We didn't open a restaurant. We opened a pot.
I grew up watching my grandmother cook in her house off Mir Alam Tank Road in Old City. She'd start the marination at 4 in the morning. The meat sat in curd and spices for six hours before she even thought about lighting the coal. When people ask me where the recipe comes from, I don't know what else to say except: her kitchen, her method, her patience.
We opened in 2015. The space was above a tailor's shop in Banjara Hills — eight tables, no reservations, a hand-painted board my cousin made. The first few weeks were quiet. I remember sitting with our cook watching cars go by, wondering if we'd made a terrible mistake. The rent was ₹28,000 a month. The biryanis were priced at ₹280. You can do that arithmetic yourself.
What I didn't expect was how fast people started bringing their families. A customer would come alone on a Tuesday, then on Friday he'd walk in with six people and say "this is the place I told you about." That happened so often the first year I stopped counting. There's something about biryani — people want to share it. It doesn't feel right eating it alone, which tells you something about the dish itself.
We expanded into the second room in 2018 and added the prep kitchen two years after that. The marination schedule hasn't changed. We still start at midnight. My grandmother passed in 2019 and I cook it exactly the way she showed me, which means I haven't made a single improvement in eleven years. I'm not sure that's something to be proud of. But the biryani is good, so.
Our prep kitchen, 4 AM — every morning since 2015