Baji’s Pasanda – Sliced Beef (or Lamb) Curry

I don’t know about you, but I’ve felt like a deer in the headlights for nearly two weeks. Haven’t been able to take my eyes off electoral events, unfolding at the speed of grass growing, in a country not even my own. Yes, I was relieved and elated but, here’s the rub, it’s still not settled because, as we all know, someone is dragging their big fat feet. And so, time to take a deep breath, look away, and cook one of my favourites: Sliced Beef (or Lamb) Curry. It’s easy to make, full of bold flavours, and exudes warmth. It is what my older son who lives in Vancouver would describe as the perfect dish to simmer on your cooktop when the days get shorter and you spend so much more time indoors.

The fun part for me is the memorable way in which I got the recipe, ages ago, from my sister, Baji, hence my name for it, Baji’s Pasanda. Let me clarify though that Baji isn’t her name. It is a wonderfully South Asian (originally Mongolian-Turkish: baci), age specific, term of respect for older sister. Growing up, I’d protest vehemently when my parents insisted I address her as Baji. I mean, who likes to have a sister who’s always older than you. But ah, how times have changed: don’t I just love always being younger than her now, tee hee. As for Pasanda, that has a somewhat more lofty meaning. It comes from the Urdu word “pasand” which means preferred or favoured, thus named because sliced meat, braised and simmered in warm spices was a favourite of Mughal royalty in India in the sixteenth century. As I explain below, it’s the sliced meat that makes this curry so special. 

I learned to cook my sister’s Pasanda one cold and dark winter. Imagine the scene if you will. It’s my first December in Canada and I’m shocked out of my nightie when I realize that it isn’t the temperature that is likely to do me in. No, not at all. It is the absence of light. I go to work when it’s dark; I come home when it’s dark. Baji arrives on a brief visit. We huddle together in my snug little apartment in Toronto. One night, I am a little late coming home and she’s pacing anxiously. I’m not used to it either: shivering because my Dhaka bought winter coat is entirely inadequate, and I’m still getting used to walking alone through dimly lit alleys and a park, past homes with windows and doors tightly shut in my face. I tell her I want to cook something different that weekend.

“Let me tell you how to make pasanda,” says she to me. Note, if you will, her convenient turn of phrase, indicating a clear division of labour between instructor and student. But I am all for it. The next afternoon, after heading out to a South Asian butcher, and grocery store, Baji is leaning back comfortably in her chair, reading the Toronto Star, while I’m in my apron, tearfully slicing onions in the kitchen. To be fair, she does offer at least once, if feebly, to stir the pot.

It takes about two hours, from start to finish. The flavours that waft through my kitchen surprise me but they are also exactly what I’ve been longing for: a delicious mix of whole and ground spices, onions, yoghurt, and tomatoes in a bed of tender meat. Baji inspects my handiwork, nods approval. We top the dish off with a garnish of chopped cilantro, whole green chillies, and for good measure – you guessed it – a dollop of ghee.

Dinner for two in Toronto is a delight. I have bhaaji from the previous night, and there is naan that we toast to make it crisp or karak, sliced red onions dipped in vinegar, lime wedges, and even a helping of voluptuous ghee daal. We sigh as we think of our children. But they will not miss out completely because the next day we will drive with Tupperware containers filled with Baji’s Pasanda, among other goodies, to their student apartment in Montreal. We will sit on newspapers on the floor, making a feast of it, with two and a half dinner plates and even fewer quantities of usable cutlery. It will be memorable in so many ways.

Decades have passed since that day, but my sister’s recipe for Pasanda still works beautifully. The signature element in this dish is sliced meat — a major reason, in my view, why it was so appreciated by discerning Mughal palates. But the precise combination of spices may vary. You may tweak the recipe, perhaps to suit your personal tastes, or even the contents of your pantry. My cousin, for instance, adds a dash of turmeric to the spice mix, and then mint, cilantro, and fried onions as a garnish, producing a most delicious Pasanda. Some folk don’t use tomatoes but I do because they add a pungent flourish. In the end, of course, what you’re looking for is a filling and warmly flavoured meat dish that doesn’t take too much active cooking time, and lets you relish the laid-back enjoyment of a cosy meal, especially in times such as these!

Likely Questions: 

1. What cut of meat is best for Pasanda? A South Asian butcher, especially if Pakistani, will know what you need if you ask for Pasanda. If you go to a mainstream store, ask for Top (Inside) Round beef, sliced about ¼ inch thick, against the grain; if not, Outside Round, or similar cut. If using lamb, you can also get Lamb Loin. 
2. Is it okay to slice the meat myself? I prefer a butcher, but sure thing, you can slice the meat yourself. Just be aware that the slice can’t be so thin that it’s fragile, but not as thick as a steak because then you’ll end up with a curry like sodden bread. Also, always slice against the grain as it shortens the muscle fibres so that the slices don’t go all chewy.
3. Is it okay to use cubed meat? Not in my view. In desi cooking, Pasanda is more or less synonymous with sliced meat. You sauté or sear the meat at a high temperature, then add spices and other ingredients, and simmer or dum covered, with a variable amount of liquid, at a lower temperature. This technique is often called braising. Cubes don’t sauté as well as slices and the end product is not as interesting, in texture particularly. 
4. Do I have to use beef? I suggest you don’t try this dish with goat meat, though lamb is an excellent alternative. I’ve always made beef pasanda. 
5. What kind of cooking pot is best? I recommend a Dutch Oven or a Rondeau — a pot that has shallow sides and is wider than a regular stock pot. If you have a cooking pot that is South Asian in style, made for cooking curries, that will do nicely of course. I don’t recommend a Wok mainly because this recipe calls for braising, not stir frying. 

Photo Credit

All Photos unless otherwise noted by: Almas Zakiuddin SOME RIGHTS RESERVED