IF it is possible for anybody to be crazy about Mughlai biryanis, then I am. I love the grandeur of the dish, the charm of it being a great meal in itself, and the sheer delicacy of its taste. Sometimes intoxicatingly aromatic, when richly blended with herbs and spices. Othertimes understated and refined, when delicately flavoured with saffron, rose water and kewda. I also like the use of milk and cream in biryanis. I think they blend harmoniously with the aromas and flavours, and they bring colour and texture to the rice and meat.

I am fascinated by biryanis that go beyond mutton (or lamb), especially the chicken biryanis of Lucknow, Calcutta and Kashmir, and the beef and fish biryanis of the Muslims in the South and West. (I don't mind vegetarian biryanis too, though I hardly think they are authentic Mughlai!) I search for biryanis more exotic and undeveloped. Like the exceptional nalli (bone marrow) biryani of Lucknow. And the unusual seviyan (vermicelli) biryani of Hyderabad. I admire the way some ustad bawarchis have converted biryanis into pulaos, and pulaos into biryanis. And I commend the way the Bohris of Bombay and Ahmedabad, a gentle trading community of Muslims, have created a biryani of their own simply with the clever use of tomato and potatoes.

To me, one of the great moments in Mughlai cooking is when the chef gently lifts the purdah off a dum-cooked handi of mutton biryani to release its fragrant, palate-teasing aroma. The purdah is a pastry seal made of atta (whole wheat flour). It stretches, like a roti, across the mouth of the handi to seal the steam within. When the handi is given dum, when it is put on a slow fire and hot coals are placed on its sealed lid, the handi serves as an oven. It cooks the biryani in its own steam. The dum also tenderises the meat and cooks it in its juices and marination so that its flavours and its aroma gently seep into the rice.

Towards the end of the cooking process, the dum brings the ghee in the biryani to the top of the rice. If the biryani is made correctly, the meat becomes so tender it falls off the bones, and each grain of rice, though fully cooked, stands outs separately. This gives a grand appearance to the dish. When the seal of dough is broken, what you smell in the steam wafting out is a rich combination of the meat in its blend of aromatic spices, and the gentle, unmistakable scent of Basmati rice grown in the sunny fields of Dehradun. In some Lucknowi and Kashmiri biryanis, the rice is also flavoured with saffron, rose water and kewda. When this is done, the fragrance of the biryani takes on a further barkat. It reaches a dizzy new high of delicacy in its flavour that is distinctly Mughlai.

Before biryanis became Mughlai food, they were part of Persian culture in the royal courts of Delhi during the medieval period. The word biryani comes from the Persian "birian", which means "fried" or "roasted". The Persians had a major rice dish in their pulao. There is a subtle difference between the biryani and the pulao. In a biryani, the parboiled rice is layered twice or more between the spices and the meat, and they are all cooked together. In a pulao, the stock of meat forms the base and the rice is cooked with the spices so that it absorbs the flavour of the spices. A pulao is like an assembly of cooked rice and meat.

The first result of the Persian influence on Mughlai cooking was the Yakhni Pulao. Yakhni, the stock of mutton, chicken or lamb, was already a popular Indian dish. All that was required was for some ingenious Mughlai cook to boil rice in this instead of plain water. Meat pulaos of other types followed, including a kheema, or minced lamb, that mixed with the rice more easily than chunks of meat. And fish. Muslims on the west coast developed an excellent fish pulao using the subtle flavour of the pomfret in their variation to the theme. Vegetable pulaos, using peas, mushrooms and carrots, singly or in combinations, were also developed later on by Indian cooks.

For UpperCrust, my biryani ustad, Chef Abdul Ali Qureshi of the royal house of Rampur in Awadh, lovingly created eight dum pukht biryanis from his culinary repertoire. If you think that is a lot, let me tell you that in Mughlai cooking, there must easily be some 50 to 60 biryanis! Probably more that remain unrecorded. I have read of some 16th century biryanis being the high-point and the finest and richest expression of Indian cooking in the times of Akbar. And of the Emperor Shah Jehan, whose interest in architecture was matched only by his enthusiasm for gourmet food, telling the royal bawarchis to add saffron, dry-fruits, nuts and hard-boiled eggs to his biryanis...so that biryani in any opulent form today is still reffered to a Shahjehani Biryani!�