Breakfast with Backbone: Siri at Taxali Gate

You have to wake up early if you want to eat siri in Lahore. Not paye, mutton trotters—that’s easy to find—but siri, the slow-cooked head of the goat, simmered till the marrow loosens and the cheeks melt. It’s not for everyone. But for those who know, it’s a Lahori dish steeped in tradition, texture, and a kind of quiet reverence.

I first tasted siri on a cold morning near Taxali Gate, at Fazal Haq Siri Paye, a place that’s been feeding generations since before I was born. The shop opens before sunrise, and by 7 a.m., it’s buzzing with early risers: laborers, old-timers, even the odd Lahori in a hoodie chasing nostalgia. The air was thick with steam and spice, and as I stepped in, I saw a giant pot—more like a cauldron—cradling a stew the color of burnished brass.

There’s no menu. You get what they’ve got: a bowl of deeply flavored broth with tender bits of brain, cheek, and tongue, served with charred khamiri roti. The meat, slow-cooked overnight, falls apart without protest, and the broth is so rich, you feel it coat your fingers before you even tear the bread. It’s not elegant food. It’s ancestral. It clings to your ribs and stays with you long after the meal.

As we ate, a man next to us recounted how he used to come here with his grandfather, and how “real siri” is all about patience—not just in the cooking, but in the eating. You don’t rush a meal like this. You dip the bread slowly, sip the soup, and wipe your forehead when the chilies kick in.

Siri might not be the poster child of Lahori breakfasts, but it tells a deeper story: of nose-to-tail cooking, of food as memory, of kitchens that start working when the rest of the city is asleep. And on that morning, with a warm roti in hand and a bowl of siri before me, I felt like I had tapped into something quietly powerful—something that lives not in guidebooks, but in the marrow of the city itself.