar în așteptarea lor îmi ascultam gândurile cum îmi vorbeau, printre zumzetele unor muște prietenoase ce își traficau firimiturile căzute printre mese. Un tablou în care toate nuanțele purtau căldură și comfort. Probabil că lecții interesante de viață musteau printre crăpăturile secundelor, într-o lume cu totul nouă pentru mine, în care am înțeles pentru prima oară că universalitatea cuprinde mult mai multe nuanțe în paleta-i, decât cele pe care le priveam dintr-o rutină molcomă în spațiul meu mioritic. Și da, un aha moment m-a făcut să înțeleg că oricât de greu și întortocheat poate părea drumul în viață, se vor ivi întotdeauna portițe pe bucățile de drum despletite între curgeri de mișcare. Și că legea nativului din noi strălucește uneori deasupra oricăror reguli impuse de societate; are nevoie doar să-i dăm voie să se exprime… în trafic… Mișcare într-o structură perfect construită.

Yes, I’d still have Sonia. And Zia. And so many other things that Karim no longer had. I’d still have the Arabian Sea and Sindhri mangoes, and crabbing with Captain Saleem, who had the most popular boat of all because his business card promised ‘Guaranteed no cockroach’, and, yes, there’d still be those bottles of creamy, flavoured milk from Rahat Milk Corner and drives to the airport for coffee and warm sand at the beach and Thai soup at Yuan Tung; yes, Burns Road nihari; yes, student biryani; oh, yes, yes, yes, all that, and all that again. So why complain? Why contemplate words like ‘longing’? After all, it was just the ends of my sentences I was losing.

I compared Obama to an Etch A Sketch. You could impose upon him whatever you wanted. He was your American dream. That was the beauty of the hope and change message emblazoned on his face. He was the promise of what America could be and become for everyone if the nation overcame its racism and cruelty. A scrawny kid born to a Muslim Kenyan father and a white mother, who grew up in Indonesia, ate biryani with his Pakistani roommate in college, and graduated from Harvard Law School, ended up being one of the most beloved politicians in the modern era and the most powerful man in the world. Maybe a Pakistani kid could become president? If America voted for Obama twice, then why not our kids? That was the power of Obama. He allowed the nation to imagine "What If?

What do you remember most about what your pai put in his lamb chops?" "I think it was basically salt, pepper, and garlic." He squeezed his eyes shut and focused so hard that not dropping a kiss on his earnestly pursed mouth was the hardest thing. His eyes opened, bright with memory. "Of course. Mint." "That's perfect. Since we're only allowed only five tools, simple is good." "My mãe always made rice and potatoes with it. How about we make lamb chops and a biryani-style pilaf?" Ashna blinked. Since when was Rico such a foodie? He shrugged but his lips tugged to one side in his crooked smile. "What? I live in London. Of course Indian is my favorite cuisine." Tossing an onion at him, she asked him to start chopping, and put the rice to boil. Then she turned to the lamb chops. The automatic reflex to follow Baba's recipe to within an inch of its life rolled through her. But when she ignored it, the need to hyperventilate didn't follow. Next to her Rico was fully tuned in to her body language, dividing his focus between following the instructions she threw out and the job at hand. As he'd talked about his father's chops, she'd imagined exactly how she wanted them to taste. An overtone of garlic and lemon and an undertone of mint. The rice would be simple, in keeping with the Brazilian tradition, but she'd liven it up with fried onions, cashew nuts, whole black cardamom, cloves, bay leaves, and cinnamon stick. All she wanted was to create something that tasted like Rico's childhood, combined with their future together, and it felt like she was flying. Just like with her teas, she knew exactly what she wanted to taste and she knew exactly how to layer ingredients to coax out those flavors, those feelings. It was her and that alchemy and Rico's hands flying to follow instructions and help her make it happen. "There's another thing we have to make," she said. Rico raised a brow as he stirred rice into the spice-infused butter. "I want to make tea. A festive chai." He smiled at her, heat intensifying his eyes. Really? Talking about tea turned him on? Wasn't the universe just full of good news today.

The good news was that he wasn't sixteen anymore and he had this, his art. His food. And if this dinner continued to go the way it was going, if Mrs. Raje stood by her word and gave DJ the contract for her son's fund-raising dinner next month based on tonight's success... well, then they'd be fine. Mrs. Raje had been more impressed thus far. Everything from the steamed momos to the dum biryani had turned out just so. The mayor of San Francisco had even asked to speak to DJ after tasting the California blue crab with bitter coconut cream and tucked DJ's card into his wallet. Only dessert remained, and dessert was DJ's crowning glory, his true love. With sugar he could make love to taste buds, make adult humans sob. The reason Mina Raje had given him, a foreigner and a newbie, a shot at tonight was his Arabica bean gelato with dark caramel. DJ had created the dessert for her after spending a week researching her. Not just her favorite restaurants, but where she shopped, how she wore her clothes, what made her laugh, even the perfume she wore and how much. The taste buds drew from who you were. How you reacted to taste as a sense was a culmination of how you processed the world, the most primal form of how you interacted with your environment. It was DJ's greatest strength and weakness, needing to know what exact note of flavor unfurled a person. His need to find that chord and strum it was bone deep.

MANY YEARS AGO, I had joined the local news desk of a prominent newspaper in Bengaluru, the sleepy south Indian town that became the country’s Silicon Valley. After trying my hand at crime reporting and general business journalism, I developed an interest in tracking technology. Among other things in the mid noughties, I had half a page in the paper to feature new gadgets every week. Nokia, Blackberry, Samsung and a few other companies were regulars on the page. While I was enjoying my work, my salary needed a boost. (The media industry’s decline was just about beginning, and salaries were as poor then as they are today.) Getting out of the rather difficult circumstances that I found myself in, I moved on to the Economic Times to report on technology. The business daily was India’s largest pink paper by circulation, and I worked with some of the best journalists of the time. My job was mainly to write about technology services companies. Soon I got bored with tracking quarterly results and rehearsed statements. This was around 2012, and India’s start-up ecosystem was in its infancy. I quit the paper to join a start-up blog. I didn’t ask for a raise. I was just happy to be able to write about start-ups and their founders. It was something new, and their excitement was infectious. In those days, ‘start-up’ was not a mainstream beat in India. Only niche blogs wrote about them. On the personal front, there were months when I was flat broke. One evening I sold my old Nokia 5800 for ₹300 at a second-hand electronics shop to buy a packet of biryani. That is still the best biryani I’ve ever had. The two years at the start-up blog were also my best two years ever. As start-ups became the buzzword, I went back to the pink paper to write about them. I was able to upgrade my life a little. I moved into a middle-class apartment with my family. I got some furniture and so on. After selling the Nokia phone, I used a feature phone for a few days. But now I had to upgrade my phone. After much research, I zeroed in on a Micromax handset. Micromax, a Gurgaon-based company that began making handsets in 2008, had some smartphones that were affordable on a young journalist’s salary. It was also a leading brand and had some interesting features such as dual SIM and a great touchscreen display. Going from a phone that ran on Symbian (Nokia’s proprietary operating system that failed) to an Android-based phone was like suddenly being

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relishing vada pavs in Mumbai and biryanis in Hyderabad; recognizing all the Bollywood Khans and Kapoors (Next

Chicken and vegetable pakoras, chickpea fritters with delicate spices. Aloo samosas filled with spicy potatoes, peas, and cilantro, with a fiery green sauce. Goat curry. Tandoori chicken. Mutton biryani. White lentil dal with onions and spices, potatoes and eggplant fried with onions and tomatoes, and four kinds of bread, naan, tandoor roti, chapati, and paratha.

Ha! Keep your charisma. There's plenty of biryani in the pot.

Will?” said Ma, looking shocked. “Am I a vulture to eat his flesh and bone? And Mr. Ackerman? I should feed on his carcass also?” Mr. Ackerman lived at number 72 and was another beneficiary of Ma’s social services. Mr. Coombs, who lived in the bungalow on the corner, was especially partial to Ma’s lamb biryani.

Should I also be glad of our unwanted guest?" "Unwanted?" Her eyes widened as her voice rose. "She's the goddess of love, fertility, beauty, and desire. Who could be more perfect for a wedding? Although..." She tapped her lush lips, considering. "She does have a bad side, but you can't blame her. Who wouldn't have issues if you'd been born from the sea foam created from Uranus's blood after his youngest son, Cronus, castrated him and threw his genitals into the sea?" The woman in pink choked on her food. The man with the goatee barked a laugh. Jay crossed his legs, although his family jewels weren't under threat. "She also had many adulterous affairs," Zara continued to her now rapt audience of singles. "Most notable with Ares. So maybe cutting off her head is a good thing." She lifted a forkful of biryani. "Did you know her name gave us the word aphrodisiac? Or that her Latin name, Venus, gave us the word venereal for venereal dis----" Jay cut her off with a raised hand. "Not something I really wanted to think about over a meal.

She came by this morning to drop off a meal for Sunday dinner because she's going away on a day trip, and decided to stay and prepare enough food for a family of ten: paneer tikka, dahi bhalla chaat, rajma masala, dal makhani, vegetable korma, chicken karahi, two types of biryani, mango cheesecake..." He trailed off when Zara laughed. "I guess you won't be ordering in for a while." "She was hoping I would have a guest." He hesitated, not wanting to scare her away, but also not wanting to let her go. "Are you free tonight?" "You had me at 'enough food for a family of ten' but I would have been knocking on your door for a slice of mango cheesecake.

Just then Fancy takes a bite of the biryani and exclaims, “Oh, Bilal, beta. This is delicious. Really. I haven’t tasted food this good in years.” “Really? Even better than Razia Bibi’s?” asks Zuleikha with a wry grin. “Don’t be so ridiculous, Zuleikha,” interrupts Razia Bibi. “How can a man’s food be better than a woman’s, eh?” Just then she dislodges something from her mouth. She inspects it for a moment then shouts, “Aha! Look, elachi,” she says, holding up the offending cardamom seed triumphantly. “Any woman would have removed that before she served the food. Didn’t your wife teach you how to cook properly?” “Oh, I’m sorry—I forgot. Actually, Razia Bibi, my wife didn’t teach me how to cook . . . I sort of learned by myself,” replies Bilal.

But you'll have to make it up to Chloe. She likes your dal tadka, paneer masala, methi saag, lamb biryani, and chicken coconut curry." My dad's face softened. He had a sweet spot for Chloe and her daughter, Olivia. "I'll cook on Saturday, and they can have it for Sunday dinner.

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When i make my first sale.. it wont be the beginning, it will be the ending...Because if i can sell my apps online (High End Tech) in India, Can't I sell T Shirts, Biryani, Hotels?

Everything is ready, almost ready, in the kitchen. Fumes are rising from simmering pots. Soup is cream of corn. Starter is sheekh kebab. Main course is seven items, including pork in mango-coriander sauce. Memsahib is vegetarian, Chef tells me. Navrattan paneer and dal makhni have been prepared especially for her. Lady Fingers are also for her. Biryani, kakori and fish are for the colonel. Trout is ready- from Dachigam in the morning.

An Irani serves the simplest of menus: tea, coffee, bread and butter (always Polson), salted biscuits, cakes, hard bread, buttered buns, hard-boiled eggs, buns with mincemeat, berry pilaf, and mutton biryani.

would arrive armed with a bottle of Scotch; then Ali Sardar would send for soda and biryani from a restaurant,