Delhi's Karim and Karim's Kamaal

I was shocked when the guy from a news channel reporting from the site of the blasts at Jama Masjid decided to talk about bad business for Karim's. Believe me, they were talking about kebabs.

All of us who are food connoisseurs know about Karim's. And I have my own story, which given the general insensitivity around will merely add to it...

Umberto watched as I worked with my fingers, his eyes glazing. I had given up the fork, knife, spoon to do what I was meant to. I touched the grains of rice, the aroma of biryani and the fat from the meat greasing my palms. Oh, I was ready for any bribe. And Umberto, in a voice laden with choked breath, said, “I am feeling sooo gilthy. My son is as old as you, buth I doun know whai I feel like kissing you.”

Believe me, this sort of thing does jolt me, but I was too busy tearing into the naan, that had the look of ready-to-be-shred hide, and pinching the galauti kebab, brown and tender…I imagined it shudder. This was my moment and I was not going to let any Italian come in the way of eternal self-love.

He had been on the same flight a few years ago and Delhi, our destination, was until now a tourist spot. Nothing more. I thought Umberto and I had said our goodbyes at Palam airport. The weekend went by with me calling up friends to check about the new food joints in the capital. Someone said “Karim’s”. I had done that place to death, having spared no bakra from taking me there. No, no, I wanted something like that, but not quite.

My friend was irritable: “I am talking about Karim’s at Nizamuddin, not Chandni Chowk. The food is as good and it may suit your la-di-dah tastes.”

I decided to make that pilgrimage, planning for it all day, dreaming as I tried to get work done. And there stood Umberto, having tracked me down. He was all red and sweaty and gestured a lot. Finally, he said the words I was dying to hear, “I am hungry!” Catch him by the collar and drag him? Too unladylike. So I took my time. He waited for two hours. I had been wondering who to take along on my culinary journey, and here was my answer. A hungry man.

I picked up my bag and said, okay, I know of this place where we could eat. He violently shook his head, “Naw, naw, I eat too mutch in Aaghraa.” What? Did he not say the one word that sent a shiver down my spine: Hungry? “Aangry, I was aangry…you justh left…Now you musth doo saamthin.”

Before he spelled out anything, I said, sure, I’ll show you what. So in the sunset light I walked him through the lanes of Nizamuddin. I hated the calls of, “Ai, gore ko bulbul mil gayee.” It was worse when Umberto smiled at those guys and then turned to tell me, “You seem to be very popular, they all know you!” Phew, this place better be good. We went past ittarwallas, a small masjid, hawkers selling trinkets and beggars sending you on a guilt trip. They know a 'Karimwalla', because they come in vehicles and a restaurant staffer helps with the parking, and suddenly waves you in the direction you are supposed to go. It would seem it is two steps away, but it is a bit of a walk. There is too much noise, too much happening, and suddenly you turn a corner and a durban is standing there, stiff turban and stiffer manner.

I found myself giggling. The place was carpeted, air-conditioned and smelled wonderful. We were given a corner table, but it is not that kind of place, if you know what I mean. The corners here are tables pushed against the wall for two diners. The waiters are helpful, explaining every detail about the kebabs and rotis, though the menu itself is self-explanatory, but I like these things from a male mouth. Finally when it was getting too graphic I just told the chap, now don’t tell me the name of the butcher.

Karim’s is not your regular Mughlai joint; it is UP, Hyderabad, Old Delhi and partly mother’s kitchen rolled into one. I wish I could tell you about how I forced Umberto to try out the shahi tukra, saying that it came from the royal family. He was willing to believe anything. He even thought that the lemon I squeezed in the finger bowl was some regal custom.

All I know is that the food is good enough not to make you feel so satiated and full that you will not return. And whatever happened to Umberto? Oh, he wanted to thank me with a kiss. I told him, “Look, this has been very special for me…I just have to retain the flavour of crispy browned onions.”

He shrugged, and in the dark he could not even find my cheek.