Biryani doesn't belong to one country, one family, or one right way of making it. It travels — through migration, memory, identity and Friday kitchens. This is a place to share that story: who made it, where you were, what it meant. No recipes. No debates on authenticity. Just your stories.
Your stories get mapped as they come in. Click a region to filter.
Written, photographed, filmed — filter by feeling to see how differently the same dish feels to people.
The CEO and the driver. The diaspora and the people who never left. The person who makes biryani every Friday and the one who only knows it from a street cart in a city they visited once. No story is more valid than another. No expertise required. Pull up a chair.
Read a story that feels like yours? Don't just read it and move on. This is where the conversation happens now — react to a story, share a thought, post a video. Every post is reviewed before it goes live, same as stories.
Once a month, I cook, you bring the stories. Fifteen people at a time, my place in Fort Greene, Brooklyn — my heart is huge but my apartment is not.
Tuesday, September 2, 2026
Fort Greene, Brooklyn — details and RSVP on Luma.
RSVP on Luma →
Not a chef. Not a food critic. Just someone who has spent twenty-five years making biryani, thinking about biryani, and gathering people around it — and slowly realising the dish was never really the point.
The Biryani Project is three things: a living archive of your stories, right here on this site. A supper club — once a month, my place in Fort Greene, fifteen people at a time. And biryani conversations — short filmed chats about your biryani, and really, your life. Invite me to yours: hellobiryaniproject@gmail.com — doesn't have to be New York.
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