In Karachi’s Saddar, where the market spills past its own boundaries, there exists a little ice cream parlour. Cocooned between a row of near-identical buildings, Peshawari Ice Cream, with its emblazoned red sign, stands out. The logo proudly reads ‘Since 1948’, and one can’t help but wonder if time is the secret ingredient here. Not too far, there’s another store just like it, with a similar bright sign. Then another. And another.
Since I moved to Karachi four years ago, one of the most frequent questions I’ve gotten from Karachiites is: “Have you tried Peshawari Ice Cream yet?” It feels a bit like being fourteen and having classmates ask if I’ve watched Game of Thrones yet. To their utmost horror, I’d reply no. Only after I’d powered through the first episode and shrieked at the plot twist did I understand, so this is what was driving everyone nuts.
The bright red ‘Since 1948’ appears again on the menu, printed like a badge of honour. For an establishment that is barely larger than two narrow rooms stacked atop each other like scoops of ice cream, the message is unmistakable: this is not an ordinary dessert shop, but a place that sees itself as part of the city’s story.
The first spoonful of Peshawari Ice Cream’s original Peshawari flavour reminds me of watching the first episode of Game of Thrones. It’s thick, grainy and sticks to the roof of your mouth. It tastes of dairy — like kulfi and malai decided to unionise — and something akin to vanilla, but not quite. It’s familiar and strange at once. And just when you think you’ve got the flavour figured out, it hits you with an unexpected aftertaste, which makes you think, wait, what the hell just happened?
There’s something that feels ceremonial about that first spoonful. Somewhere between the inquirer’s eager anticipation and my calculated response, it becomes clear: this question was never really about ice cream.
Needless to say, Peshawari Ice Cream is DELICIOUS. Yes, in capital letters. It doesn’t matter which flavour you’re eating, of which they have about twenty, or whether you’re drinking one of the ice cream shakes. Take it from me, they’re all pure bliss. Especially on a hot day in April, when you’ve been weaving through the narrow aisles of Saddar’s Techno City computer market, trying to get your laptop fixed.
That’s how I eventually found myself on a metal bench on the upper floor of Peshawari Ice Cream Saddar (PIC) with a friend from Lahore. The repair guy told us to come back to him in an hour; the laptop would take time to fix. Slightly annoyed, we left the market in a stupor. It was too hot to be doing this. We needed something cool — and fast. It took a while for us to locate which shop was the authentic Peshawari Ice Cream. There are several decoys littered throughout Saddar that all look alike. What ultimately gave it away was the crowd. On a random Wednesday afternoon, the little parlour was bustling with customers. A group of middle-aged men in worn-out shalwar kameez sat on a plastic table outside, shoving spoonfuls of ice cream in their mouths as they talked. A server guided us up a narrow spiral of stairs to the family hall and placed an elaborate menu before us.
Choosing what to get was the tricky part. On the table next to ours sat a family of four, two cheeky boys who could not stay still, their mother constantly reprimanding them for having a death wish. The boys shared a cup of ice cream, while the parents sipped on a tall glass of ice cream shake. The father spooned out some ice cream from the large dollop on top of the shake and fed it to his wife, while one of the boys reached his hand out through the railing, grasping at air. In that moment, we knew what we wanted to order.
I was swatting away a pesky bug buzzing in my ear when the server returned with our shakes. Mine a rich, velvety chocolate, and my friend’s a creamy strawberry cheesecake with real cake chunks. We both grinned widely after the first sip and downed our drinks within minutes.
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History is something PIC seems to pride itself on. The bright red ‘Since 1948’ appears again on the menu, printed like a badge of honour. For an establishment that is barely larger than two narrow rooms stacked atop each other like scoops of ice cream, the message is unmistakable: this is not an ordinary dessert shop, but a place that sees itself as part of the city’s story.
The story goes something like this: three brothers from Peshawar who had settled in Karachi — Bacha Khan, Faisal Rehman and Mir Zaman — began experimenting with flavours in the years around partition. Their initial forte was sherbets, sold from large metal containers in Karachi’s heat. But as the demand for sherbets began to wane, the brothers began experimenting with frozen desserts instead, eventually opening what would become one of the city’s most beloved ice cream parlours. They chose to name it after their hometown, in honour of their roots in the city of Peshawar. The sherbet legacy still lingers on the menu today: several desserts are served with streaks of red and green syrups.
Needless to say, Peshawari Ice Cream is DELICIOUS. Yes, in capital letters. It doesn’t matter which flavour you’re eating, of which they have about twenty, or whether you’re drinking one of the ice cream shakes. Take it from me, they’re all pure bliss.
Peshawari Ice Cream has two official branches: one in Saddar and another in Bahadurabad. But search the name on Google Maps and it appears scattered across Karachi, with locations popping up in nearly every neighbourhood. Kashif Misidia, a dedicated Google Local guide from the city, shows me a list he’s made of all the Peshawari copycats.
“I have personally tried Peshawari Ice Cream in many areas, including DHA, Clifton, Soldier Bazar, Federal B Area, Gulshan-e-Iqbal and North Karachi,” he tells me, “I believe you do not even need to taste those.”
The proliferation of these lookalike parlours is hardly surprising. There’s no evidence that the name was ever trademarked or franchised in Pakistan. Instead, the distinctive signage and reputation have been adopted by numerous independent vendors across Karachi, each capitalising on the name recognition without any formal affiliation.
Misdia is fiercely loyal to the original branches, especially the one in Saddar, because it’s the one that raised him. He recalls enjoying the parlour’s freshly churned ice cream for as long as he can remember, adding that the experience feels richer knowing his father once spent his own youth eating at PIC. “Now my children, who are university students, whenever they go to Saddar, Peshawari Ice cream is a must for them”
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The first time Areena (22) ever tried Peshawari Ice Cream was on a Friday. She doesn’t remember the year, but she’s very certain about the day. She must have been eight or nine when her uncle brought it home for the family to share. She got pineapple. “It was iced over,” she tells me, “with this massive chunk of pineapple in the middle that I genuinely thought was a potato.” She laughs. “I was like, what the hell is this? I threw it straight into the garden.” I cannot help myself from asking why she thought it was a potato, when it was clearly pineapple-flavoured. “I was eight years old, Sobh!” she retorts.
For Areena, who’s lived in Karachi her whole life, PIC is pure nostalgia. “I don’t really crave it, it’s something that I grew up on and my family enjoys, so it’s more of a comfort thing.” Her favourite memory centres around her father, who adores the mango flavour. She and her sister made up a song which they’d sing in a near-hypnotic loop to lure him into taking them to the parlour. Giggling, she sings it for me, “Maaango ice cream, peshaaaaawari ice cream…” It worked every time, she claims.
Meanwhile, for Raiha (23), PIC has been in her life for as long as she can remember. “I used to live in Clifton and in Delhi Colony, there was a branch. That used to be real-real authentic,” she enunciates the last word. “You could tell because it was really good.” Unfortunately for Raiha, this was not an authentic branch. Every other weekend, Raiha and her family would end up there, and she would order the Peshawari and Rose, a perfectly balanced combination that felt gentler than the original flavour. “It’s kind of like the falooda ice cream, but rosier,” Raiha quips. Unlike Areena, she definitely craves PIC all the time. She compares it to other ice creams she had growing up, like Wall’s and Omoré, which she has since outgrown, but PIC continues to retain its flavour. “It just tastes so good, it hits differently,” she tells me, her eyes glistening.
Maryam (23), sums it up. “There’s just something about PIC that you cannot outgrow,” she says. Growing up in the early 2000s, she’s seen Karachi stretch and shift. New cafes sprout on every corner, each neighbourhood accumulating its own scatter of ice cream parlours; they try to distinguish themselves yet end up emulating every other joint. None of it rivals Peshawari for her. “You’ll see these massive cars parked outside the [PIC] shop in a jam-packed Saddar, completely out of place,” she tells me, “cars that you’d never expect in that part of town, but you know what they’re all here for.” In Karachi, the magic of Peshawari Ice Cream is palpable.
Their stories take me back to a beloved ice cream spot in my own hometown, Khairpur, which is a seven-hour drive from Karachi. I’m reminded that I, too, feel this way about an ice cream parlour. The place is called Rabail Ice Cream and locals flock to it the same way they do Peshawari Ice Cream. It hits me how the taste of the original PIC flavour is almost the same as Rabail’s ‘white flavour’ — one of those colour-named flavours that all taste remarkably similar, with just subtle differences. There’s a hint of malai in the taste that you cannot catch in any processed ice cream, which gives it this sweet, buttery texture that melts in your mouth. And the grains of churned milk stick to the roof. It’s the kind of detail Raiha swears by, “You know it’s authentic,” she says, “When there’s butter piling up on the roof of your mouth.”
“You’ll see these massive cars parked outside the [PIC] shop in a jam-packed Saddar, completely out of place,” [Maryam] tells me, “cars that you’d never expect in that part of town, but you know what they’re all here for.” In Karachi, the magic of Peshawari Ice Cream is palpable.
My father, who spent a major chunk of his childhood swinging between Karachi and Khairpur, tells me that Rabail is a knockoff of Peshawari Ice Cream. Constructed in the late ‘80s, the parlour was made to create a sweet sanctuary for families attempting to carve better lives for themselves in the city. There weren’t a lot of places you could take your kids for a night out, but Rabail quickly became one. My maternal grandmother recalls travelling to the city centre on the first of every month to procure her salary, hauling her young children along with her and treating them to Rabail. My mother speaks of this ritual with even more fondness. It was the only time she ventured outside of the village other than to go to school, and it felt like a reward for getting through the month.
I can’t recall the first time I had Rabail, but it’s an ice cream I’ll always swear by, no matter what new joint pops up. I remember how I once met someone from Khairpur while at an event in Karachi. Shocked and amazed at having found a person from my small town in the wild, I immediately found myself asking, “Have you had Rabail?”, as if it would confirm that they were, in fact, born and bred in Khairpur. In Karachi, too, asking whether you’ve tried Peshawari Ice Cream is a way of locating you — of figuring out how much of the city has seeped into you and how long you’ve been here. Enjoying it is not the requirement, but growing up with it does feel like a kind of citizenship.
I believe my father when he says Rabail is a copy of Peshawari. The lineage makes sense. But affection doesn’t work on a hierarchy of originals and copies; a soft serve cup of Rabail’s ‘white wala flavour’ is a thousand times more delicious to me than the Peshawari original. It tastes of childhood, of summers spent playing outside with my cousins then being surprised with giant mounds of Rabail’s decadent scoops by an uncle. The taste is acquired, interlaced with nostalgia. It’s never just been about dessert, but belonging too.
It makes me think about Karachiites and their fierce loyalty to Peshawari Ice Cream, and how obvious it is in hindsight — they’ve been brought up on it.
Sobh Saeed Rid is a writer and journalist whose work usually covers culture, politics and gender. She's currently in her senior year at Habib University, where she's majoring in Communication & Design. She can be reached at [email protected].
