The Exiled King and the Golden Tuber

Sept 30, 2025

In the labyrinthine bylanes of Kolkata, amidst the cacophony of trams and the humid embrace of the Hooghly River, there exists an olfactory empire that defies the city’s colonial geography. It is a scent composed of rose water, saffron, and animal fat—a sensory ghost of a kingdom lost more than a century ago.

To the uninitiated, Kolkata is the city of mustard fish and sweet curds. But peel back the layers of Bengal’s capital, and you find a culinary heart that beats in the rhythm of Lucknow. This is the story of the Kolkata Biryani, a dish that is arguably less about rice and meat, and more about a tragic history of exile, artistic longing, and a single, starchy innovation that changed Indian gastronomy forever: the potato.

The Court in Absentia

The story begins not in a kitchen, but with a coup. In 1856, the East India Company annexed the princely state of Awadh (Oudh), dethroning its ruler, Nawab Wajid Ali Shah. The Nawab was a man of peculiar contradictions—a hedonist and a devout artist, a ruler widely criticized for his administration yet deeply loved for his patronage of the arts. When the British stripped him of his crown, he did not choose silence. He chose Calcutta.

Exiled to Metiabruz, then a swampy outskirt on the banks of the river, the Nawab arrived with a heavy heart and a massive entourage. He brought with him his musicians, his nautch girls, his pigeon handlers, and, most crucially, his khansamas (royal cooks).

Wajid Ali Shah was intent on recreating his beloved Lucknow in the humid delta of Bengal. He built palaces, zoos, and imambaras. Metiabruz became known as a "Chota Lucknow" (Little Lucknow). But while the Nawab retained his taste for opulence, he no longer possessed the treasury to sustain it. The British pension was substantial, yet insufficient for the lavish feasts that had characterized the Awadhi court.

It was here, in the pressure cooker of reduced means and high aristocratic demand, that the distinct "Calcutta Mughlai" cuisine was born.

The Legend of the Potato

The defining characteristic of the Kolkata Biryani—the element that triggers fierce debates between culinary purists from Hyderabad to Delhi—is the presence of a whole, golden-brown potato.

Folklore often attributes this addition to poverty. The narrative suggests that as the Nawab’s coffers ran dry, meat became a luxury. To bulk up the rice and feed the massive entourage, the innovative chefs turned to the potato. However, historical gastronomy suggests a more nuanced reality.

In the mid-19th century, the potato was not a poor man's food in India; it was an exotic import from the New World, known as the Bilayati aloo. It was a novelty, a delicacy that fascinated the aristocracy. While financial constraints may have reduced the meat-to-rice ratio, the inclusion of the potato was likely a masterstroke of texture rather than merely an act of desperation.

The genius of the Metiabruz cooks lay in how they treated this tuber. They didn't just boil it; they let it simmer in the yakhni (rich meat stock) along with the meat. The result was a potato that acted as a sponge, absorbing the essence of spices, fat, and saffron, becoming a velvety, savory delight that many Calcuttans today argue is superior to the meat itself.

The Architecture of Aroma

What distinguishes the Mughal influence in Kolkata from its North Indian roots is the subtlety of the spice profile. This is not the fiery, masala-heavy biryani of Hyderabad or the robust, meaty pilaus of Delhi.

The Kolkata variation relies on the "Dum Pukht" style of slow cooking, but with a lighter hand. The distinct aroma comes from the liberal use of Mitha Attar (edible perfume), rose water, and Kewra water (screwpine essence). The spice blend is aromatic rather than pungent—green cardamom, mace, and nutmeg take center stage over chili powder.

This shift in flavor profile mirrors the city itself. Just as the Bengali language softens the hard consonants of Hindi, the Kolkata Mughal kitchen softened the aggressive spices of the North, adding a touch of sweetness and fragrance that appealed to the Bengali palate. It is a syncretic dish: Awadhi technique married to Bengali sentimentality.

Beyond the Biryani: The Rezala and The Chaap

While the biryani remains the monarch of this cuisine, the Mughal influence extends deep into the curry bowls of the city. Perhaps the most intriguing legacy of the Metiabruz exile is the Rezala.

Rarely found outside Bengal and Bhopal, the Rezala is a yogurt-based stew, typically made with mutton or chicken. It is deceptively pale, white, and creamy, yet it carries a complex heat from dried red chilies and black pepper. It is believed that this dish was perfected in the kitchens of the Nawab’s descendants, a direct lineage to the Afghan and Central Asian roots of the Mughal dynasty, yet preserved almost exclusively in the humid heat of Kolkata.

Then there is the Chaap—ribs of meat slow-cooked in a wide, flat vessel (tawa) in a thick, poppy-seed and cashew-based gravy. Unlike the tandoori grills of Punjab, the Kolkata Chaap is slow-braised in fat, resulting in meat that falls off the bone at the mere suggestion of a fork.

From Royal Exile to Street Staple

Wajid Ali Shah died in 1887, and with him, the "Chota Lucknow" of Metiabruz began to fade. However, the cooks who had served the royal household did not vanish. Deprived of royal patronage, they moved into the city proper, opening small eating houses to feed the growing merchant class and the colonial workforce.

This marked the democratization of royal food. What was once the exclusive preserve of the Nawab’s table became the Sunday ritual of the middle-class Bengali clerk.

Institutions like the Royal Indian Hotel (established in 1905), followed later by legends like Aminia, Shiraz, and Arsalan, codified this cuisine. They standardized the recipe: the yellow-tinted long-grain rice, the tender piece of mutton, the singular egg, and the mandatory potato.

Today, these restaurants are not merely eateries; they are institutions of heritage. Walk into any of these establishments during the chaotic fervor of Durga Puja or the festive days of Eid, and you will witness a cross-section of humanity. You will see the wealthy elite dining alongside weary travelers, united by the pursuit of the perfect plate.

A Legacy of Resilience

The food culture of Kolkata is often romanticized through the lens of the British Raj—the clubs, the cutlets, and the afternoon tea. But the Mughal influence represents a different kind of history. It is a history of resilience.

When Wajid Ali Shah looked out over the Hooghly, pining for the Gomti river of Lucknow, he likely never imagined that his legacy would not be the buildings he constructed, but the recipes his kitchen perfected. He lost his kingdom, but he conquered the palate of a city that was not his own.

In a rapidly modernizing India, where culinary fusion often means hasty, soulless experimentation, the Kolkata Biryani stands as a testament to slow, historical fusion. It is a reminder that culture is not static; it travels, it adapts, and sometimes, it takes root in the most unexpected places—like a potato hidden in a mound of saffron rice.

To eat Mughlai food in Kolkata is to partake in a 160-year-old act of remembrance. It is a sensory journey that tells us that while empires may fall and kings may die, good food is immortal.

A Legacy That Refuses to Fade

As the sun sets over the Hooghly, a family gathers around a copper handi (pot). Steam escapes as the lid is lifted, revealing fragrant biryani — a dish conceived in Mughal palaces, perfected on Kolkata’s streets, and now passed down through generations.

Kolkata doesn’t just eat Mughlai food. It breathes it.

In a city where history is never buried — only layered — the Mughal kitchen lives on, one cardamom pod at a time.

Bon appétit — or as they say here, “Bhalo kore kheyo!”

📌 Fun Fact: The word “dum” (slow‑steam cooking) comes from Persian dum meaning “breath.” In Kolkata, every biryani is literally “cooked with a breath of history.”