From childhood weekends in Bhopal to tables across India and Dubai, A chef’s personal history of a dish that changes with its postcode.
By Chef Siddhaant Trivedi
Butter chicken has a disputed birth certificate and an exceptionally large family. The Gujrals credit Kundan Lal Gujral and the Jaggis credit Kundan Lal Jaggi.
Both histories lead to Moti Mahal, disagreeing over whose hands first united chicken and gravy,
in Peshawar or Delhi. The dispute reached the Delhi High Court in 2024: claims remain more abundant than conclusive evidence. One story I encountered begins with leftover tandoori necks and wings in makhani
gravy. I like imagining these neglected pieces inspiring grown men to consult lawyers.
Many of my earliest food memories, especially non-vegetarian ones , involve Dad. He loved food and recognised my enthusiasm. During my school years, I stayed with my maternal grandparents; weekends
meant joining my parents at their home in Old Bhopal, near Dad’s clinic. I remember those weekends more vividly than many elaborate meals since.
Between roughly 1989 and 1996, I would wait for Dad to close his clinic and return before our dinner
expedition to Ranjit Hotel on Hamidia Road. We ordered a full butter chicken, mutton seekh kebab masala and fish fingers, which justified his love of fish. Sometimes four or five dishes: he indulged my small appetite and considerably larger curiosity. The menu interested me far beyond what I could actually finish; Dad never seemed to mind. Returning, we stopped at the bus stand’s magazine and comic stalls: Super Commando Dhruv and Nagraj. I ate, then read myself to sleep. Next day, Dad returned to his clinic; I returned to reheated butter chicken. We invariably overbought.
Even the packaging stays with me: a full butter chicken in Ranjit’s green or red plastic handi. Its thick, orange, slightly coarse gravy balanced sweetness, tang, chilli and kasuri methi with seamless richness. For Bhopali boomers and millennials, it remains a citywide benchmark.
Next door, the less-remembered Bagecha drew a local following with equally thick gravy, less sweetness and fiercer chilli. The smaller Amar Jyot, beside Baabe Ali cricket stadium was known around 1994–2004 for tandoori and butter chicken. Its gravy was smoother, its heat between Ranjit’s and Bagecha’s.
Three distinct interpretations within barely three or four square kilometres: noticing their differences was part of my early culinary education. Around 1991, my maternal uncle opened Sharvin on Misrod Road, along the Hoshangabad Road approach beyond newer Bhopal. This family restaurant became my informal culinary classroom. Six or seven kilometres out of town, its open-air garden made the drive and dinner a family outing. People still remember its butter chicken: thick, rich, deftly balancing sweetness and spice.
In Delhi, I found Gulati’s butter chicken sweeter and Havemore’s spicier. Yet both tasted relatively sweet beside Bhopal’s bolder red chilli and garam masala. Neither was wrong. “Spicy” is a local measure; bring a different childhood to the table, and the scale shifts.
Work repeatedly took me through Haryana and Punjab during 2008–2015. Their versions suggested a
gentle, rustic, pindi or village-style approach: medium-bodied, flowing gravy, restrained seasoning, quiet chilli and clearer sweetness. Dairy spoke loudest, particularly white butter, alongside ghee and cream.
Delhi, Haryana and Punjab also used ginger juliennes more freely than familiar Bhopal kitchens: fine strips with surprisingly pointed warmth. Bases matter too. A tomato-and-cashew base differs from one of
tomato, onion and cashew, despite similar redness. Onion changes body, sweetness and tomato
expression. Those Haryana and Punjab gravies were tomato-led, without onion; familiar Delhi versions used little. Many Bhopal and Bombay preparations gave onion greater importance, sometimes for cost, sometimes for deliberate flavour choices and customer preference.
Bombay changed the chicken. Most versions I encountered were boneless, happily accepted by diners. Many kitchens deboned whole tandoori birds and pulled the meat, whose irregular pieces and strands mingled with gravy. Exceptionally velvety sauces offered sweetness, moderate chilli and noticeable
cardamom. Butter stood out. Punjabi restaurant ancestry met local preferences: familiar, yet unmistakably travelled.
Frequent work visits to Dubai and the wider UAE complicated matters. Restaurants named after Punjabi
cities could have southern Indian teams, changing tempering and approach. Signboards and kitchens took different routes. I encountered coconut notes, curry leaves and familiar Punjabi preparations. Flavours describe the plate; they do not establish a cook’s birthplace. There are many variations, but no single Dubai standard.
Bhopal remains my favourite. Delhi diners have loyalties too. Mine began beside Dad, with comics awaiting. Since about 2018, embellishments have slightly troubled me. Additional smoking brings hot charcoal,
perhaps cloves or cardamom, butter or ghee, then a lid trapping smoke. Dhungar predates restaurant fashions; my objection is to its unnecessary use. Excess overwhelms the gravy with bitter charcoal.
Dinner should not return as a charcoal-flavoured burp. Properly tandoored chicken simmered in the gravy for a while brings enough smoke for me.
Food evolves; diners and techniques change. My version has a personal stamp too. But improvements
should leave it recognisable. Adding unnecessary richness eventually makes a dish less articulate, rather than more interesting. These experiences return with me to my Bhopal kitchen.My butter chicken at Khaasiyat, Kourtyard by Khaasiyat in Mendori , and Kloud by Khaasiyat carries my city’s influence.
So will Barasingha, planned for late November 2026: an exclusive, 47-seat fine-dining restaurant prioritising quality, perfection and controlled batches over serving a hundred people huge portions. My makhani gravy is deliberately thick and rich: tomato, onion and cashew, balanced butter and cream,
slightly assertive kasuri methi and coriander because I enjoy them. Seasonal fresh methi adds a distinct
green bitterness against tomato acidity, restrained sweetness and dairy richness. I await its season rather than demand it year-round. Chicken matters equally: partially cooked in the tandoor, finished through in makhani gravy. Its juices deepen the sauce’s savouriness. The gravy should taste of chicken too, rather
than merely the ingredients assembled around it.
I have eaten enough versions to know mine is one of many, and cooked long enough to understand my
preference. Yet its beginning lies outside a professional kitchen: Dad closing his clinic, comic stalls, dinner in a green plastic handi.
Sometimes it was red. I remember that too.
