Royal cuisine with a taste of wilderness – Firstpost

As dusk settles and twilight drapes its mystique over Bhopal’s iconic 1893-built Jehan Numa Palace, the air hums with susurrations of history, and staff members orchestrate an intimate ritual—the meticulous preparation of the General’s table. Whether beneath the sprawling canopy of a centuries-old mango tree or perched elegantly poolside, the setting transforms into a canvas of prancing candlelight and seductive floral bouquets.

This nightly celebration harks back to the legendary banquets of General Obaidullah Khan, whose renowned hospitality once lured the elite to this very spot, transforming every dinner into a masterpiece of royal grandeur.

Inside Bhopal’s Jehan Numa Palace, two centuries of royal history unfold through an unlikely pairing: battle-worn weaponry and fine porcelain. The palace’s whitewashed corridors showcase hundreds of black-and-gold framed photographs chronicling thirteen monarchs, but it’s the unprecedented reign of four Begums—female rulers who governed from 1819 onwards—that commands attention.

Their personalities echo through their choice of tableware: Sikandar Jahan, the first Begum, favoured intricate, colourful patterns reflecting her deep spirituality, while the last Begum’s pristine white porcelain spoke to an inherited obsession with hygiene. These intimate artefacts, from ceremonial swords to gold-rimmed plates, tell a story more nuanced than mere opulence—they reveal how Bhopal’s female monarchs deftly balanced power with domesticity, creating a legacy that challenged patriarchal norms in pre-modern India.

Begum Niloufer Rashiduzzafar Khan, great-granddaughter of Sultan Jahan Begum, shares, “While some of these historic pieces—a few dating back more than 150 years—now serve as display pieces in the palace museum, others continue their legacy at the General’s Table. However, the prized ones with gold embossing are treasured within the family’s private collection.” Ruminating upon the gastronomic legacy of Bhopal’s regal lineage, she adds, “The royal kitchens of Bhopal, a veritable crucible of Mughlai refinement, Maratha heritage, and Bhopali essence, gave rise to iconic creations—each a tribute to time-honoured techniques. Even today, within the precincts of our family’s Kothi, chefs under the tutelage of seasoned khansamah learn and preserve these recipes imbued with the nuanced orchestra of handpicked spices.”

That evening, ‘The General’s Table’, I discovered, is not just a dining space but an experience. White candles flicker in hurricane glass holders, casting a soft glow across the table, while white roses stand elegantly in glass vases. Over this exquisite dinner, I had the pleasure of conversing with the palace’s culinary guardians, Saleem Qureshi and Mohit Behl. As we dine, Qureshi unfolds the story of transformation. “In 1983, a pivotal decision changed the palace’s destiny: General Obaidullah Khan’s grandsons, Nadir and Yawar Rashid, chose to open their ancestral home to the world.”

Faiz Rashid, Director of the Jehan Numa Group, shares, “Many traditional recipes cherished by the nawabs and the begums remain at the heart of our menu. Signature dishes like kache keeme ke kebab, yakhni shorba, khumb galouti kebab, sheer khurma, rezala, and filfora hold deep sentimental value for our family. At the General’s Table, within our restaurant ‘Under the Mango Tree,’ we proudly serve these ancestral keepsakes, offering guests an authentic glimpse into Bhopal’s royal culinary heritage, just as our ancestors once savoured them.”

As I settle into my chair beneath the 200-year-old mango tree, I find myself tracing the footsteps of General Obaidullah Khan, the second son of Bhopal’s last sovereign, Nawab Sultan Jehan Begum. What unfolds before me is a gourmet trail through time—an elaborate multi-course daawat (feast) comprising 21 dishes that once graced the General’s own table. Yakhni shorba, dahi ke kebab, barrah chaap, nadru ke kofta, nihari, Bhopali yakhni pulao, and machli ka salan stole the spotlight. To cap off the indulgent feast, shahi tukda, sheer khurma, and chana dal halwa provided a sweet, decadent finale. The kitchen’s philosophy became clear with each course: these aren’t dishes that rely on heavy spicing to make their mark. Instead, time is the secret ingredient. Hours of slow cooking coax out intricate flavours, letting each spice enhance rather than overwhelm.

Before 1972, the dense jungles that encircled Bhopal didn’t just frame the city—they fed it. Bushcraft cookery emerged as more than mere sustenance; it became an art form, born from the thrill of the hunt and the bounty of the wilderness. The verdant forests, teeming with game, birthed a robust culinary tradition where the sharp crack of hunting rifles eventually gave way to the sizzle of fresh meat on open flames. One such dish that commanded my attention—not just for its bold flavours but for the forest-to-feast story it carries—was filfora. It is living history on a plate—a dish born from necessity in the wilderness, when hunters would celebrate their successful chase. The wilderness itself seemed to season the dish, lending it a primal authenticity of misty mornings spent tracking prey and evenings spent transforming the day’s hunt into feast-worthy fare.

Back in those days, the fresh kill was still warm, the swift work of knives reducing the meat—be it nilgai, deer, or gazelle—to delicate slivers was cooked over a crackling campfire into something sublime. In many ways, the story of Bhopal’s cuisine was written in the very landscape that surrounded it—wild, untamed, and deeply connected to the land.

According to Culinary Director Jeewan Singh Rawat, filfora has altered into a dish that stays true to its roots but is refined for a modern palate.Nowadays, at Jehan Numa Palace, this classic is prepared using hand-chopped mutton, ginger-garlic paste, turmeric, chillies, onions, yoghurt, fresh coriander, and a secret potli masala. “In our kitchen, history simmers alongside spices, and filfora brings out the true flavours of the meat with minimal use of spices, embodying Bhopal’s rich yet understated culinary heritage,” he says.

Equally fascinating is Bhopal’s culinary DNA, shaped by its Afghan-descended nobility. To understand Bhopal’s cuisine is to trace a web of matrimonial alliances and their delicious consequences. As Qureshi reveals, each royal bride who crossed the threshold of Bhopal’s nobility brought more than her trousseau—she carried the flavours of her homeland. From the skilled khansamah of Rampur to the refined tastes of Shahjahanpur and Saharanpur’s nobility, these culinary influences travelled alongside noble daughters into Bhopal’s kitchens. In palace kitchens, recipes were shared, techniques merged, and a new culinary language emerged—one that gently coaxed vegetables onto the meat-laden royal tables.

This gave birth to fascinating hybrids, such as the deep crimson chukandar gosht or the bright complexity of tamatar gosht. Yet for many years, these culinary treasures remained largely hidden behind palace walls, their recipes guarded like family heirlooms. As Rawat talks about leafing through yellowed pages of handwritten recipes, carefully preserved in the family kothi for over a century, I can almost hear the bustle of those grand palace kitchens where the Begums once hosted their legendary feasts. Each dish emerges from the archives like a culinary ghost, resurrected by chefs who treat these century-old recipes with near-religious reverence.

But nothing quite captures the ambition of royal cooking like the ‘parindey mein parinda’—a jaw-dropping creation that would have made Russian nesting dolls envious. Seven birds, each nestled within another, creating a cascade of flavours from the grandeur of peacock down to the delicate sweetness of quail. This architectural marvel of meat, I learnt, was particularly cherished by General Obaidullah Khan’s wife. Rezala, one of Begum’s all-time favourites, stands as another masterful shapeshifter. Its name translates to gravy and curries, but that barely scratches the surface of this versatile dish. Time has watched it transform—from the gamey richness of wild hare to the deep complexity of mutton, to the delicate flake of river fish. Today, it’s Murgh Rezala that captures modern hearts, with chicken swimming in that characteristic coriander-infused sauce.

When it comes to the sweet revolution, even the beloved shahi tukda (royal piece) dares to be different. In Bhopal’s kitchens, yesterday’s bread becomes tomorrow’s luxury. It is first kissed by hot oil until golden, then bathed in saffron-infused milk, and finally, in a distinctly Bhopali twist, embraced by the oven’s warmth for one final metamorphosis. Then there’s Sheer Khurma, a dessert that carries ancient Persian poetry in its name—“sheer” singing of milk, “khurma” speaking of dates. This vermicelli pudding tells the story of Silk Route traders and Persian nobility, of ingredients travelling across continents. While tradition once insisted on dates alone, modern interpretations paint a more opulent picture: pistachios adding their emerald crunch, cardamom releasing its aromatic secrets, and raisins contributing their sweet bursts of flavour.

This, I realise, is far more than the special menu I’d been promised—it’s a glimpse into the kind of gracious dining that once defined royal Bhopal. Yet, this shift from private cover to public heritage hasn’t diminished its royal essence. Instead, the aristocratic lifestyle once exclusive to nawabs is now shared with discerning guests, wrapped in the same warmth and sophistication that marked the original era. Today, as Nadir and Yawar’s sons take the helm, they carry forward this legacy of Bhopali hospitality with equal parts pride and grace, welcoming global visitors into their storied family home where—a rare and royal heritage speaks gently but eloquently of a unique influence—that of the nawabs and the begums of Bhopal.

With more than a decade of writing experience and a passion for exploring the world, the author is a travel journalist with a knack for captivating storytelling. Views expressed in the above piece are personal and solely those of the author. They do not necessarily reflect Firstpost’s views.