In the kitchen with Qureshi & Son

Chef Ishtiyaque Qureshi (right) and son Azian in the central kitchen of Kakori House. Photo by C Y Gopinath

Qureshi the father was going on about the miracle of umami, the so-called fifth taste. A deep understanding of umami magic is baked into his genes - he is, after all, in the third generation of a family of legendary cooks - but he goes all over the map when he tries to explain it succinctly. He knows where to find it: in soybeans, mushrooms, tomatoes, parmesan cheese, pickles, fermented foods, and others. He plays with umami. But he is no TED speaker.

We are in the central kitchen of Kakori House, Ishtiyaque's modest chain of eateries that have become famous for their buttery kakori kebabs. These days, he sports a pointy maharaja moustache, reminiscent of his father, the legendary Imtiaz Qureshi, who introduced India to the dum cuisine of Avadh.

I have known Ishtiyaque for 40 years, and though he knows about glutamates and their central role in creating the umami flavour, he is not exactly a scientific cook. He is an artist, and cooks with his nose, his fingers, and his gut, feeling his way through a labyrinth of evolving tastes, fragrances, textures, and colours until he arrives at the dish he will serve you.

So we tolerate the winding discourse because meanwhile, he is giving everyone a masterclass in creating umami almost out of nothing.

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You may not know that your tongue has receptors to detect only four distinct tastes - sweet, sour, salty, and bitter. It was only recently that scientists stumbled upon two taste receptors at the back of the tongue, T1R1 and T1R3, which detect umami, the fifth taste. Unlike the other four, umami is hard to pin down because it is a feeling more than a taste. Umami imparts a savoury, satisfying, addictive layer of flavour that enhances the other tastes in the dish. Like kasuri methi in a dal.

A Japanese chemist, Kikunae Ikeda, detected it while eating dashi, a broth made with kombu seaweed. To isolate the ingredient responsible, he evaporated litres of kombu broth until some brown crystals remained: glutamate. He named the taste umami, from the Japanese words umai, meaning savoury, and mi, or taste. The next year, he figured out how to make monosodium glutamate from wheat gluten and soy. He called it Ajinomoto.

More umami enhancers, called nucleotides, were found: inosinate in dried bonito flakes; guanylate in shiitake mushrooms. The marriage of nucleotide umami-enhancers with glutamates explains why ingredients like tomato work so synergistically with cheese or mushrooms, and meat.

Today, in 2025, Ishtiyaque wants to cook a rice that is almost purely umami.

There is a small commotion at the kitchen entrance, and a chubby 12-year-old boy enters. Qureshi the son is in the room.

He is still in the luminous world only children inhabit, where all prospects are benign and nothing is vile. His eyes glint with caprice and innocence. Everything interests him, and he misses nothing around him. They've named him Azian, from a Persian word meaning gift or blessing, and he is the eldest of Ishtiyaque's three children.

"He is my father reincarnated," Ishtiyaque whispers, almost awed.

He is made to recite two verses of If by Rudyard Kipling, deliver an azan, and top it off with a few shairis.

The diamond is still rough. The boy's true promise is not immediately obvious, but Ishtiyaque the father has already sensed the culinary spirit of Imtiaz Qureshi in Azian Qureshi. He is put to work right away, stirring the onions to golden brown before the mutton is added. Later, while the mutton releases its juices, he practises spinning out a rumali roti on his fingertips, while a sous chef instructs him about wrist flips.

I asked him if he knew what dribble, a word in his poem, meant. Azian has the words but is still figuring out how they come together to mean more than you say. In his father's kitchen, too, he knows the ingredients and is learning, with eyes wide, how they mingle and merge to create unforgettable food.

Meanwhile, Ishtiyaque has heated up his trademark mixture of olive oil and ghee in a mini wok and is frying shallots and whole garlic pods in it on low heat. He adds a bouquet garni with kasuri methi and some dried kulanjan, a cousin of the Thai galangal ginger, with a ceremonial, smoky aroma. These four distinct spices infuse slowly into the oil.

A small canister appears, containing culinary gold: exquisite hing from Persia. Some bits are left to dissolve in a spoonful of water.

The mutton for the biriyani is ready to meet its destiny. Parboiled basmati rice is layered on top of it until all the meat is submerged. The savoury oil, brimming with character and class, is poured over the rice, followed by the hing, salt, and a rich splash of milk. The edges are sealed with dough, lidded and weighted down, and cooked slowly over a minimal flame.

A dum biriyani is kept sealed until moments before it is served, so we will leave it as it is for now.

You, I'm afraid, will just have to imagine what it will look and taste like when it's opened.

You can reach C Y Gopinath at cygopi@gmail.com
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