Eating Harissa in Old Srinagar
Sugato Mukherjee wakes before dawn, and braves the freezing cold of January in Srinagar, for a taste of the original Kashmiri winter pot — harissa.
The Kashmiris I have had the pleasure of knowing seldom digress from the centuries-old legacy of mehman nawaazi. Every time I land myself in Srinagar, my friend Mushtaq picks me up late in the evening, and a half-hour bumpy ride through the Srinagar-Ganderbal highway takes us to his humble two-storeyed home. An abundant four-course home-cooked dinner of goshtaba, yakhni, rogan josh and rishta follows.
On a cold January night, in the middle of a similar meal, is where I first hear of harissa. From the animated discussion I gather that this meat preparation is available only during the six weeks of chillai kalan (the harshest period of winter, from December 20 to the end of January), the chillai khurd (the 20-day-long period that follows) and the subsequent 10-day phase of chillai bacha that marks the end of the cold season. “It has kept Kashmiris warm for centuries,” Mushtaq tells me. He adds that for the average Kashmiri, whose everyday breakfast is normally fresh, handmade bread and a cup of namkeen chai, a plate of harissa is still an affordable winter luxury. A plate of 100 g of harissa that comes with a couple of complimentary Kashmiri naans called choche, costs anywhere between Rs. 140-180. “Considering the ever-increasing price of meat and spices – and the time and patience required to make harissa – this is very reasonably priced,” Mushtaq tells me.
Two days later, Mushtaq picks me up from my hotel at the ungodly hour of 5 AM, the mercury hovering just above freezing point. It is a steel grey morning, and the narrow streets of Srinagar’s old city are still wet from the night’s snow. The car winds through the kadals (bridges) criss-crossing downtown Srinagar and I hear the chants from nearby mosques echoing off the walls of ancient houses flanking deserted streets.
A single shop, ensconced unobtrusively amid a long line of closed shutters, is open. It is a tiny outlet and I would surely v missed it, if a group of men, huddled in long ferans were not standing outside the rust-coloured wooden entrance. As Mushtaq heaves his car to a halt, delicious aromas waft through the chill. The shop is without signage and inside its dimly-lit interiors, I see a portly figure bent over a large earthen pot. I cross the street and join the small crowd waiting outside. A soft drizzle has begun, and snowflakes settle noiselessly on my overcoat. The man inside inspects the simmering contents of the pot, stirs it with a long wooden spoon and with a final flourish of his arm, throws in a last dash of spices. He then turns beaming to the crowd, satisfaction writ large across his middle-aged countenance: “Your harissa is ready.” Mushtaq tells me he is Zahoor Ahmed, the owner of this harissa outlet, and he opens his shop everyday at 4 in the morning, from December to February.
Even on a particularly snowy day, people brave the chill to wait outside a harissa shop. Pre-orders are often necessary.
Zahoor Ahmed is the fourth-generation owner of this eatery, one of the few outlets in old Srinagar that still serves this traditional delicacy. Ahmed explains how harissa is prepared: Locally grown, top-quality rice is skimmed down to a squidgy pulp and mixed with deboned, meticulously-minced lamb shanks and fragrant seasonings like fennel seeds, cinnamon and cardamom. The gloopy mix is then cooked overnight, in huge earthenware vessels on a slow fire for eight to ten hours.
Ahmed, whose ancestors came to Kashmir from the Persian peninsula, tells me that Al Harees – a variant of harissa – has been eaten in the Middle East since pre-Islamic times. Instead of rice, they cook meat with wheat, and use a few different spices. The Mughals brought the delicacy to Kashmir when they first came here in the 16th century.
Harissa preparation entails a meticulous removal of bones and gristles from the best portions of mutton. The process starts immediately after the day's stock is sold.
Harissa is an affordable winter luxury, and though it is also prepared in Kashmiri homes, the best harissa is found in shops around the kadals crisscrossing the Jhelum river in Srinagar.
More people arrive and the shop’s two assistants get busy filling tiffin-carriers and nickel-coated copper plates with generous portions of harissa. Some customers have come from as far as Budgam and Pulwama, districts considerably further away, negotiating snowy roads on two-wheelers. “I seldom get up before during Chillai-Kalaan, except when I come here for the harissa. Today I woke at 5.30,” says 32-year-old Altaf Mehmood, a teacher who has come from a village 15 kilometres away. Majid Alam is another loyal customer. “My family has been eating harissa from this shop for the last forty years,” he says. Ahmed neatly packs five kilos of harissa for the elderly Alam, who will dispatch the delicacy to his daughter’s home in Baramulla.
Inside, I sit at a small table with Mushtaq. Seated on an elevated stone platform, Ahmed reaches into the contents of the steaming pot and scoops out a generous portion of harissa with a brass ladle, pours it onto a small plate and garnishes it with a dose of flaming hot edible oil. I take a tentative jab at the semi-solid concoction with a piece of a naan. It melts immediately in my mouth. The distinctive flavour of spices – sweet cardamom, the faint whiff of cinnamon – leave a smoky trail on my palate. Ahmed refills my plate a second time, and this time I devour it with no hesitation. He watches me and then says jokingly, “I shouldn’t allow you a third plate.” He has a good reason. The most popular story about harissa is the one about the 18th century Afghan governor of Kashmir: his overindulgence in the hearty winter delicacy resulted in death from gluttony.
Sugato Mukherjee is a Kolkata-based journalist who writes on travel, food, and culture.
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