Irani tikkas and the taste of a distant home
A Mangalorean family finds companionship in a faraway country with a weekend meal of Irani tikkas at Abul Grill.
Michelle D’Costa writes about a dish that not only defined her life in Bahrain but also brought together a mixed community of migrants living far from home.
Illustration by Siddhi Vartak
Bahrain draws migrants from all over the world. In Gudaibiya where I stayed from 1991 until 2019 when I left, there were people from the Philippines, Sri Lanka, India, Bangladesh, Pakistan, and many other countries. These migrants are residents for years, some spend their lifetimes in the Gulf only to return home on brief vacations and even then only when they retire. My father migrated to the Gulf in 1978. He has always been in the Food&Beverage industry until he retired in 2020, just before the pandemic struck. Because of the industry he was in my family had access to all kinds of cuisines throughout our lives, however, one dish that has stayed with us is the iconic Abul Grill’s Irani tikka. It was our weekend meal.
While weekends in the D'Costa household were reserved for this tikka, the rest of the days were filled with typical Mangalorean fare. Seafood, chicken, mutton, beef, rice and vegetables were staples in our household. Pork was usually reserved for special occasions. The Irani tikka which we loved, consisted of small pieces of local lamb meat barbecued on hot charcoal using skewers that had to be rotated manually. The meat was marinated overnight in dried lemon and the next day lean pieces would be strategically placed between fatty pieces that would then become fuel for grilling. As the grill got hotter, juice trickled down the rest of the meat, tenderising it and adding a distinct smokey flavour.
Once the meat was barbecued, it was then taken off the skewers with a khaboos (Arabic flat-bread). One serving included ten pieces of meat on ten sheekhs (skewers), khaboos, grass (bagal), white onion, lemon and green chilli. We would tear a piece of the khaboos, stuff it with a couple of meat pieces, top it with grass and onion slices, then we would squeeze lemon and wrapping the whole thing together for a juicy, meaty bite. It was essential to bite into a piece chilli on the side, to give the meal a wholesome flavour. The locals usually preferred to have a soft drink (Pepsi–pronounced ‘Bebsi’) and hummus as an accompaniment. One serving was quite filling for even those with voracious appetites.
Families usually chose takeaway or ate in vehicles parked alongside the restaurant. Saudi families would cross the border to experience this delight in their cars/jeeps. Friends or individuals would eat at the restaurant, either indoors or outdoors, with men usually occupying the tables outdoors. One could see local taxi drivers sitting outside chatting and eating companionably. Even if one couldn’t understand Arabic (it was never compulsory for us to learn the language, in fact, I studied Hindi and Marathi in school), it was easy to guess that they were sharing how their week went by, finally finding time to wind down. One can imagine the bonds forged over this simple meal.
The Irani tikka has now mesmerised people all over the world, but as the name suggests, it originated in Iran. Bahrain has a huge Shia population that is known to have migrated from Iran many many years ago and their food has seeped into Bahraini culture quite naturally, allowing migrants of different nationalities to enjoy its richness.
Gudaibiya, the area we lived in, was quite crowded with narrow lanes that would get even more cramped with double parking of cars during peak hours. Throughout the 90s, the street we lived in was filled with textile and gadget shops, parlours, banks and pharmacies that exist to this day. Everything we needed for any occasion was within reach. These areas were especially crowded just before summer vacations (July and August being the hottest months of the year) because migrants would be on a shopping frenzy to take things back home. And since nearly all of these places had Indian salesmen, we never felt like we were out of India.
In 2019, when I knew I would be leaving Bahrain, I knew I would miss the food but I underestimated just how much I’d long for the Irani tikka. Because every weekend, on Saturdays, after our obligatory mass (in the Gulf mass was on Friday and Saturday because our weekend fell on those days) we would stop by Abul Grill to buy the 500 fils (Rs 98) worth Irani lamb tikka. The grill was then known for its three signature dishes; Irani mutton/chicken tikka, mutton/chicken kebab and Indian chicken leg/breast. Though we liked to have kebab and Indian chicken leg marinated in Indian spices sometimes, the Irani lamb tikka was a constant.
It was very difficult to find parking beside the grill as it was at the fork of the road, we would often take around three to four rounds to double park until we waited for the tikka to be prepared, but it was worth it. We anticipated this treat the whole week. I would wait in the car, cranking the music volume high, while Dad always stood by the grill and struck up a conversation with whoever was barbecuing the meat, one migrant to another migrant. One day, when Dad came back to the car with the tikka wrapped in brown paper bags, I asked him, “So what were you talking to him about?”
“You know…just finding out about him…his life,” he replied.
“And? What did he tell you?”
“He’s Mallu and he said business was good.”
The restaurant was run entirely by Indians and recently it had started employing Bangladeshis on free visas who were paid daily wages. Most migrant workers are contract workers, and almost no migrant gets citizenship even if they spend their lifetime in the Gulf. A few lucky ones do, but they are exceptions. Before I left, laws were being introduced to discourage migrants from staying by reducing subsidies and increasing the cost of living. While some of the migrants are undocumented, most migrants have visas. By 2019, roughly 45.2% of the population in Bahrain represented international migrants. The number of migrants in Bahrain increased by 9.1% between 1995 and 2019. Some of the blue collar workers don’t get a chance to visit their families in years, but with the advancement of technology almost everyone owns a smartphone and they download free apps to speak to their loved ones. Back when my Dad had set foot in Bahrain or even when I was growing up in the 1990s, there was no mode of easy and affordable communication. Instead we’d send letters and some would even record their voice and send tapes back home.
Whenever I watched Dad talk to the men at Abul grill, from my seat in the car, I envied him. I wanted to stand on the pavement like he did and have conversations but I was acutely aware that these men were bachelors, or married men who were living away from their families. It would make me feel guilty for being able to live with my family, and conscious of being a young girl in the midst of so many men. So I preferred to sit in my car and observe my surroundings instead.
And there was so much to observe! The shop right opposite the restaurant was a very famous toy store called Ajeeb Stores. I would sometimes step into the shop as Dad waited for the tikka to get ready. Looking at the toys on display, I would revisit my childhood no matter how old I got. The whole street leading up to the tikka place bustled with an assortment of food joints and cold stores, Pakistani cuisine, Indian snacks, fishmongers and what not. Many competitors came up over the years but Abul Grill is still iconic for its tikka. These days, so far away from the Gulf, I try to stay close to the culture in whichever way I can. I rewatch ‘A Separation’ by Asghar Farhadi, or I listen to Bollywood songs that have even a hint of Arabic in them.
Before the pandemic on vacations back to India, we would bring the tikka along in a cool bag, to be savoured and eaten later. It is still my mother’s favourite dish. But since 2020 there has been no travel or no chance of tasting those beloved tikkas again. We have now resigned to the feeling that it’s not a part of us anymore. In fact the closest I’ve felt to the dish in ages is by writing this essay.
Michelle is a poet, short story writer, editor, creative writing mentor, and podcaster from Mumbai. Her poetry chapbook 'Gulf' was published by Yavanika Press in 2021.