The charcoal grills burn strong in Lucknow’s failing light. The streets are alive with smoke and flame, the call to prayer and the delicate scent of spiced meat. Ajay Jain, a Lucknowi who grew up as a vegetarian, is guiding me through the old city to Phool Wali Gali (the ‘lane of flowers’), home of Tunday Kababi, which has been serving its legendary buffalo galawati kebabs on this site for more than a century.

“The first time I ever ate meat,” Ajay says, “it was the Tunday kebab. And I thought, why have I never eaten something so good before? I’ve wasted my life.”

My own first taste of Tunday was in Delhi, in 2003. By then, anyone who was anyone had Tunday catering their wedding. At one such shaadi I dined on the famous kebab. But I’d also danced and drank, and the next day, while I could recount my enthusiasm for the dish, I struggled to remember the taste.

From then on, the promise of Lucknow burned like a slow fever in my brain. I began to believe that no dish in Delhi could hold a candle to those from the noble city to the east. And with good reason: it was the old capital of Awadh, the epicentre of Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb — a culture fusing elements from Hindu and Muslim communities. The region’s 18th- and 19th-century rulers, the Nawabs, were free from their erstwhile Mughal lords yet practically powerless under the British, so they turned their gazes inward. Poetry, theatre, dance and architecture flourished, as did cuisine. Royal cooks earned salaries on a par with government ministers and competed with one another using Mughal, Persian, European and local influences to deliver the most delicious, elaborate, unusual meals. From 1775 to 1856, Lucknow may well have been the culinary centre of the earth.

We arrive at Tunday as darkness falls, its rugged shopfront dominated by a vast copper pan riding glowing coals. The daily performance is under way; taking place above the pans is a dance of hands, some adding freshly shaped patties, others flipping the kebabs as they shallow-fry. Smoke from the coals imparts a certain flavour, but it’s the spice mix that holds the real charm. Minced buffalo meat is kneaded into a paste with, it’s said, no fewer than 160 spices, their exact identity and ratio a closely guarded secret.