It’s midnight in Karachi. At a biryani stall in Kharadar, steam rises from a giant pot called a daig, mixing into the sky. The server, a man in his thirties, moves with rhythmic precision. With every scoop, the sella rice falls onto a metal plate, revealing layers of white, saffron-stained yellow, orange, and deep brown, with pieces of tender meat and big chunks of potatoes. I collect my plateful and see that the line behind me has folk from around the city — among them families, young people, even tourists — all waiting their turn.
As I take my first bite, I think about how in Karachi, biryani is not just food, it is ritual, celebration, and nostalgia packed onto one plate. Unlike in other cities, where the dish is reserved for special occasions, here it is an everyday essential. It is served at weddings, at funerals when people come to offer condolences, in corporate boardrooms during meetings, and in homes where mothers prepare it as a Sunday tradition.
Every Karachiite has a strong opinion on where to get the best biryani. Some prefer the upscale, gourmet-style establishments, while others favour desi restaurants — providing more of a modern high/low mix. Then there’s the street-style daig biryani that now fills my plate, cooked in the massive aluminium pots, where the rice absorbs every bit of spice from the slow-simmered meat.
The rivalry between these styles runs deep, with debates often becoming as heated as the dish itself. Each neighbourhood has its legend: Liaquatabad’s nalli (bone marrow) biryani, Pakistan Chowk’s OG favourite, or the famous Khatri biryani, from Khatri Street.
Whether it comes from a humble street vendor’s daig or a high-end restaurant’s kitchen, the dish is an unshakable part of Karachi’s culture.
Even visitors to Karachi quickly realise that its biryani is unlike any other. I spoke to a traveller who had tried it from multiple places across the city, and he was shocked by how no two plates from different places tasted the same.
Some were spicier, some had more tender meat, while others carried a distinct aroma. Yet, he noted one thing they all had in common: a unique depth of flavour that he hadn’t found in any other city’s biryani. “Every plate has its character,” he said. “The taste varies, but the essence of Karachi is in all of them.”
To understand Karachi’s biryani culture, one must also look at how it has evolved. While the traditional versions — beef and chicken — still dominate, newer fusions such as prawn, tikka, biryani cooked in a clay pot, or matka, and even a haleem variation have emerged.
These fusion styles cater to the trend of incorporating new flavours and the desire to create Instagrammable food moments and go viral on platforms like TikTok.
The beauty of biryani in Karachi is that it goes beyond class and status. The same dish served in elite restaurants is also sold by vendors on pushcarts for as little as 120 Pakistani rupees (under 50 cents in euro or US dollars) a plate. It is one of the few things in the city that acts as a leveller for people from all walks of life. Company managers, peons (office boys), students, and rickshaw drivers all gather around the same stalls and restaurants, wiping sweat off their brows as they dig into the same spicy and fragrant meal.
But biryani is more than just a beloved and omnipresent dish, it is an anchor in an ever-changing city. A dish that unites us just like chai and cricket. As Karachi modernises, with international fast-food chains and continental European cuisine making its way into its food scene, biryani remains untouched. It is a symbol of localisation, comfort, unity, home — of something steadfast in chaos. No matter how much the city evolves of how many new food trends come and go, biryani remains the undisputed king of Karachi’s culinary landscape.
While I’ve been eating my meal, people-watching and musing on the nature of the unique biryani culture in Karachi, the generous portion on my plate has gradually vanished. At the same time, the server has cleared the huge daig of its fragrant contents, filling plate after plate for hungry customers. A full pot comes to replace it, and the line continues to grow, snaking away from the stall and spilling onto the sidewalk.
There’s a buzzing undercurrent, a sense of urgency as people eagerly await their turn. Yet, amid the frenzied excitement, there’s also an underlying calm, an unspoken understanding that everyone will be served. And a certainty that we will be seeing each other here in line another night, all waiting our turn together for our favourite plate of biryani as the love affair continues.
