I peer up at the news. I don’t understand what’s being said, but I find myself transfixed anyway.

Urdu flows along the bottom of the screen, the white script drifting over a ribbon of azure, like passing clouds on a sunny day. I wish I could read it, then I’d know what the item is about.

At the centre of the screen, a man talks intently to the camera; he looks very serious. For some reason, they have projected his image onto each corner of the picture: a multi-headed hydra in beard, suit and glasses. My eyes struggle to settle, flitting incessantly from head to head.

A waiter beside me is also gazing up at the five-headed man. He occasionally nods, sometimes strokes his chin, and every so often frowns. Either way he is resting on every word.

My curiosity eventually gets the better of me. I reach for my phone, and search up Pakistani ARY News. A series of English headlines flash over my screen:

… a judge releases an opposition party leader from prison… twenty-six cases of dengue fever are reported in Islamabad… the High Court in Lahore mandates workers remain at home due to smog…  

None of these seem to correspond with the talking man though, whose latest comments seem to draw a muttering of disapproval from the waiter.

A distant shout interrupts his train of thought, and he promptly makes his way behind the counter and through the kitchen door. He soon emerges with a dish in each hand, keeping them carefully balanced as he slaloms his way between the rows of tables.

As he approaches me, he slowly sets down the plates one at a time. He offers a gentle smile, and lingers a little, perhaps curious as to what I make of the food.

They clearly take pride in their halwa poori: they have literally named this place after it. And although it’s customarily a morning dish, here they serve it all day (as declared in bold headlines across the laminated menu, and on posters over their expansive front windows). So, for health workers coming off shifts at the local Croydon University hospital, or bus drivers, or couples or families, or more sporadic flotsam like me, there is halwa poori ready and waiting at any time.

It’s served on a thali plate of three distinct basins, each separated by levees of curving plastic. From above, it looks like a peace sign, with sections coloured in orange, mustard, and beige. It would make an appealing flag.

I sample them in turn, and as someone new to this dish, delight in how each combines with the next. This is an egalitarian trio: each item has its place.

Chole masala – a pool of brown gravy, teeming with chickpeas, each a perfect fat sphere, each yielding to the gentlest press of a fork. It is a generous dish of gently layered spicing.

Aloo ki tarkari – chunks of potato, stained with turmeric: a yellow-brick road speckled with coriander, mustard, and kaloonji seeds, and flecked with flame-red slivers of chilli pepper.

Sooji ka halwa – a soft slab of sweetened semolina, laced with cardamon, and transformed orange by frying the grain in sugar and ghee, plus a fair dash of food colouring.

Each one is just right in itself, but like a colourful cast of Marvel characters, magic happens when they’re brought together: there’s power in the collective.

Dominating to the side sits the formidable poori, its deep-fried cape large and majestic. Dwarfing the plate underneath, it looks like it’s quietly levitating over the table-top. And as I try tearing off strips, the crispy outer layers disintegrate under my fingers: what ends up in my mouth melts like ribbons of candyfloss. The inner layers meanwhile are rich and flaky and retain a delicate chew.

I use larger pieces to scoop up a swathe of chickpeas, or pinch off a squidge of semolina. One bite is earthy, the next sweet, the next tangy.

Whilst I’m engrossed in this gustatory waltz, the front door suddenly swings open: a cool rush of autumnal air brings in a hail of yellowing sycamore leaves, and a billow of London dust. In bounds a man, short in stature, dressed in a navy anorak and a bright blue baseball cap.

He calls out across the room, his voice resonating off the solid cream tiles that line the walls. He raises an arm in greeting, and I follow his gaze. It is directed up at the waiter, who turns towards him.

A puzzled expression comes over the waiter’s face, as though he’s piecing together something that doesn’t quite fit, something out of the ordinary. But this confusion soon gives way to surprise, disbelief, and then delight.

He immediately strides towards the unexpected visitor, breezing past a chair that scrapes roughly along the floor. As they come together, frantic words are exchanged; the space between them fizzes with history and connection. When they eventually embrace, it is warm and rapturous.

I can only assume it’s been a long time since they were last in each other’s company. And when they part, both sets of eyes are damp and dewy. Questions follow more questions. Stories gather apace, and whilst one speaks, the other hungrily soaks up every word.

Once the initial energy subsides, they take up chairs at the table opposite, positioning themselves side-by-side, as though a couple on a ferris-wheel. Another waiter sets down a medley of dishes on the table, and as they continue to relate their tales, they tear up some poori, folding up morsels of food before them. I sense this to be a recurrent scene for this pair: across different times, different places.

I can’t tell what they are talking about, who they are, or what has happened. There is clearly joy in this meeting, but I somehow detect a kind of melancholy too; I don’t know why. There seems to be sadness and ghosts in this story.

Either way, it is such a tender scene, and it is hard not to be caught up by it. Or imagine what the story behind their reunion could possibly be: what hardships may have been encountered, what seas have been crossed, or who may have been left behind. Perhaps it’s not even a reunion, but a celebration – is this a story of a marriage, a child being born, or an illness being weathered?

I realise I’m just projecting my own assumptions. Still, it makes me think how these food spaces can become microcosms of everyday life, little stages on which human dramas can unfurl. After all, there are not many other places where you get to sit for a while, just be amongst other folk, and have time to watch and observe and imagine. Momentary windows into people’s lives.

It can inevitably feel quite voyeuristic – who am I to even make such presumptions? But still I do. Once inside the theatre, it’s hard to ignore the play. Especially if you are there by yourself, with no-one else to share your attention. It’s arguably one of the privileges of eating out alone. And when the drama is this joyous, it’s hard not to feel a little joy inside too.

On the wall, the news has moved on. The two men occasionally glance at it, make the odd gesture or two, before their talk returns to other things.

I meanwhile reach out for some more poori, only to find my fingers rap up against plastic: just a few small buttery crumbs remain. I lick my forefinger, and dab them all up, until the plate is as white and round as the moon.

*

For more on halwa poori, here’s Saba Imtiaz’s personal account of growing up eating it in Karachi – “it evokes nostalgia – of past meals shared with friends and family – and there’s a comfort that it’ll always be the same combination. That is a rarity in a city which is constantly falling apart and being clumsily put back together…”

Sherharyar Rizwan’s guide-cum-quest to find the best halwa poori in Lahore makes a fun read whether or not you know the city. Whilst for those in London, here’s a guide to where you can pick up some of the best by Layla Hassanali (aka ‘Halal Girl Around Town’).

Meanwhile, for a more historical take on poori and pulses, and another culinary trajectory, here’s my piece on Dhal Puri Roti, tracing its journey – with its echoes of colonialism – from India’s Bihar state to the plantations of Trinidad. halwa poori house

Halwa Poori House

halwa poori house

halwa poori house