Forget Hyderabad. Bengaluru biryani scene has gone unnoticed

The usual argument among biryani snobs is about which of the three — Hyderabad, Lucknow, or Kolkata — is the best. I used to often be part of such debates, going into the intricacies of why Hyderabad’s mutton biryani is unbeatable for me.

But I think we’re all missing something here — beyond Hyderabad, other parts of south India are just as obsessed with biryani. I was reminded of this during a recent week-long stay in Bengaluru, where I always have some fantastic biryani at a few select spots. Even my short stays in Chennai have been similarly fixated on biryani.

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Bengaluru’s biryani buffet

One of the best places to try a whole variety of south Indian biryanis is Bengaluru.

Khazana Food Paradise at Johnson Market is one of my favourite places for a good Ambur-style biryani whenever I’m in Bengaluru. The smaller seeraga samba rice and the subtle flavour in this Tamil Nadu delicacy are a welcome change sometimes, especially after eating a lot of heavily spiced biryani in Hyderabad’s hotels. (Unlike the commercial version, the biryani made in our homes is more fragrant and has more meat, for whoever needs to know.)

Karnataka’s own Donne (dried leaf bowl) biryani is also quite ubiquitous in Bengaluru. Shivaji Military Hotel, one of the more popular military hotels founded in the 1920s, is known for this style of biryani. It is always packed during lunch and dinner hours. I remember reaching once sharp at noon, and we still had to wait 25 minutes for space.

The green-coloured seeraga samba rice used in Donne biryani tastes quite different from conventional biryani (which is supposed to have originated from the Mughal armies). It’s less spicy and more herby.

There are also different versions of its origin story. One claims it was made for Maratha soldiers in the 17th century. Another is that after the bubonic plague in the late 19th century, military hotels came up to cater to farmers who stayed back in the city.

Either way, there’s no reason to complain — it tastes good. But I’ve heard from several people, especially those from Hyderabad, that this is ‘pulao’, not biryani— which is just another form of culinary gatekeeping.

Breaking biryani ‘rules’       

 The simplest way biryani snobs dismiss anything they don’t like is to call it pulao. This whole idea of looking down on or refusing to acknowledge other versions as biryani is what needs to end. It’s time we opened our minds.

I have seen this play out time and again with fellow Hyderabadis, as well as people from Lucknow and Kolkata. Ironically, my own Hyderabadi friends often mock Kolkata biryani for having potatoes in it. Their snide remarks are usually about how the mere presence of a vegetable cancels it as a biryani.

As a Hyderabadi, I am very proud of our biryani, but I wouldn’t put down another version just to hype ours up. Even in Kodaikanal, the first food recommendation I got was for a local biryani joint. They love their biryani as much as we do, so why take that away? The Dindigul-style biryani, which also uses seeraga samba rice, often features the meat of grass-fed goats, which makes all the difference.

In Bengaluru and Chennai, I’ve seen that khushka (only the rice, without meat) is quite popular at many local joints. I used to find it odd, but now I think it shows how much the rice itself matters to people. During my last visit to Bengaluru, I stopped by the Suresh Gowda Military Hotel in Devanahalli near the airport, where the food pleasantly surprised me.

The mutton biryani was on point, primarily because it had subtle flavours.  The difference lies in the cooking style. For example, in Hyderabadi biryani, the rice is layered on top of marinated meat, and a bit of saffron is added for fragrance at the end. In the military hotel biryani and many other south Indian varieties, the ingredients and masalas (which differ, of course) are all mixed together.

One of the best biryanis I’ve ever had was the Dindigul-style at Erode Amman Mess in Chennai last year. My Twitter (X) thread about it went so viral it even turned into several news articles online. That was when I realised just how much people love biryani — and how underrated certain cities are when it comes to the dish.

In neighbouring Andhra Pradesh, biryani isn’t as big as it is in Tamil Nadu or Karnataka. Cities like Guntur and the coastal regions have more non-veg pulaos.

Again, I will never complain about this, because some of it is in fact very good.

I think we need to recognise and accept that there is no single “supreme” version of biryani.

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Much aloo about nothing

 For many Hyderabadis, the presence of potatoes in biryani is literally an abomination. For Lucknowis, I’ve seen them take great pride in the subtlety of taste. I mean, so what?

I’ll add one more thing to this whole argument about layering. Azerbaijan’s national dish, plov (pulao), is cooked in a way that’s actually quite similar to our layered biryani. The difference is they use dried fruits, but they also add meat to fried onions and then layer it with rice like we do. It usually leaves people surprised when I tell them this.

So, the argument about which biryani is “the best” is pointless. After years of silly polemics on what counts as ‘real’ biryani, it’s time we stop obsessing over layers or whatever else—and acknowledge that cities like Bengaluru or even Chennai are as good as anywhere else.

I mean, who even set the rules? I once asked a famous chef in Hyderabad — originally from Andhra — why only Hyderabad, Lucknow, and Kolkata seem to dominate mainstream biryani discussions. His response was simple—marketing. Which is probably true, at least in the case of Hyderabad.

There’s no excuse for the way many look down on other types of biryani. I remember a friend scowling after finding a small piece of tomato in his Ambur-style biryani. He was just certain that biryani cannot have vegetables in it, except fried onions.

That friend, in fact, set me off to find the answer to a larger question: why do we cling so tightly to these so-called ‘rules’? What is the problem if one version chooses to mix everything together instead of layering it?

Today, we find outlets selling Hyderabadi biryani (or at least some form of it) everywhere — from Goa to Mumbai. But back home in Hyderabad, we refuse to appreciate the Dindigul or any other version. And that’s just sad.

Yunus Lasania is a Hyderabad-based journalist whose work primarily focuses on politics, history and culture. Views are personal.

(Edited by Asavari Singh)