A new book digs into Delhi’s layered food history
Pushpesh Pant’s book is a comprehensive effort in defining who is a ‘Dilliwala’ and what constitutes the city’s cuisine
How would you define the cuisine of Delhi? Popular perception either brands the food of the Capital as “Punjabi" or paints it with the sweeping brush stroke of Mughal cuisine. If you were to excavate the city’s food history, however, you would find a vibrant cross-section of layers—ranging from the Vedic period to the modern Indian—which defy stereotypes. In this regard, historian-author Pushpesh Pant’s latest book, From the King’s Table to Street Food (Speaking Tiger), becomes a commendable exercise in defining who is a “Dilliwala" and what constitutes Delhi’s cuisine. “Delhi from the time of its existence as Indraprastha to that of the NCR has never had a common or shared identity of its own. It has received a diversity of cultural influences, and residents have adapted these to their own needs," he writes.
Pant, during a telephonic interview, further elaborates that calling Delhi a “melting pot" is a misnomer. Rather, it can be termed as a confluence with different streams intermingling. “My son came up with the metaphor of a multilayered rock, in which many fragments are distinctly discernible. It is like a Parsi faluda, or a parfait, wherein you can scoop many different layers at the same time," he says.
Just like the culinary history of Delhi, the book too has many layers to it. One segment offers a journey into the past, wherein the author goes beyond the documented history of Delhi, dating back to the 11th century. Pant looks at mentions of royal repasts in the Mahabharat, featuring ingredients like bamboo shoots and saffron brought as tribute from faraway regions such as Assam and Kashmir. You then travel with dishes along the Silk Route to the kitchens of the Turko-Afghan rulers in Delhi at the end of the 12th century. Accounts of travellers such as Ibn Battuta bring out the contrasts between the opulent royal banquets and the meagre gruels eaten by the poor during the reign of Muhammad Bin Tughlaq. From the rustic, the reader then moves on to the refined, as culinary arts acquire an elegant touch under the Mughals.
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Pant also delves into the cuisines of the various communities of Kayastha, Baniya and Khatri, which rose to prominence as treasurers, scribes and administrators, just before the city of Shahjahanabad was commissioned. “Not only professional cooks but traders and craftspersons, scholars and artists gravitated towards the new city," he writes. For instance, Sitaram Bazaar housed Kashmiri Brahmins, and a square away from that lived their Muslim neighbours. Baniya families had havelis in Katra and Neel, while Dharampura was an Aggarwal-Jain enclave. Members of the Marwari community from Rajasthan also made their way to Shahjahanabad, eventually paving the way for mishthan bhandars.
The strength of the book lies in bringing together of the known, the scattered and the oftoverlooked. So, you will find mentions of the bhatiyari style of cooking at the sarais—Pant mentions that the 2,000kmlong Grand Trunk Road once featured 1,700 sarais, which took into account the diverse tastes of the travellers, the staple dishes of the dak bungalows that sprung up with the arrival of the East India Company officials, the food ecosystem that emerged at the temporary city set up in King’s Camp for the Coronation Durbar in 1911. Pant also chronicles the cuisines of the Christian, Parsi and Anglo Indian communities in the city, and how migrants from south India—who accompanied British government officials—and refugees brought their own flavours to the culinary landscape.
The book is as much about the sociopolitical history of Delhi as much as it is about the food. However, in no way is it a gateway to nostalgia. Rather, it looks at how the same city in its many avatars has been perceived differently by various generations, including Gen Z and Alpha. “The last census was held in 2011, and the kids born at the time would be 13 or 14 years in age now. They are exposed to many influences such as K-Pop and K-Dramas, and are experimenting with food based on that. Parents are also allowing them the freedom to do so," he says.
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From his vantage position in 2023—when the book was written—Pant has been able to assimilate the many influences, sift through all that has remained constant through centuries and the fads that have come and gone. “Traditional ‘classics’ reappear in slightly changed form, both in terms of spicing and plating. The kebabs and tikkas, lentils and paneer, the milk-based desserts have survived recurring assaults by multinational fast food chains….," he writes. “The big business of food has been trying hard to manufacture a homogenized taste that obliterates the diversity of local flavours. This strategy has only partially succeeded in Delhi. They have had to make changes to retain a foothold… ."
Unlike his previous books such as India Cookbook, Food Path: Cuisine Along the Grand Trunk Road, and more, From the King’s Table to Street Food has a strong sense of personal history. Enmeshed with the broader history of Delhi, this makes for an engaging narrative. “Writing this book has been an intensely moving experience. It is about the shared experiences of my parents, son and granddaughters. As a child, I would travel to the city with my parents from Mukteshwar, eventually moving here in 1965 as a young adult," says Pant. “My son has stayed here since the age of four and both my granddaughters have been born here. So, this is a memoir, featuring 70 years of lived experiences of four generations."
So, you see Delhi from the eyes of a child, who would savour sohan halwa from Ghantewala, Sindhi halwa from Chaina Ram, pickles and preserves by Harnarain Gopinath, and pastries from Wenger’s, during his many visits. When he arrived in the Capital in 1965 as a young adult, Pant discovered the joys of living independently, coming of age, forging friendships, falling in and out of love, and more. And all through, food was the constant companion.
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One of the pertinent points that he makes is about the critical role of social class in the way one has engaged with Delhi through the decades. “[Back in the 1960s] The rich and the beautiful, those born to privilege, did not have to rub shoulders with the masses who thronged the PRRM coffee house, and carefully counted even the fraction of a rupee burning a hole in their pocket," he writes in the book. At that time, the India Coffee House, better known as the PRRM, or the Price Rise Resistance Movement Coffee House, which became the rendezvous of “writers, painters, unemployed loungers, argumentative Indians". Later, during the Emergency, the PRRM was asked to vacate the premises in favour of a glitzier Rambles. “This was the time I began to understand the close relationship between affordable food, freedom of expression and democracy," Pant writes.
In the chapters about Delhi as the capital of a newly independent nation, the reader ends meeting several noted personalities—Pant’s friends— who shaped his relationship with food, be it media personality Sharad Dutt, who hosted vibrant potlucks, Rashmi Dar, who whipped up memorable Kashmiri meals, Puran Devi Acharya, the gracious hostess at the Triveni Tea Terrace, and writer Krishna Sobti.
“During the wars with China and Pakistan in the 1960s, one saw scarcity. However, post the liberation of Bangladesh, and with 20 years of being an independent nation, people were brimming with confidence and splurging on food. At Standard and Gaylords, we occasionally splurged on hamburgers and steak. One could sit for hours and play the jukebox," says Pant. After the Emergency, Delhi started changing rapidly with private colonies coming up in areas like Greater Kailash, Safdarjung Development Area and Green Park. “People once again had the money to buy houses in there, and that led to the rise of snack shops in neighbourhood marketplaces," he says.
For Pant, the book also allowed him to express his views on two disturbing features in the evolution of Delhi—gender and caste bias. He mentions how patriarchy prevailed across families, irrespective of religion or class. “Even in affluent families, women ate last. In some cases, they would cook meat but were not allowed to partake of the same. Or it would be frowned upon if they stepped out to eat street food, they would have to consume only what their menfolk brought from the shops," he says. In the book, Pant reflects that the turn towards the 21st century only achieved partial liberation for women. In kitty parties, for instance, women could mingle only with other women. “They were allowed to imbibe mocktails, with, only occasionally, a daring lady ordering cocktails. It is only in the twenty-first century, when single women raising kids on their own, became the bread winners and heads of the household that those in the good business had to cater to this segment," he writes.
The book ends with Pant’s views on who is an asli Dilliwala. “It is whoever chooses to live in Delhi, calls it home and enriches its culinary repertoire with his own, while enjoying the confluence of flavours," he concludes.
