Life and Chicken Tikka

I’ve always been a staunch lover of Chicken Malai Tikka, exploring every renowned corner of India—from the smoky tandoors of Amritsar in the north to the spicy kebabs of Hyderabad in the south. But there’s one place that has held a special place in my heart and taste buds, surpassing every other Tikka I’ve tried in my 35-year journey of culinary exploration. It’s a small, unassuming stall in a narrow street near Shahganj, Agra, called Kamal Tikka House. No flashy signboards, no social media hype—just a simple cart with a humble charcoal grill. Yet, in terms of taste, it was a king.

I still remember one particular evening in 2003, during a monsoon shower. The streets were quiet, the drizzle steady, and the usually bustling lane of Kamal Tikka House was almost deserted. I found myself the only customer, nursing a cold beer while savoring their signature Chicken Malai Tikka. The old chef, whom I had seen for the past seven years, was free that evening. He was a man in his late 50s, his face weathered by years of handling the fiery tandoor. I watched as he cleaned his station, meticulously tending to his ingredients with the same care I’d seen time and again.

The steady beat of the rain and the rich aroma of the Tikka brought on a feeling of nostalgia. I called him over, curious to finally ask the question I’d been holding back all these years.

“What’s the secret?” I asked. “How do you keep this flavor so consistent, year after year?”

He looked at me with a small smile and, after a pause, said, “It’s not just about the ingredients or the grill, sir. It’s much more.” And then, like a seasoned storyteller, he began sharing insights—lessons that went beyond cooking and struck a chord in me, lessons I have carried with me since that rainy night.

“First,” he said, “it’s all about preparation and patience." He kept silence for a minute and what came afterwards changed my many perceptions.

"Just like how a good Tikka needs marination to soak in flavors, a balanced life also needs the right foundation. You rush the marination, you lose the taste. In life, if you rush things without taking time to prepare, you lose quality.”

I nodded, already feeling a shift in my understanding of both his Tikka and life.

“Then,” he continued, “you need timing. Some things just take time. You can’t rush a good Tikka, or it becomes dry and tough. Life’s the same—you need to learn when to act and when to wait. Sometimes, waiting is as important as doing.”

As I listened, he shared how he watched the grill, adjusting the heat carefully, mindful of the temperature. “The best outcomes,” he said, “come when you give each step the right amount of attention.”

“But what about the ingredients?” I asked.

“Oh, they’re important,” he said, “but the balance is the real trick. Too much spice or cream, and the Tikka is ruined. In life, you have to balance work and rest, passion and patience, giving and taking—just like I balance every spice and ingredient so that each bite tastes just right.”

He shared these insights with a simplicity that came from years of lived experience. It reminded me that attention to detail is what separates great work from good. “Anyone can make Tikka, but only those who focus on the small things, like the texture of the yogurt or the smell of the marination, can make it perfect every time,” he added with a wise nod.

By now, I was fully absorbed in his words. He went on, “And sometimes, you have to adapt and be flexible. Every day, ingredients change a bit. The charcoal burns differently on wet days, and sometimes you even get a different type of yogurt. I adapt. I make small changes, but the essence stays the same. Life is like that too—you adapt, but you don’t lose yourself.”

I smiled, realizing I had stumbled into a philosophy as rich as the Tikka I was eating.

“Lastly,” he said, “it’s about persistence and consistency. This taste you love—it's here today because I showed up every day, rain or shine, and did the same thing, refining my craft without losing focus. In life, too, you keep showing up, consistently, no matter what comes your way.”

As the evening deepened, he finished by saying, “At the end of it, I don’t just make Tikka for people to eat. I make it so they come back. That’s the difference between doing something for yourself and doing it for others. If it matters to others, you keep trying, no matter the weather.”

That rainy evening in 2003, I left Kamal Tikka House with more than just the taste of the best Chicken Malai Tikka lingering on my tongue. I walked away with life lessons that, much like the Tikka, had a rich, lasting flavor—one that has stayed with me through the years.

BTW, the best chicken tikka available in Jakarta is at Man Aur Tan restaurant at Manhattan Hotel in Kuningan area.