My recent trip to Kashmir in freezing January was as a tourist on my Producer Husband’s shoot for a car commercial. Our Key Grip is a known foodie and he had been grumbling about a local delicacy ‘harisa’ at every meal. He claimed he was longing to eat it, it was delicious. And his ravings piqued my curiosity. I was determined to hunt down the harisa and taste it for myself. Harisa has been described as the Kashmiri version of haleem but without the grain. Hmmm…… Interesting!

an article and recipe on harisa

In my hunt for harisa, forces aligned in the universe and contrived to lead me on my way.

One of my Instagram friends happens to be named after a work friend, both men being Kashmiris and cinematographers. My Instagram friend saw my post and reached out, asking if I was indeed in Srinagar. I said yes. He told me how sorry he was to not be there to show me around personally. I asked him where I might find harisa, him being a local and all that. And where I might pick up some good quality lal tikka masala, some local ground ginger and fennel, so inherent to Kashmiri cuisine.

Tassaduq insisted I connect with his local friend and that Saaquib would be my host. I agreed. After all, travel is about meeting new people and experiencing things their way.

The next afternoon, I was met on location by the terribly hospitable and sweet young Saaquib and his friend Rahil. With them I wandered around Lal Chowk, in downtown Srinagar, now teeming with people after a curfew the day before. I had never seen so many people out on the streets before then.

We spent a pleasant hour sampling and bargaining over local dried fruit with an ancient Kashmiri man, his face weathered, his fingers gnarled. His shop was over five decades old, and I liked the idea that we were buying from a local in the local market, not a touristy store. ( I did earlier buy a lot of lovely walnuts and almonds from the large touristy shop Waji by the Dal lake). We bit into sweet raisins, oily local almonds, soft apricots and the smaller, sour, dried apricots. We ate walnuts and berries and I ended up buying many of these to cart back home.

Saaquib seemed very amused that I was keen to try harisa. They gamely guided me to Maisuma, an old street that reminded me of the forgotten lanes of old Bombay. We walked under some old buildings, poles criss-crossed with hundreds of cables, shops selling everything possible. The area is a hurriyat leader’s stronghold and apparently a hot bed for stone pelting (not good to know).

They ushered me into a little dining hall named Dilshad, behind a colourful blanket that hung at the doorway and served to keep out the cold.

There was hardly anyone around and the decor was a lot of pink Formica and serviceable tables and metal chairs. At the entrance, two met sat on a raised stone platform, with some ornate clay pots containing the harisa (I presumed).

We found a table at the far end and an ancient waiter served us small steel saucers of harisa. On it were little yellow bits of I-dont-know-what. And a large puddle of ghee. We were given large flat-breads to dunk into the meaty stew.

Maybe if I hadn’t just eaten lunch with the crew I might have enjoyed the harisa more. I found it as heavy and filling as haleem. The little bits on the top had me worried (they turned out to be little bits of things I would rather not have eaten!!)

Normally eaten for breakfast, the harisa is a smooth, well-rounded and interesting stew. It is mildly spiced and meaty. Slow-cooked for hours and found simmering over every hearth, harisa is the local khichdi, the comfort food hat provides sustenance through the the cold winter months.

Unfortunately I couldn’t finish my saucer.

I was then invited to go to the kitchens and see how they made harisa the traditional way. Dilshad has been famous for its harisa for seventy years. Every morning there is a long queue outside as locals wait for hours for this famous stew.

The kitchen itself was ancient and the men who worked in it were bemused by my curiosity, but smiling and helpful.

On one end was a huge modified hearth, fuelled by burning wood. Enormous clay pots were embedded into the top of the hearth and the harissa was poured into them, to be heated by the burning wood below. Different pots held harisa at various stages of done-ness. The meat slow cooks with all the bones and offal for two whole days, rendering it absolutely tender and soft, like slurry. The spices they use are delicate: no ginger, garlic or onion. Just a secret proportion of cinnamon, fennel, clove. Not even a solitary red Kashmiri chilly!

A huge pitchfork is used to remove the bones from the stew, and jugs of harisa are taken downstairs to be doled out with dollops of ghee.

It takes many cooks many hours of washing and chopping and tending the wood fires to create a slow-cooked pot of velvety meat stew.

I went home laden with parcels for the crew, and stuffed with the mempry of all the smiling cooks. Would I return?? Yes, but this time no little bits of I-dont-know-what for garnish!!