Last fortnight, the Uttar Pradesh Government announced its newly approved ‘One District, One Cuisine’ (ODOC) scheme. The state’s Minister for Micro, Small and Medium Enterprises, Rakesh Sachan, unveiled the scheme which broadly follows the guidelines of the ODOP or ‘One District, One Product’ scheme — Chief Minister Yogi Adityanath’s much-touted pet project launched back in 2018.
The ODOC scheme, for all intents and purposes, aims to promote local and hyper-regional delicacies from across the state’s 75 districts. So far, so good; the list however has proved difficult for many to swallow; not just food experts and critics, but also for many UP-wallahs, who celebrate their state’s varied culinary traditions. The reason is simple: the list that features 208 delicacies, has a jaw dropping omission — the complete absence of any non-vegetarian dishes!
Uttar Pradesh, and especially its capital Lucknow, has been synonymous with its unique Ganga-Jamuni heritage. For the uninitiated, this translates into a syncretic, symbiotic culture that seamlessly weaves both Hindu and Muslim traditions into one rich societal fabric. And nowhere is this more reflected than in the state’s food. Uttar Pradesh’s plains were largely part of the erstwhile kingdoms of Awadh, Rampur — vassal states of the Mughals — and countless smaller thikhaanas, nawabi and Hindu alike, each of whom developed robust culinary traditions. As a result, Subz ki Tehri — the quintessential Hindu, UP-style vegetable pulao — sits happily alongside a fragrant mutton or chicken Yakhni Pulao, and no one sees any contradiction. Which is why many were incredulous that the storied kebabs, qormas and biryanis were all MIA!
Galaouti Kebabs. Istock
Think Lucknow, and the immediate associations are chikankari embroidery and the legendary Tunde Mian’s silken Galaouti Kebabs. On the ODOC list, however, the city has been granted chaat (a street food, so a fair shout), malai makkhan (a winter-only dessert) and “mango produce” — a catchall phrase if ever there was one! The nearby village of Kakor, which gave the world its paté-like Kakori Kebab, is nowhere on the map.
Similarly, Rampur, with its distinctive nawabi cuisine, gets Habshi Halwa — the word habshi is a derogatory word referring to people of African descent — and so, the sweet gets its pejorative name because of its dark brown colour. The eponymous Moradabadi biryani has met a similar roadblock, losing out to dal dishes, no doubt delicious. This super-popular biryani (almost always made with chicken), has migrated — like much of UP’s labour force — and is now available on practically every street corner across India’s cities. Its distinctive taste, perhaps due to a surprising secret ingredient — a specific brand of green chilli pickle — has earned its manufacturers a pretty packet; but that’s a whole other story!
There are some pretty absurd inclusions too: Mainpuri boasts of “roasted potatoes”, and more baffling, Rae Bareli gets “spices” ! Seriously? When did potatoes (even though almost everyone loves the humble aloo), and masalas qualify as “cuisines”?
Rather than a definitive guide to eating your way through the state, the list reads more like a halwai ki dukaan menu of sweets, rather than distinctive cuisines. Naming the scheme ‘One District, One Dish’ might have made more sense!
One can only assume that this veg-only mapping is deliberate, though Minister Sachan denies it, saying it is based on surveys conducted by district-level committees — comprising administrators, teachers and experts — and is open to revisions. I have no idea whether specific guidelines were issued, but the conspicuous absence of meat-based dishes does seem strange..
According to Central government data, upwards of 70 per cent of India’s population eats meat, which logically would include many Hindu communities, quite a few of which are Brahmins. In my home state Maharashtra, the Saraswat Gaud Brahmins are non-vegetarian, as are Kashmiri Pandits in North India. While Kashmiri Pandits do eat meat, they skip the onions and garlic in their cooking. My Bengali Brahmin in-laws are enthusiastic fish and meat eaters as is the rest of the wider community; in fact, the Bengali repertoire includes a dish called Niramish Mangsho or “vegetarian meat”, made during Durga Puja. And no, this is not a soya chunk curry; again, like the Kashmiri Pandits, it ditches the onions and garlic, and voila, it becomes “vegetarian” and therefore can be offered as bhog or prasad to Maa!
Habshi Halwa. Istock
This high statistic of non-veg eaters in India by no way suggests that these chaps are downing butter chicken on a daily basis; diets are mostly plant-based, with a meatier morsel thrown in from time to time or on special occasions. This basically means that meat (or fish and chicken) is most likely eaten perhaps only a few times a month, if at that. Animal protein in India is typically expensive and largely out of the reach of most, at least on a regular basis. So your subsistence-level Muslim farmer or factory worker is as likely as his Hindu neighbourto make dal-roti or chawal his staple.
State-wise surveys show the highest consumption in the southern, north-eastern and eastern states (almost 80 to 90 per cent). In West Bengal, which recently saw an Assembly election, “maach” (fish) and “Mangsho” (mutton) practically became emotive battle cries. The two are so deeply etched in the Bengali psyche that some star campaigners from the ruling BJP had to double down to reassuringly eat plates of “maach bhaat” (fish and rice) alongside their bhadralok brethren! Amongst the states with the lowest percentages are Rajasthan, Gujarat (no surprises there) and interestingly Punjab, with nearly half its population eschewing meat, thereby poking a gaping hole into the standard trope of the hearty Patiala peg-swilling, tandoori chicken-wielding Punjabi! That said, in Amritsar, most dhabas like Kesar, have from the very beginning, served up a purely vegetarian menu.
Back to UP; according to the 2011 census, the largest number of Muslims in the country — roughly 20 per cent of the state’s population — live here, the rest making up a Hindu majority. Amongst this majority, the Mathur Kayasth community, for instance, has a remarkable repertoire of both vegetarian and non-vegetarian recipes. They were traditionally employed as book-keepers and lawyers, initially at royal Muslim courts, and eventually, at the British daftars and kacheris. Their food embodies these fluid influences, while retaining at its core an unwavering Hindu-ness.
Nihari. Istock
Madhur Jaffrey, arguably India’s earliest cookery export to the West, hails from an illustrious Mathur Kayasth family. Although based in Delhi’s Civil Lines — a road here is named after her grandfather, Rai Bahadur Raj Narain — Jaffrey’s parents spent a number of years in Kanpur when the young Madhur Bahadur was a child. Her charming memoir, ‘Climbing The Mango Trees: A Memoir of a Childhood in India’, not only provides an insight into this fascinating, albeit, largely privileged community; but is also peppered with recipes.
‘Dastarkhwan-e-Awadh: The Cuisine of Awadh’, published by HarperCollins and co-authored by Sangeeta Bhatnagar and RK Saxena — yep, you guessed it, both of Lucknow Kayasth heritage — is another treasure trove of classic Awadhi recipes.
Uttar Pradesh is undoubtedly the land of Ayodhya, but it also the home of the Taj Mahal. And if as the minister suggests, the primary aim of the scheme is to promote traditional cuisine through improved branding, packaging and marketing, then surely the slow-cooked Nihari or flaky ulte tave ka parantha and Mughlai sheermals would benefit as much as Mathura’s lal pedha (which incidentally I love), and Agra ka petha (okay, this one not so much).
Foodies across not just the state, but dare I say the country, would rejoice if some of UP’s iconic non-vegetarian dishes re-emerged from behind the burqa as it were!
— The writer is a freelance contributor
