I’m extremely partial to food from the Northwest Frontier — all aromatic flavour, yielding meat and dark crust. The mother ship for succulent kebabs, of course, is Lucknow. The back alleys near the Jama Masjid in Old Delhi are a close second, but within nudging distance is the month-old Kebabery in Anna Nagar.
The restaurant on the first floor is tucked into a complex that was once residential. Finding a place to park is quite a task, especially when you are faint with hunger. Up a flight of stairs that seems to lead to Neverland is the restaurant with cosy seating, Moroccan lamps and warm aromas.
It’s mid afternoon and scorching outside, so the friend and I down quantities of lemon-mint cooler. Kebabery’s fusion of tandoori food, skewered meat, French fries and taco bases was launched to showcase the kebab as more than just a sidekick to a glass of spirits.
The friend and I are on a protein spree and order fish balls served with tartar sauce. We fall upon it like wolves. It has just the right amount of crunch and the meat falls gently from the fork. I could eat the dish all day, but the main platter with its glistening array of muted green hariyali chicken kebabs, prawns fried in batter with their tails cocking a snook at the malai -drenched chicken kebabs, fiery fish kebabs and mutton kebabs makes an appearance with a side of chutneys, fries, breads and gravy.
The chicken has a good crust, the prawns are glossy and succulent, and the fish has a lemony tang. The mutton kebabs, however, don’t pass muster. The mallet has been used too much and it comes off as a hardened nugget. But the platter is saved by the scent of woodfire and the taste of fresh herbs and vegetables. I dip the bread into the chicken gravy but pass it up — it lacks both flavour and thickness.
Mohideen Naushad, the owner, suggests we try the taco cheese biryani topped with tandoori chicken. It’s spicy Awadhi biryani served on a bed of tacos, molten cheese running riot, spices grazing the tongue, with tender chicken that has been clearly roasted on a spit. I silently hail the chef. It’s a dish that announces the interweaving of cultures like a neon signboard.
I feel like my gut has been tarmac-ed but I’m coaxed to try the gulab jamun . “Just one,” I say firmly, feeling increasingly like a well-fed python. One spoonful... there’s a flavour of crushed rose petals and rich khoa . I close my eyes. It’s a sweet snapshot of the Northwest, one platter at a time.
