I stumble upon the square naan accidentally. Surrounded by instant noodles, lukewarm samosas and wilting sandwiches — all inevitable airport staples — I am waiting to board a flight to Hyderabad armed with nothing but a shaker filled with whey protein and an apple. *Self congratulatory smirk*
I give up on my book after three attempts: each time I reach the second paragraph of chapter one, an overactive toddler wearing deliberately squeaky shoes screeches past, followed by a clutch of loudly-clapping relatives. Settings like this call for listicles, not literature, I decide. Google obliges immediately. “20 dishes in Hyderabad to try before you die.”
A trifle morbid, I admit. But, I’m beset by FOMO these days. Besides, social media is hard work. I can barely keep up with Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram as it is. Now I’m told I need to get on Snapchat as well. From what I can see, this chiefly involves pouting while holding food aloft, and typing “#NomNom.” Determined to bump up my Klout score, I grimly decide to go in search of photogenic, yet obscure, street food in Hyderabad, while wearing suitably shiny shoes: thus hitting all the top social media obsessions in one efficient trip. #NomNomForTheWin #AndGollumThought HeHadProblems
Predictably enough, the list of 20 dishes includes three styles of biriyani, besides shahi tukda, mirchi ka salan and boti kebabs. Then, there’s the ‘17 things to eat in Hyderabad that are not biriyani’ listicle, which gushes about paaya, pasinde and dalcha. I ignore the link advertising ‘drool worthy’ naans. ‘Drool worthy’ just doesn’t work as click bait — well, unless you’re a golden retriever.
Somewhere between the pictures of creamy Irani chai and buttery Osmania biscuits, I spot it: square naan. Unabashedly edgy: in more ways than the obvious. There’s no consensus on the ‘char koni naan’ recipe. Some writers say it is made with maida, water and yeast. Some claim that a proper char koni naan should contain no yeast: instead, it should be left overnight to rise. I flip through recipes that list everything from yoghurt to nutmeg to honey among the ingredients — though my hunch is that this is a deliberately simple naan, its chief function being to counter and simultaneously sop up rich gravies, paaya and nihari.
Charminar in the old city seems like the obvious place to begin my search. Ignoring cajoling shouts of bangle sellers, I plough through its crowded streets in the blazing afternoon sun, past shops flaunting ropes of pearls and spools of glittery fabric. Between the Ladies’ Emporium, selling intricate knots of false hair, and ‘Mohammed matching centre,’ spilling over with translucent glass bangles, I dodge a particularly-persistent kulfi cart, and ask a man snacking on salted wedges of raw guava about the whereabouts of Munshi naan. Before he can answer, the kulfi cart returns, trundling busily over my toe. Beaten, I dive into an Uber, and then try typing ‘munshi naan’ into ‘Destination.’ The driver takes me straight there. So much for my Indiana Jones aspirations.
Purani Haveli’s naan street is wrapped in the inviting aroma of baking bread. I pass the Sheer Mahal milk house, specialising in butter, ghee and “cream for marriages.” And, am momentarily distracted by a tiny shop filled with bowls of gently fragrant, chewy, sun-dried coconut kernels.
As it turns out, not only is Munshi naan next door, but I’ve also managed to arrive in time to buy a just-out-of-the-oven square naan. It’s warm and crusty outside, with pillowy, steamy interiors. As I pay proprietor Khaja Abdul Hameed for the naan, he fills me in on the history. His grandfather started making these naans in 1851, he says, adding that he had, in turn, learnt the recipe from a friend in Delhi. The ingredients? Maida, oil, water.
I take my shoes off and enter the workspace, where three men rhythmically knead dough into neat spheres. With seven workers in total, and just one tandoor, this team makes between 800 to 1,000 naans every day. As we chat, one worker deftly fishes them out of the red-hot coal-fed tandoor. Meanwhile, another places a fresh batch of naans on a pillow, dark with age and grease, rapidly coating them with a mixture of water and jaggery, then pressing them against the walls of the tandoor. Customers line up for the still-warm naans, buying them in dozens to take home for lunch.
As he counts money, before locking it safely away in a sturdy wooden box, Hameed says they also make naans in the shapes of stars and flowers. They even have a heart-shaped version.
Now, there’s a Valentine’s bouquet you didn’t see coming. A handful of freshly-baked garlic naan. A bouquet with a bouquet. (I’m inordinately pleased with the word play till I realise that most of you will just assume I am being tediously repetitive.) Let me rephrase that. A bouquet with a powerful bouquet.
Best of all. You can wrap it around kebabs when you’re done admiring its aesthetics. Red roses just can’t compete.
What’s In: Cheeseboards. Experiment with a sharp blue, an aged cheddar, creamy brie, crackers and dried fruit.
What’s Out: Using cheap plonk in the kitchen. If you’re cooking with wine, experiment with one that you would drink.
