Chicken Rezala
A journey into the history and science behind the ethereal white curry that is Kolkata's beloved Chicken Rezala.
Let’s get one thing straight. If you ask a generic AI to generate a picture of “Indian curry,” it will probably spit out something brownish-red or violently yellow, bubbling with enough oil to worry a cardiologist. That’s the stereotype, the default setting, the curry_base_v1.0. And then there’s Chicken Rezala. Stereotypes are everywhere, like those of Muslims in India, that they have more babies, or in the world that they are terrorists. Of course I am no endorser of Islam, but I am no endorser of any religion, all being equally false, including the one that’s now put the Mughals out of the Indian history school syllabus—but anyway this is about food, but I want to make it clear, it’s not the religious people or the dumb dogmas that give religions any reason to be written about, it’s the ordinary people, often the docile, mute, religiously cuckolded and blindfolded faithful artisans back in those ancient times—cooks, artists, sometimes their patron kings, often philosophers and thinkers that need mention from time to time, primarily because of their secular contributions that would be felt multiplied in time downstreams. I am glad to be a bengali and have grown up uninterested and unindoctrinated to any faith, especially today the inordinate time that some people spend thinking about and praying to nonexistent beings is utterly incommensurate and irritatingly anachronistic. But whether it’s on the face or not, the effects of religion are always pernicious if permitted outside fantasy—which is what it is. But I digress.
Rezala waltzes into the room in a pristine white tuxedo while everyone else is wearing a Jackson Pollock-inspired kurta. It’s the bug in the matrix of Indian cuisine, a dish that seems to have read the rulebook on curries and then politely used it as a coaster. It’s rich without being heavy, aromatic without being pungent, and conspicuously, defiantly, white.
A Nawab’s Culinary Conundrum
The story goes that Rezala is a gift from the last Nawab of Awadh, Wajid Ali Shah. When he was exiled to Calcutta in the 1850s, his kitchen brigade faced a classic engineering problem with a set of new constraints.
Problem: Create a luxurious, royal-feeling chicken dish.
Constraints: Adapt to the local Bengali palate, which appreciated subtlety.
Make it different from the classic, heavy kormas of Lucknow.
And (Presumably) Work with the ingredients available.
Their solution was Rezala, a masterclass in culinary reverse-engineering. They decided to build a rich gravy not by adding things, but by removing the usual suspects—turmeric and red chilli powder. This decision created a new, much harder problem: how do you create a stable, delicious, creamy gravy without the usual toolkit?
Level 1: The Acid Attack (a.k.a The Marinade)
Any good Rezala starts with tender chicken. The secret isn’t just slow cooking; it’s a preemptive strike using a yogurt-based marinade. You see, meat is essentially a bundle of tightly wound protein fibres (actin and myosin). The goal is to get them to loosen up.
Enter yogurt. The lactic acid () in the yogurt goes to work on these proteins. The acidic environment starts to denature them, causing the tight coils to unwind. This process not only makes the chicken tender enough to be eaten with a stern look but also allows it to hold more moisture. The result? Juicy, succulent meat.
It’s a controlled chemical reaction you’re initiating hours before the pan even gets hot.
Level 2: The Emulsion Police
Here’s the main event. The base of Rezala’s gravy is yogurt. But anyone who has tried to make a yogurt-based curry knows it has one fatal flaw: it loves to split. When you heat yogurt, its casein proteins, which are normally suspended happily in a colloid, get agitated, clump together (coagulate), and squeeze out the water, creating a grainy, watery mess. It’s a culinary tragedy.
So how do the Rezala masters prevent this? They deploy the Emulsion Police. A finely ground paste of soaked cashew nuts and poppy seeds is the hero of this story.
This paste does two crucial things:
Thickening: The starches in the nuts and seeds absorb water, physically thickening the gravy and making it harder for the proteins to move around and clump.
Emulsification: The fats and starches in the paste act as powerful emulsifiers. They coat the tiny protein particles in the yogurt, forming a protective barrier. This barrier prevents the proteins from linking up when heated, keeping the gravy smooth, creamy, and unified. It’s the same principle behind using mustard to stabilize a vinaigrette. You’re creating a stable colloidal suspension that can withstand the heat of the kitchen.
Without this paste, your Rezala would curdle into a sad, separated puddle. With it, you get that signature silken, velvety texture that defines the dish.
Level 3: The Ghost of Aromas
With colour out of the picture, flavour and aroma have to do all the heavy lifting. Rezala’s flavour profile is all about layering subtle fragrances.
First, whole spices—cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, bay leaves—are tempered in hot ghee. Why ghee? Its high smoke point lets you get it really hot, which is perfect for extracting the fat-soluble flavour compounds from the spices. This initial step creates your aromatic base layer.
Then comes the masterstroke. The final, defining aromas of Rezala are added right at the end, often after the heat is turned off. These are kewra water (an extract from the pandanus flower) and sometimes meetha attar (a sweet, edible perfume).
Why add them last? Because these are highly volatile compounds. In chemistry, “volatile” means a substance that evaporates easily. If you were to add these delicate floral and sweet notes at the beginning of the cooking process, their aromas would simply evaporate into thin air, lost forever. By adding them at the end, you trap them in the warm gravy, ensuring they hit your nose the moment the dish is served. It’s the difference between perfume and deodorant—one is a finishing touch, the other is for the whole journey.