Too often, the meat in the qormas is overpowered by the masalas, writes Rana Safvi in her essay in the ‘Forgotten Foods’ anthology. So, how should a qorma be cooked then?
In Forgotten Foods, historians, literary scholars, plant scientists, heritage practitioners, writers, and chefs come together to document precious stories, histories, and recipes from South Asia, proving just how profoundly Muslim kitchens have reshaped alimentary practices. The anthology—edited by Siobhan Lambert-Hurley, Tarana Husain Khan, and Claire Chambers—emerged from a research and public engagement project titled Forgotten Food: Culinary Memories, Local Heritage and Lost Agricultural Varieties in India. It includes perspectives on heritage rice varieties, Kashmir’s saada saag, and the rich foodscape of Manipur’s Pangal community, among others.
Read Memories of Awadhi Qorma by historian and writer Rana Safvi:
There were cooks of yore who specialised solely in cooking qormas. In The Classic Cuisine of Lucknow, there is an interesting anecdote. In 1925, Nawab Jafar Hussain—a descendent of the nawabi aristocrats of Lucknow—came across a cook named Mohammad Hussain, who belonged to a family of cooks from the royal period.
When the Nawab sahib asked him what he could cook: ‘He replied in the typical Lakhnavi tone of voice, “Sir, qorma and chapati. Besides this, what else is there in food? I will feed you only this. I do not know how to cook anything else.”’ Nawab sahib immediately employed him and he stayed with him until his death in 1931. Before you wonder at this, let me add what Nawab sahib pointed out: ‘In the period of approximately five years, every day, for both meals, he cooked qorma and I never felt even a twinge of monotony.’
Though such artists are hard to come by, it is possible to cook a decent qorma if one uses the spices from scratch. That means you roast and grind all the fresh garam masalas, coriander, etc., just before starting to cook. There must be many people who remember the storeroom, with their mothers sitting in front of it, getting the masalas taken out and ground fresh daily. The khansamas would grind them on a huge sil (grinding stone) with a batta (stone). The garam masalas were dry-roasted, pounded separately in an imam dasta (mortar and pestle) and then strained. In those days, hardly any house used powdered masalas.
In my childhood, qorma was associated with guests, festivities, and celebrations. Our daily meals consisted of qaliya, or mutton cooked with vegetables, to ensure the consumption of seasonal produce.
Though chicken qorma is popular today, chicken was not always the preferred meat. Those were also the days when chicken was quite expensive (weight-for-weight) compared to mutton, and it was thus a delicacy. Murgh ka qorma was the ultimate dish cooked for a guest. All this was before the late Padmashree Dr B. V. Rao revolutionised the poultry industry. He established Venkateshwara Hatcheries Pvt Ltd in Pune in 1971 and is still remembered as the Father of the Indian Poultry Industry.
‘In the period of approximately five years, every day, for both meals, he cooked qorma and I never felt even a twinge of monotony.’
To this day, I associate chicken with feasts. I even prefer the desi variety over the farm-grown, as the latter is too bland. The epicures of Awadh, too, probably found chicken bland, for Abdul Halim Sharar writes in Guzishta Lucknow (a book about Lucknavi culture first published in serial form between 1913 and 1920) that the chickens used to be fattened with musk and saffron pills until their flesh was scented with these two substances. Since nobody can afford musk-and saffron-fed chicken, to ensure that the meat is not bland, it is best to marinate it in a garlic, salt and yoghurt mix for a few hours and then sauté it in the masala before adding water for the curry, so that the spices seep in.
Chicken was not the only meat that was used for qorma. Game meat (especially venison, quail and partridge) was also very popular, as hunting was a popular pursuit of the landed gentry before it was banned. Now, farm-grown quail is available and bater ka qorma is gaining in popularity. But one must remember that quail is a very delicate meat, so the masalas have to be minimal in order not to drown out the flavour. Indeed, while cooking any qorma, it is essential to remember this fact. Too often, the meat in the qormas is overpowered by the masalas. The special taste of Awadh is in the delicate flavouring as compared to the robust taste of Delhi cuisine.
I was accustomed to using very minimal garam masala. When I got married, that turned out to be a boon—or I would have had to reinvent my recipes. My husband is allergic to cardamom, which almost led to a disaster. My wedding was held at home, as was usual in those days. Tents and shamianas would be erected on people’s lawns, as hotel weddings were unheard of. The cooks were called from Lucknow.
I remember the old khansama sitting near my mother a couple of days before the wedding and giving her a list of ingredients to be bought. When he presented the amount of cardamom that was needed, my mother said, ‘That won’t be added to any food, as my son-in-law-to-be is allergic to it.’
I will never forget the look on the khansama’s face when he replied, ‘Begum sahib, had you told me earlier, I would not have come. What face will I show the world when they see that the qorma has no elaichi in it?’ My mother had to coax him not to leave in a huff, persuading him that the taste was in his skill of using the right proportions, roasting the masalas, marinating the meat and not in the blighted cardamom! The khansama then took it on as a personal challenge and the qorma turned out to be superb.
There is rarely any cardamom in my kitchen even now. I believe that the taste of the dish comes from the amount of time spent in roasting the masalas well—not in drowning it in oil and garam masalas.
I will never forget the look on the khansama’s face when he replied, ‘Begum sahib, had you told me earlier, I would not have come. What face will I show the world when they see that the qorma has no elaichi in it?’
To come back to the qorma, a feast would be considered complete only when there were at least two types of qorma, the sweet rice zarda and pulao, as well as at least two varieties of kababs and sheermal (a flatbread). This formula also meant that at least three types of meat such as mutton, fish, and chicken were offered. Again, there would be adjustment in the masalas depending on the meat. Ginger paste continues to be used for meats with a strong smell and those that are tough to digest. Fish, on the other hand, requires a delicate hand when using masalas.
Another important point to be noted is that the meat (if it is mutton) should be from the raan (leg). The pieces in Lucknow would be cut with artistry and called katoris (bowls)—for they did not have bone and would curl up into a round shape in the curry. Today, when we ask the butcher for boneless mutton, he tells me to show him a boneless goat. These butchers lazily chop the meat instead of cutting along the grain.
While cooking, special care must be given to ensuring that the onions are fried just right, as the base of the qorma comes from the paste of fried onions. If it is too brown, the curry will taste bitter and have a dark colour; if it is not fried well and left a little raw, the colour of the qorma will be pale. The trick of a khushrang qorma (the bright reddish-brown hue) is in the way the onions are fried and the masala is sautéed. I learnt these tricks as a young girl around the wood fire chulha in my grandparents’ kitchen, while my grandmother would describe the cooking process.
Try Rana Safvi’s family recipe for Awadhi Murgh Qorma here.
This essay is from ‘Forgotten Foods: Memories and Recipes from Muslim South Asia’ edited by Siobhan Lambert-Hurley, Tarana Husain Khan, and Claire Chambers. Excerpted with permission from the author and Picador India.
