Vidushi Gaur

I have always believed that food tells the story of a place far better than any monument or museum can. When I travel, I don’t carry a list of tourist spots; I carry a list of dishes. That’s how I found myself on a train from New Delhi to Lucknow one winter morning, determined to taste, compare, and understand how two great culinary cities, one my home, the other my fascination, speak through their food.

Delhi, to me, is food on the move. It’s fast, noisy, and full of contradictions, much like its people. My days in the capital usually begin with the comforting hiss of a tawa at a roadside stall. Parathas stuffed with potatoes, paneer, or minced meat bubble in ghee, and the vendor slathers them with a dollop of white butter. There’s something both humble and indulgent about that breakfast, a blend of Punjab’s hearty spirit and Delhi’s love for excess.

By afternoon, the city transforms. The aroma of chole bhature escapes from every corner, mingling with the smoke of kebabs sizzling in Connaught Place and the sweet scent of jalebis spiralling in hot oil near Chandni Chowk.

Delhi food is about variety, a patchwork of influences stitched together by migration. The Mughal legacy lives in its biryanis and nihari; the Punjabi refugees of Partition left behind butter chicken and dal makhani; and now the cosmopolitan crowd adds sushi, tacos, and Thai curries to the mix.

What strikes me most about Delhi’s food is its democratic nature. You can eat a Michelin-star meal at a five-star restaurant or grab a plate of momo from a street cart for 50 rupees, and both experiences somehow feel equally authentic. Food in Delhi doesn’t belong to one class, one religion, or one neighbourhood, it belongs to everyone who eats with joy.

Yet, in all its glory, Delhi’s food feels like a carnival, vibrant, chaotic, and fleeting. You eat, you rush, and you move on. It satisfies your hunger but rarely pauses for silence. And it was this pause, this sense of calm reverence towards food, that I found waiting for me in Lucknow.

Whenever I arrive in Lucknow, the air itself seems seasoned, with kebab smoke, ittar, and poetry. The city doesn’t just cook; it composes. Declared a UNESCO “Creative City of Gastronomy,” Lucknow wears its culinary heritage like an heirloom passed down through generations.

In Chowk, the cook gently flips galouti kebabs on a copper griddle. Each piece looks fragile enough to fall apart at a glance, yet when I taste it, the flavours unfold like verses, soft, layered, and poetic. The kebab isn’t just meat; it is history, culture, and patience cooked together over charcoal.

Lucknow’s food, unlike Delhi’s, demands time. Dum biryani, simmered over sealed pots, refuses to be rushed. Nihari is left to stew overnight. Even the breads, sheermal, rumali, or warqi paratha, carry the mark of craftsmanship. Eating here isn’t about feeding the stomach; it’s about awakening memory. Every dish has a story, the royal kitchens of the Nawabs, the artistry of rakabdars (court chefs), and the blend of Persian finesse with Indian warmth.

It’s not just the meat lovers who rejoice here. Vegetarian dishes like matar ki tehri, nimona, or kachori-sabzi hold equal weight in the city’s culinary lexicon. The balance between refinement and earthiness is what defines Lucknow.

What surprises me most is how food connects people here. At a tea stall near Aminabad, a Hindu shopkeeper hands me a plate of kebabs prepared by his Muslim neighbour. “In Lucknow,” he smiled, “you can’t cook without sharing.” It reminded me how deeply intertwined food and communal harmony are in this city. In a world divided by differences, Lucknow’s kitchen is still one where everyone finds a seat.

Some of the famous Lucknawi traditional foods

When I think of Delhi and Lucknow now, I realise they’re not rivals but reflections of two different philosophies of life. Delhi’s food mirrors its restless ambition; Lucknow’s mirrors its grace.

In Delhi, meals are often about discovery, new trends, new flavours, and new experiments. You’ll find vegan cafes beside kebab joints, and sushi bars beside dhabas. It’s a city that constantly reinvents its palate, much like its skyline.

Lucknow, on the other hand, guards tradition like a precious spice. Recipes aren’t written down but whispered from one generation to another. A pinch too much or too little is considered an act of disrespect to history itself. There’s pride in perfection, but also humility in service. Every meal feels like an offering.

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When I now bite into a Delhi kebab, I think of Lucknow’s slow fire. But when I sip Lucknow’s chai, I don’t remember Delhi’s street-side chai. Lucknow feeds me in ways that go beyond the stomach; it nourishes something more human, more soulful. Lucknow is a prayer for the soul. There’s a reason why UNESCO chose Lucknow over Delhi, and that, my friend, is ‘Delhi eats to conquer hunger; Lucknow eats to celebrate it.’

Vidushi Gaur is sub-editor with Awaz-the Voice, English. She hails from Lucknow and these are her personal views