Searching for Pakistan’s best-kept food secret in London
A border-crossing dish that originated in Myanmar and became a Karachi classic, khausay provides a window into the history and culture of the Memon community in the UK, Pakistan and beyond. Travel journalist Queenie Shaikh reports from London on a story of migration, trade and curried noodles.
I got off the number 18 bus and skipped along Edgware Road in central London, trying not to land in the puddles left by the rain. As summer ebbed away, people were spilling out of shisha cafés and pubs, pipes and pints in hand, visibly relieved London had finally returned to cooler temperatures. I passed several chai shops before turning the corner towards Biryani Guys, a bright pink restaurant claiming to specialise in authentic Karachi street food, where I was meeting a friend.
As a Pakistani and honorary Karachiite, any place in London – especially central London – claiming to serve authentic Karachi street food is naturally met with a fair amount of scepticism from the food snob in me. Karachi is Pakistan’s biggest city and economic hub, and is home to numerous ethnic communities, each with their own food traditions, so doing justice to even one of them in London – multicultural as the city may be – is a tall order. When I discovered that Biryani Guys served khow suey, described as a ‘Karachi special’, that doubt gave way to a raised eyebrow and considerable curiosity.
Khow suey (or khausay) a curried noodle dish is rarely found in Pakistan outside Karachi, let alone in London – or so I thought. Its origins are Burmese, but the version Karachiites know today is closely tied to the Memons, a Muslim mercantile community with roots in Sindh, Pakistan, as well as Kutch and Kathiawar in India.
‘Once in Karachi, the Memons adapted khow suey to local tastes’
The connection dates back to the late 1800s and early 1900s, when Memon and Gujarati traders travelled to British Burma (now Myanmar) in search of business opportunities in former capital Rangoon, now Yangon. It was there that they encountered ohn no khao swè, a rich Burmese noodle soup made with coconut milk, chicken and spices, served with toppings such as fried onions, boiled eggs, green chillies, coriander, lime and egg noodles.
That movement took another turn after Burma’s 1962 military coup, when the government began nationalising businesses and pushing out foreign influence. Around 200,000 Indians left within two years, among them Memon families who made their way to Pakistan, where Karachi was already familiar territory. Some Memons had settled in the port city before Partition, drawn by commerce, while many more arrived after 1947 as violence and uncertainty displaced Muslim trading communities from Kutch, Kathiawar and elsewhere in Gujarat.
As Pakistan’s then capital and most important port, Karachi offered business opportunities, established community networks and relatives who had already made the journey. Many moved into commercial spaces left by Hindu traders who had migrated to India, and the Memons soon became a defining presence in the city’s business and food culture. That connection with Burma remains visible in Karachi too, from the Rangoonwala surname commonly heard to the city’s Rangoonwala Community Centre.
Once in Karachi, the Memons adapted khow suey to local tastes and ingredients. Egg noodles were replaced with readily available spaghetti, while the coconut broth was thickened with yoghurt and gram flour. A spiced beef or chicken gravy was added, alongside fried garlic, green chillies, ginger, coriander, chaat masala and Slims – the crispy potato sticks commonly found in Karachi bakeries. Its name evolved too, with khao swè gradually becoming khausay within the community.
‘As a spice aficionado, I’d needed no further persuasion’
My own love affair with khausay began when one of my best friends, Saira – a Karachiite Memon – invited me over for lunch. We were in our early teens and, until then, I had only ever tried Malaysian laksa and the Burmese version. I had no idea Pakistan had one of its own.
I remember watching with rapt curiosity as she recklessly piled noodles with spicy chicken curry, heaps of Slims crisps and coriander, before copying her. “You can add ginger and green chillies too. Choose as many toppings as you like,” she’d gently encouraged. As a spice aficionado, I’d needed no further persuasion and promptly loaded my plate with everything her mum had laid out for us. To this day, no visit to Karachi feels complete without khausay at Saira’s.
So, back in London, when the waiter came to take our order at Biryani Guys, I was looking for that same reckless abandon – noodles piled high with all those very specific toppings. The restaurant was covered in truck art and familiar Karachi phrases such as ‘Karachi Karachi hai, yaar’ (‘Karachi is Karachi, mate’) as I flipped through the menu, with ‘Peechay Hutt’ by Hasan Raheem playing in the background.
‘It arrived through a cloud of steam’
One of Biryani Guys’ owners, Habib Iqbal Mundrawala, is himself a member of Karachi’s Memon community. The business grew out of his frustration at the lack of authentic Karachi food in London, beginning in 2015 when he and his wife started cooking from their back garden in Luton before opening their first restaurant on Edgware Road.
Understandably, the menu had an entire section devoted to Memoni food alongside its wider Karachi offering. There was Memoni daal chawal – a soupy lentil and bottle gourd stew served with rice – and Memoni chana chaat, made with a cooked, tangy and spiced gravy rather than simply tossing boiled chickpeas through raw chutneys. And then, of course, there was khausay, with a choice of chicken or paneer curry and nine toppings, including spicy crisps, fried onions, lemon wedges and green chillies. Unsurprisingly, I ordered the chicken khausay with all nine.
It arrived through a cloud of steam, accompanied by several small containers – much like khausay in Karachi, where the toppings are served separately. I piled the spaghetti with chicken curry before adding a generous helping of each one. With the first bite, any scepticism I had carried through the door disappeared.
‘This corner of South London has long provided the sort of community networks that allow diasporas to put down roots’
The next day, I headed to South London to visit my friend Maliha, a member of the Memon Community Centre in Balham. Memons began settling in Britain in greater numbers during the late 1960s and early 1970s, with families arriving from East Africa, Pakistan and India. The Memon Association UK was established in 1973 as the community grew, and plans for a permanent space eventually led to the Balham centre, inaugurated in 2001 by the then Prince Charles. Today, it remains a hub for religious, educational and social life.
Its location feels fitting. Neighbouring Tooting Bec already has a substantial Pakistani population and, although the centre serves Memons from around the world rather than Pakistanis alone, this corner of South London has long provided the sort of community networks that allow diasporas to put down roots.
‘Fusion food is such a huge part of being Memon,’ said Maliha as we walked through Hildreth Street Market, where people spilled out of coffee shops and onto the pavement. Born and brought up in the UK, she comes from a family whose own history stretches between Karachi, Myanmar and Britain. ‘Memoni khausay is special because it narrates such a rich story of migration, trade and cultural blending between Myanmar and Pakistani Memons.’
‘A dish shaped by adaptation’
Maliha lives among a close community of Memons on a small residential street in Balham and insists there is a simple reason so few restaurants serve khausay: the best versions are still made at home. Her mum, Nafisa Aunty, had made hers that afternoon, laying out both fried and pickled red onions and swapping the usual Slims for Walkers salt and vinegar crisps. ‘I always come back with bags of Slims whenever we visit Karachi, but unfortunately, we’ve all run out’, Aunty said as she set the table.
There was another family variation too. While Pakistani Memon versions often leave out the boiled eggs found in Burmese ohn no khao swè, Nafisa Aunty served hers with scrambled eggs alongside three different curries: chicken, beef and vegetables. ‘My mum’s neighbour in Myanmar used to make them like this, and when my parents moved back to Karachi, they continued making it the same way,’ she said, handing me a plate.
Since it was a Sunday, Maliha’s immediate and extended family had gathered around a dining table seating ten, extended with a foldable table and surrounded by mismatched plastic chairs. Outside, afternoon sun competed with bursts of rain, while a gentle breeze met the steam rising from bowls of noodles and curries being passed between some 20 people.
As I piled my plate with my second helping of khausay in 24 hours, I was transported once again to Saira’s dining table in Karachi, back when we were children. I couldn’t help but marvel that a dish so closely tied to one community in one city had somehow followed its people across continents and found its way onto the streets of London. As Maliha’s parents spoke fondly of Pakistan and their community’s resilience, it made sense that a dish shaped by adaptation had become such a lasting marker of their identity. For generations of Memons, khausay had become one of the ways they carried home with them.
Queenie Shaikh is a multi-award-winning travel journalist from London. Her writing often explores themes of ethnic and religious diversity, heritage tourism, positive impact, and film and entertainment. Instagram: @thepoorlondoner; X: @QueenieShaikh
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect those of the Runnymede Trust.
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Photo © Queenie Shaikh
