Nanima’s Chicken Biriyani
Food has the power to evoke a deep sense of emotion and that’s just one of the reasons certain foods are so important to me. Just the smell of onions frying in butter or a shaak no vaghar (tempering of spices) can bring me a sense of safety, comfort and togetherness. All emotions that I crave more and more as I age.
If I were to tell the story of my life through dishes that have made an impression on me, Nanima’s chicken biriyani would feature very significantly. In fact, my Nanima probably carries a lot of the blame for my obsession with taste.
Growing up as one of the few womenfolk in her family, she was expected to cook for her many brothers. So feeding her six children came easy to her. Feeding her family was the maternal duty from which she drew immense pride and mercifully, genuine enjoyment. When the time came, this maternal duty of course extended to her numerous grandchildren who spent countless after-school evenings gathered around her table.
She is probably the most spectacular cook I have encountered in my entire life. Her understanding of flavour seemed to transcend anything scientific… she just ‘knew’. I never saw her follow any recipes or measure quantities (if she did, this happened in her mind). By no means was her cooking standard Gujarati fare. Her childhood in Madagascar meant she knew how to use coconut milk and cook seafood, living all over Kenya made her curious about Swahili techniques, and a genuine desire to delight her family meant that she was constantly curious. I vividly remember her response whenever she tasted something impressive outside of her own kitchen ‘kasu jaanva malyu’ (we got to learn something new today).
The mere mention of chicken biriyani elicits a feeling of incomparable warmth. It takes me back immediately to the memory of Nani’s vast saree-clad behind shuffling down the sunny narrow verandah of Wambugu Grove to get to her al fresco kitchen – the temple of taste.
Any return to Kenya for the holidays meant it was only a matter of time before the mystical words would circulate among the Sarvia grandkidlets: ‘Nani is making biriyani this weekend’. Preparations began at least a day in advance: with the chopping of vast amounts of onions and potatoes for deep frying, soaking of masoor (lentils) , Sarah the househelp grinding fresh coconut on the balcony, sourcing the chicken and preparing the jiko (charcoal stove).
‘I knew what was cooking when I saw that weird coconut machine on the floor’
Nikita
I followed her around, asking for things to do – she had me running up and down the balcony fetching ingredients, peeling potatoes, grating tomatoes and – my favourite job – tasting deep fried onions and potatoes. Nana would always want to get involved and Nanima would graciously let him stir the chicken as she marinated it with garlic, yoghurt and various spices. He would boast about his contributions, cigarette dangling from his lips, and she would roll her eyes with a smile.
The day would unfold with various family members filtering in throughout the cooking process. I would stand proudly next to my Nana as he stirred the giant sufuriya (pot) on the kitchen balcony, greeting the family as they filtered in.
Once the chicken curry had been appropriately cooked down; ‘thel chutvo pade’ (the oil should release) – the biriyani was finally assembled. Fluffy par cooked coconut rice would be alternatively layered with deep fried potatoes, onions, masoor and thick chicken curry. As the final layer of rice was installed, Nana would be summoned back to the balcony to lift the sufuriya onto the jiko and the lid would be crowned with a few glowing charcoals to bring heat from the top. This final stage created the most delicious anticipation of all. The kids would all return to the living room to sit on the carpet whilst the dads talked about dad things around us, Nana a constant presence in the corner with a glass of beer in one hand and the telly remote in the other. The mums would hold the fort in the kitchen, helping Nani make salad and lay the table.
Finally, Nani would announce the biriyani was ready and we would rush to sit down at the oval lacquered dining table covered in the trademark pink and blue checked table cloth. The children and men would eat first, followed by the women (something that the Sarvia grandkidlets would never let fly today). It never felt chaotic, it was just the right amount of pleasantly busy that always felt comforting. It was always a celebration – not just of a day’s worth of cooking, but a celebration of the sheer achievement of having gathered the entire PN Sarvia family.
Like many in the family, I noted down the recipe for this magnificent dish many years ago. I have attempted to recreate it, once or twice and my mother has tried more times than this. And even though our valiant attempts were commendable enough, as my cousin Keena puts it ‘no-one will ever be able to make it quite like her.’
‘No-one will ever be able to make it quite like her’
Keena
Recreating the experience in Walsall was never the same as it was in Nairobi. Making it secretively in our climate controlled Walsall kitchen and eating it furtively whilst watching the clock waiting for my devout Hare Krishna Dadima to return never did hit quite the same.
Today I promise my Nanima, that never again will shame or guilt ever be associated with her wonderful legacy of a recipe. When we remember her by trying to recreate it, it will be with pride and respect for the dish that has given us the gift of so many happy memories. Her iconic biriyani remains a reminder that the most important recipes aren’t just about the food – they’re about the stories we tell, the memories we create and the safety, comfort and togetherness of family.
