All rise! It’s pilaf time

In Uzbekistan, pilaf (or plov) is the equivalent of an epic story. Seen everywhere — in homes, eateries and hotels, the rice dish with meat and spices comes with its own tales. At Besh Qozon in Tashkent, the act of pilaf eating reaches staggering proportions as thousands of people enter and exit the outlet like the ocean’s waves. Their largest outlet on Colonel Khodjaev Street sometimes caters to 15,000 people a day traversing through two storeyed eating halls, complete with outdoor seating in shade and takeaway counters. It is a spectacle of a kind. The kitchens are open to visitors as a social media phenomenon, with 21 iron cauldrons simmering in unison — one weighing three tonnes, can cook a tonne of pilaf in one go.

Watching Uzbek cooks stir saffron-stained rice, carrots, and meat with paddles taller than themselves, makes one curious about what really makes pilaf so unique.

Complicated origin story

Plov, pilaf, or pulao—remains one of the most debated rice-and-meat dish origin story. The Oxford English Dictionary traces the English word pilaf to the Turkish pilav, which in turn descends from the Persian pilāv. Yet, the linguistic trail doesn’t end here. The Persian term itself is believed to have borrowed from the Sanskrit pulāka, meaning “a ball of rice,” possibly of Dravidian origin. Uzbekistan say ‘palov’ is a simple abbreviation of the capital letters of the dish's key ingredients—P (piyoz-onion), A (aez-carrot), L (lahm-meat), O (olio–oil) and V (vet-salt). 

Where and when this dish truly originated, continues to be a matter of spirited debate among food historians. Some ancient Sanskrit manuscripts make early references to rice preparations resembling pulao, but it was only after the medieval Central Asian conquests that the richly spiced, meat-laden versions began to appear in Indian accounts, post centuries of culinary exchange and evolution. A better way to understand pilaf is hence, to try it.

Declared an intangible cultural heritage by UNESCO, osh (as it is called locally) is the centrepiece of all Uzbek celebrations—from weddings and birthdays, return from pilgrimage to mourning feasts to graduation, it is a comfort food, but with nuanced differences. “It is both a meal and metaphor, as a local joke goes that most children are conceived on Thursdays, thanks to osh”, says Komilova Madina, an English speaking Uzbek guide. There is a pilaf for Thursdays, and there is one for holidays, and many other variants differing between each region of the large nation.

Cultural archive

“In Uzbek culture, words often give way to gestures,” explains Kamila Erkaboyeva, a culture and tourism consultant from London, and a Tashkent native. From pouring a guest’s tea to the brim as a polite hint to leave, to serving plov on a Thursday to suggest conceiving before the holy Friday, women often communicate in this manner. “In my family, it’s the men who make pilaf, in a slow, proud ritual where fathers teach sons, and even my brother who usually burns an omelette makes a perfect Sunday plov,” she jests.

What began in 1999 in Tashkent with just ‘five pots’, eponymous to Besh Qozon, has today grown into a culinary institution with outlets across the capital city. The spectacle is as intoxicating as the flavours. The restaurant does five distinct takes on pilaf. Diners don’t just come to eat; it is like a cult belief, a phenomenon to witness, and a gathering to be part of. 

Among the platefuls we tried, one was enriched with cotton oil, the most authentically Uzbek in style and relevance, as it is made in homes for special occasions only. The cotton oil makes it a layer more greasy. “Wedding plov is inherently more complex and greasy as it is a community meal, and comes with very good quality ingredients,” Madina explains.

The cooking process follows a fry first order starting with meat, followed by rice and vegetables. The qozons are covered lightly with small steel plates to be steamed.

While potatoes and carrots are the only vegetables one will find in a plate, the version from Samarkand introduces the goodness of almonds and dried berries while the wedding pilaf also contains boiled chickpeas. Chaykhana pilaf tastes smokier with drier meat, topped with delicate quail eggs (on request) with dolma, which is stuffed meat rolled in pickled grape leaves on the side. The last one was intriguing for a calorific dish like plov, with brown rice, allegedly meant for diabetics. Fergana valley’s devsira brown rice with large grains absorbs liquid well, becoming soft, dense, and fluffy while holding their shape.

“In Uzbekistan, we don’t count calories. Still, plov has around 360 calories per 100 grams, depending on the region”, Kamila added. “That’s why it’s always served with Achchiq-chuchuk salad, non bread, green tea, and grapefruit vinegar called gurob to balance the meal”, she says.

While the atmosphere at the restaurant is electric, the way it is made in homes is a quiet ritual. At Hayot village up in the Nuratau mountains, the homestay owners cooked a pilaf together on a pleasant evening in the guest’s honour, in their humble kitchen among apple and apricot orchards. The slow stirs led to an epiphany. The entire interpretation of the dish on a communal dining table becomes the exact representation of an unhurried meal, savoured among the company of loved ones, just as the Uzbeks do.