Olive Kapil at a market stall in Old Delhi

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Glorious food in unapologetic surroundings

by Arun Kapil

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My spice journey has, happily, taken me on many an adventure around the world—not least to the place where my company, Green Saffron, sources its ingredients: the spice cupboard of the world is India. Meeting the farmers, watching the crops grow through the seasons, and seeing the support we are providing in local communities genuinely grounds me. In 2013 on the timeline of my odyssey through life, when we still went together on family trips, we headed to North India and to a favourite homestay in Delhi. Planning an itinerary while breakfasting on masala omelettes, we agreed to head over to the spice markets of Khari Baoli, to wander its streets, and to pop into Karim’s for a late lunch and grab a bite of something delicious.

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Up and at it! We head into the South Delhi sunshine, passing through dusty doorways, walking past security guards with nods of acknowledgment. Adjusting our caps, sunhats, and glasses and still buzzing slightly from the sweet, spicy chai and Parle-G biscuits, we amble along from Block D to Block A and come out onto the main road and into a beeping chorus of cars and buses and the chatter of passers-by. After a few days in an Indian city, this is the background sound that ends up reassuring you that the world is ticking along and everything as it should be—this noise is a comfort you miss when you leave.

It takes only minutes for keen-eyed three-wheeled street taxis to spot a gaggle of tourists like us. Soon we are surrounded by paan-spitting rickshaw cyclists imploring us to get into their carriages. We pile into three rickshaws. With our jumpers on, phones in hand, backpacks slung over shoulders and knick-knacks dangling, we head out into the cold haze. We go north towards Chandni Chowk where Karim’s is tucked into the side of an Old Delhi street. This is a journey best suited to travelling by taxi. We are keen to relive the bumpy adventures of youth and reach Karim’s hallowed, dingy dining rooms.

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By this time Dad is too ill to travel through the Old Delhi streets, but he is keen for us to all experience its delights in every way possible. So, with his blessing and Dad’s credit card tucked safely away, off we go—my brothers, our wives, Mum, and our niece and nephew. We are hungry and full of anticipation. All of us are now in the rickshaws, whizzing through, dodging in and out between trucks, cars and taxis. Our rickshaw men swear and gesticulate at scooters and motorbikes. Everyone is hooting madly as we make our way. Our skinny, unassumingly ‘super-fit’ driver, with a lit beedi hanging out his mouth, peddles energetically.

Thirty minutes slip by. We take a turn or two more and now there are crowds of pedestrians in front of us, cows and buffaloes mill around—sniffing and snorting they greet us as we go past. The roads get difficult and muddy and test the drivers’ skills. The rickshaws lurch through impossibly slim gaps and avoid implausibly large potholes. We are happy! We arrive in Old Delhi, pull-up outside the Jama Masjid and clamber down, stiff—unfurling wind-chilled limbs. We dust ourselves down and hand the grateful rickshaw men a few stained and crinkled rupee notes, and then set out along the alleyway into the busy Matia Mahal Bazaar.

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We pass abundance—beautifully displayed foodstuff of all kinds. There are spice wallahs, sellers of fruit, nuts and *jaggery, and vegetable stalls, hardware sellers. We turn unexpectedly into a secret alleyway and see the innocuous looking entrance to the restaurant. Flora, my young niece, is horrified at first: ‘We can’t be going in there. That can’t be it. There’s a man sitting on the wall cooking with his feet. Look! There!’. She points. Sure enough, sitting cross-legged by the entrance is a young man in front of small pillow-like dough balls, deftly shaping them into naan breads. He pats them securely against the insides of a red-hot tandoor oven. When they are puffed up and perfect, smelling glorious, ready to eat, he stacks them into a woven basket. “He’s not cooking with his feet, Doobs! That’s just how he’s sitting. Come on!”

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We walk past the young chap. He smiles brightly at us. Our confused niece and nephew stick to their parent’s legs like glue. Into the dimly lit hallway we go. It’s more like an extension of the street we have just left. Open gutters run on either side of a the cobbled path. There are the sounds of clattering and banging pots in the heavily spiced air. I can hear the white-noise buzz of high-pitched conversation, the spattering of barked orders and a constant ringing from the tills as the sales are tallied up. This is Karim’s—a tingling, bustling hubbub of organised chaos. Just brilliant!

He’s not cooking with his feet, Doobs!

Going on appearances perhaps the restaurant wouldn’t be passing a strict Health & Safety Executive inspection any time soon, but so what! My sister-in-law breaks into Hindi, catching the attention of an approaching, smartly dressed waiter. He mumbles something, points ahead, and we follow him obediently through cellar-like halls, and climb up some worn, thin, stone steps, passing tables full of people eating with wholehearted enthusiasm.

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We were taken to a spot in the corner where The waiter presents us with beautifully coloured menus plastered with awards. The menu tells the story of the restaurant’s beginnings. It was opened in 1913 by Haji Karimuddin son of a royal chef, originally it was a Dhaba, a roadside restaurant or food stall, there to serve the food to the subjects of the Moghul. The menu is full of mutton dishes, all sorts of dahls, vegetable curries, kebabs. There are different tandoori grill selections, breads, fizzy drinks and much, much more.

The waiter prompts us to place our order. After a while, spotless, warm and white, heavy-porcelain plates arrive. They are given a quick polish with a cloth and placed in front of us next to freshly laundered linen napkins. Then the waiters bring us bottled water, papads and pickles, onion and cucumber ‘kachumber’, an array of chilli achaars and a beautifully sweet mango chutney.

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Mum insists on squirting a drop or two of antiseptic gel onto each of our hands. Flora and Felix appreciate her gesture. The main dishes arrive at regular intervals, piping hot—straight from the tawa grill. They are placed with precision adding to the weight of the loaded table.

We tuck into charred tandoori roti, generously stuffed buttery paratha, billowing naan, and lick our fingers as we eat from a table set with freshly cooked kebabs, perfectly moist and burnished chicken thighs, and spiced and hot Dahl Tadka. I bite into green chillies, as we pass plates and bowls over to one another, and look up occasionally as more bread and generous servings of rice pilau platters arrive. Everyone is mopping up the juices from their plates and wiping their cheeks and faces with the napkins. All is spiced and everything is so well seasoned!

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I loved the food at Karim’s, the glorious unapologetic surroundings, the grumpy, fast moving, smartly dressed waiters. As I look around our table—at Mum, my brothers, my sisters-in-law, my niece, nephew and my beautiful wife, Olive, I know this is a time I will remember. I know this is a defining food memory for me. I look around, take everything in, then get back to the delicious job at hand.

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Ars Notoria, March Recipe

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Try this richly spiced North Indian Chicken Curry, inspired by Karim’s. Serve with basmati rice, red onion rings, and lime. The dish serves four people.

North Indian Chicken Curry

Ingredients

½ large white onion, peeled
40g ginger root
5 cloves garlic, peeled
1kg chicken drumsticks (bone-in, skin removed)
450–550g chicken thighs (bone-in, skin removed)
Spice blend: 1 tsp turmeric, 1 tsp black pepper, 2 tsp cumin, 1 heaped tsp coriander, ½ tsp chilli powder, ½ tsp cinnamon
1 tsp sea salt
50ml light olive oil
Whole spices: 1 star anise, 3 cloves, 4 cardamom pods, ½ tsp fenugreek seeds
2 green bird’s eye chillies (halved)
600ml warm water

Method

1. Preheat oven to 200°C (Gas 7).
2. Blitz onion, ginger, and garlic into a paste with 1 tbsp water. Set aside.
3. Coat chicken with spice blend, salt, and half the oil.
4. Heat remaining oil in a casserole. Toast whole spices for 30 seconds, add onion paste, and fry for 5–6 minutes until fragrant.
5. Add chicken, fry gently for 5 minutes, then add chillies and water. Cover and bake for 40–45 minutes.

Serve immediately with boiled basmati rice, generously coating with the gravy, a few slices of red onion to the side and a wedge of lime. Yum. Enjoy!

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* Jaggery – a solid dark brown piece of unrefined sugar

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Arun Kapil, Food Editor of AN Editions, founded and owns a spice company, Green Saffron Spices. He works sustainably direct with partner farms mainly to the west and north of India and some in the south. He works directly from source. He owns total chain of custody, depleting links in the chain, bringing direct line of sight to fields of cultivation. Arun and his partner Olive began by selling one or two sachets a week of bespoke blends with accompanying recipes at a farmers market stall in Mahon Point, Cork. They now sell spices and seasonings to globally based blue chips, onward food processors and are just in the throes of re-launching their brand, based on Modern India meal solutions, sauces, spice blends, naan, condiments and basmati. They started the business boot-strapping from the bottom up, managed with a good deal of jugaard. He considers himself to be a masaalchi and at best a khansama supported by a strong network of Irish, Indian and British agri-experts and businessmen.