Farman Ali, the last of the great chefs

While the lights of Dubai-esque skyscrapers speak of a new Bangalore and its ambition, the salubrious weather on the terrace is a testament to an old city — pleasant and genteel, never mind traffic, chaos or climate change!

This convergence of the old and the new is a theme, as I sit down to a meal at Falak, the new restaurant at Leela Bhartiya City. The meal is to flow like a quintessential 19th century Lucknowi dastaan (story), hyperbolic and stylised, to mimic the oral storytelling tradition, dastaan-e-goi.

In my bookcase, I have a copy of Tilism-i-Hoshruba, the truly first Indo-Islamic romance epic, an extension of the dastans of Amir Hamza, of the Persian tradition, albeit in translation. When it was first published, in a serialised form, between 1881-93, by the iconic Naval Kishore Press in Lucknow, it marked an important moment for the Urdu-speaking-and listening audience of northern India, long familiar with the Persian romance tradition — with fantasy, adventure and the implausible built in. But I turn to Hamza, to also dive into the inherent syncreticism on the pages, as the mores of a Persian world collide and merge with those of local Braj Bhasha-speaking cultures of the Indo-Gangetic plain.

Finding nuanced Avadhi in Bengaluru

It’s a surprise to find a restaurant referencing this art form, to present Lucknowi (as also other Mughalai) dishes. Used to so much pastiche when it comes to Avadhi, the detailing in the menu is also unexpected. The food that arrives confirms that this perhaps is one of the most nuanced Avadhi/Mughalai restaurant opening in recent times — here in Bengaluru, rather implausibly, rather than Delhi, Mumbai or even London! Everything falls into place, however, when Farman Ali, all of 70, a chef who cooks behind the fiery range and sigri himself, and presides over the kitchens of Falak, makes his appearance.

When he hears about of my own Lucknowi antecedents, Ali abandons the idea of narrating food lore. With an extreme politeness that marks old Nawabi etiquette, he asks me, “ Ab aap ko kya dastan sunaye? [what possible tales can I tell you?].” And bursts into poetry, instead!

The rest of the evening goes by with the chef dropping verses from Daag or Ghalib or the other few who made 19th century Delhi one of the most literary cities in the world, even if we have forgotten that genre of poetry of lament created almost exactly at the time as Shelley, Wordsworth and the Romantics.

One of the dishes served at Falak
| Photo Credit: Special arrangement

Parts of an ancient story

For Ali, I realise, this is not performance — though it is quite in sync with modern chefs expected to be performative as they spend time building brands ‘front of the house’. Instead, this is a way of life, a culture that has all but completely faded. As the meal progresses — the nihari (pepper-laced stew of old Delhi’s spice market, concocted, according to lore, to ward off cold and flu thought to emanate from the Yamuna canal in Chandni Chowk) being replaced by the qorma ( nihari evolved into the subtle Avadhi qorma, catering to aristocrats who thought it ill-mannered to be smelling of spices after a meal) being replaced by the ‘ balai’ka tukda for dessert (not dubbed ‘ shahi’ royal bread pudding here; balai being the correct term for clotted cream) — we talk not food but art.

“After 1857, so many artisans and poets fled Delhi for the Deccan,” says Ali. “Culture spreads like this.” He is right, of course. But the ghazal or qasidas aside, it’s also the biryani that has diffused. Farman Ali’s is the old Delhi/Lucknowi style (he grew up in old Delhi and still has a house there) where rice is cooked in stock, and the ‘ pulao’ is not the layered and overtly spiced dish that its Hyderabadi cousin is. Old ‘Nakhlauwallas’ — such as yours truly — contend there was no Avadhi biryani at all, before the restaurants took over, just many fanciful and well-documented pulaos such as the ‘ moti’ (pearls) or the ‘cuckoo’, served with fried onions and thin yoghurt, no chutney or gravy.

The man behind Jamavar

Ali worked in restaurants in Delhi and Dubai before being handpicked by The Leela’s Capt CP Krishnan Nair to create the food of Jamavar nationally, to cook and serve pan-Indian food. Based in Bengaluru, he curiously escaped much national attention, retiring just before the pandemic, but was called back by the owners of Bhartiya City, foodies themselves, to cook food closer to his roots.

If cuisine is an expression of a culture, at a particular point in history, its custodians and storytellers are as important as the taste of dishes. In India, at this moment in time, it is perhaps important to look back on the custodians of the old Urdu-speaking cultures and their culinary expressions. What kind of a society produced these stylised dishes? Farman Ali, in many ways, is the last of the great chefs, many of whom were feted much more and earlier in their careers than him — such as Imtiaz Qureshi of ITC Hotels (and his family, such as son-in-law Ghulam Qureshi of Dumpukht), and chef Ghulam Rasool of Taj Hotels.