02/22/2026
I didn’t grow up on butter chicken.
I grew up in Calcutta.
And in the Calcutta of my childhood, butter chicken (at least the Delhi-style one) wasn’t quite the star it is today. What we had instead was a Chicken Butter Masala. The names sound similar, but the soul of the dishes are worlds apart. Chicken Butter Masala in Calcutta was richer, more tomato-onion forward, often thicker and bolder — less smoke, less swagger, less of that North Indian tandoori bravado.
Most of my memories of it aren’t from restaurants, but from the clubs. Thursday evenings at The Saturday Club. Long leisurely lunches at The Tollygunge Club. Crisp white tablecloths. Waiters in starched uniforms. The quiet clatter of cutlery against porcelain. Its when we wanted something more special, we went to places like Amber or Kwality — institutions that felt grand when you were a child. The hum of window air conditioners fighting the Calcutta heat. The aroma of butter naan and spices drifting through the dining room. Much later came Zaranj, where the gravies felt darker, moodier, more indulgent as though they carried stories in them.
Those were the places where celebration lived. But even then, butter chicken as Delhi knows it? That wasn’t yet my story.
Then came Melbourne in the late 1990s, where I moved to pursue my education. Let’s just say… my standards were tested.
Australia had many wonderful things—coffee culture, beaches, cricket rivalries, racists, but truly great Indian food wasn’t one of them. Butter chicken hadn’t yet found its confident footing there. Instead, the Chicken Tikka Masala ruled the land, much like it did in the UK - bright orange, creamy, somewhat reliable depending on the mood of the chef, but sweeter, and missing that slow burn romance of a true Delhi butter chicken. I ate it. I appreciated it for it was Indian but I didn’t fall in love. Far from it actually.
It wasn’t until I moved to Delhi in the erly 2000s, that I truly understood the reverence of butter chicken. In Delhi, butter chicken isn’t just a dish. It’s currency. It’s identity. It’s pride.
The city smells of charcoal and spice. The air outside restaurants feels permanently perfumed with smoke from tandoors that have probably been burning for decades. Even the smallest dhaba or neighborhood takeaway had its own version. Every menu carried it. Every table ordered it. Every family had an opinion on who made it best.
And then there were the legends. Moti Mahal. Gulati’s at Pandara Road. Mughal Mahal. Walking into these places felt like stepping into culinary history. The buzz of families, the swirl of waiters balancing copper handi bowls, the sheen of butter floating just on top of the gravy.
Delhi had the best Butter Chicken, charred tandoori chicken, smoky, slightly crisp at the edges, resting in a velvety tomato gravy that was neither overly sweet nor aggressively spiced. The butter wasn’t heavy; it was precise. The cream didn’t dull the flavor; it elevated it. There was depth—slow-cooked tomatoes, ginger, garlic and fenugreek. A gentle heat that lingered at the back of the throat and quietly asked you to come back for more.
It wasn’t flashy, it was confident. It didn’t scream, it lingered.
That was the moment I understood: butter chicken, done right, is a masterpiece of restraint. It’s balance. Smoke against silk. Spice against sweetness. Butter against char. Delhi didn’t just serve butter chicken. Delhi perfected it.
Years later, when we introduced Indian cuisine at Red Hot Chilli Pepper, there was one obsession:
How do we replicate that? Not a generic butter chicken.
Not a Westernized version. Not a sweet, cream-heavy imitation.
The real thing.
We went through batch after batch. Adjusted the tomato base. Changed the proportion of cream. Tweaked the kasuri methi. Tested marination times. Debated how much char was enough without being bitter.
And then there was Karan —my friend with an extraordinarily refined butter chicken palate. If butter chicken were a PhD subject, he’d have tenure. We tasted, argued, recalibrated, and tasted again. Finally, we landed on what we believed was a perfect homage to Mughal Mahal’s butter chicken. That was the benchmark. That was the North Star. And we didn’t stop until we got there.
Tandoori chicken marinated overnight, cooked until the edges caramelize and capture that unmistakable smokiness. A tomato gravy slow simmered until it loses its sharpness and gains character. Butter folded in, not dumped. Cream added, not poured. Kasuri methi crushed between palms at the final moment, releasing its perfume into the sauce.
The result? Balanced. Confident. Complete.
Each bite carries Delhi. Each spoonful carries years of chasing perfection. And yes—I’ll say it boldly. It’s the best butter chicken in Dallas, even if it’s called Chicken Makhanwala on our menu. It's greatness, measured in the silence at a table when the first bite lands. Measured in the way people drag naan across the bowl to gather the last streak of gravy.
Butter chicken is quintessentially Indian—not because it’s everywhere, but because it represents who we are: layered, rich in history, adaptable, yet fiercely proud of its roots.
From Calcutta to Melbourne to Delhi… and now to Dallas.
This isn’t just a dish we make.
It’s a dish we chased across continents—and perfected.
