I’ll be honest—I never thought I’d spend three weeks chasing plov across Tashkent, but here we are.
The thing about plov is that it’s not just rice and meat thrown together in a pot, though I used to think that before I actually understood what I was eating. It’s this entire ecosystem of technique and tradition, where the quality of the kazaan (the massive cast-iron cauldron), the specific cut of lamb, the variety of carrots (yellow Tashkent carrots, not the orange ones we’re used to), and even the wood used for the fire all matter in ways that seem almost ridiculous until you taste the difference. I’ve watched plov masters—oshpaz, they’re called—stand over bubbling oil at 4 a.m., layering ingredients with the precision of surgeons, and the whole time I’m thinking about how we’ve flattened this dish into “Uzbek rice pilaf” on English menus. The rice itself, by the way, needs to be a specific type called devzira, which has this reddish tint and absorbs flavor differently than regular long-grain varieties, and when it’s done right, each grain stays separate but somehow carries the essence of everything it touched in that kazaan. Anyway, turns out finding truly authentic plov in Tashkent—a city literally built on plov culture—is harder than you’d expect, because tourist traps have definitely infiltrated the scene.
Central Asian Plov Center sits in the Sergeli district, and locals will argue it’s the gold standard. They serve something like 3,000 people on Thursdays and Sundays (traditional plov days), which sounds insane until you see the operation. The oshpaz there use kazan pots that hold roughly 100-150 kilograms of rice, give or take, and the whole process starts before dawn.
The Neighborhood Spots That Actually Know What They’re Doing
I guess what surprised me most was finding the best plov in places that didn’t look like restaurants at all. Besh Qozon, tucked near the Chorsu Bazaar, operates out of what looks like someone’s courtyard—because it kind of is. The owner’s family has been making plov for four generations, and they’ll tell you the secret is in the zirvak, that golden oil-and-meat-and-onion base that forms before the rice even touches the pot. I watched them build it layer by layer: lamb fat rendered until it’s almost transparent, onions cut into these thick half-moons (not diced, never diced), then chunks of meat seared until they’re caramelized on the edges but still tender inside. The carrots go in next, and here’s where most places mess up—they either undercook them so they stay crunchy like stir-fry vegetables, or they turn them into mush. At Besh Qozon, they hit this perfect in-between state where they’ve absorbed the lamb fat and spices but still have structure. Wait—maybe I’m overthinking this, but the cumin and barberries they add have to be whole, not ground, because ground spices burn and turn bitter over the two-ish hours this cooks.
Honestly, Osh Markazi near the Tashkent Tower surprised me more than it should have.
It’s newer, only been around since 2018 or so, but the chef trained under one of the city’s legendary oshpaz masters—Matmurod, who apparently cooked plov for something like 40 years at weddings and festivals before retiring. What they do differently here is the toyxori plov style, where they add quail eggs and sometimes horse meat (yeah, I had the same reaction), and the rice comes out almost sticky on the bottom layer where it touches the kazan, creating this crispy tahdig-like crust that people fight over. The portions are enormous, easily enough for two or three people, and they serve it on traditional lyagan platters that everyone eats from communally, which felt weird at first but then just made sense. I used to think plov was plov, but the regional variations across Uzbekistan—Samarkand style, Fergana style, Bukhara style—they’re as different from each other as, I don’t know, Chicago deep-dish is from New York thin-crust, except maybe more so because we’re talking centuries of divergent technique. Osh Markazi leans Tashkent-style, which means more meat, less oil than the Fergana version, and they don’t add chickpeas the way Bukhara does.
The Thursday Morning Ritual You Shouldn’t Miss Even If You’re Tired
Here’s the thing: if you really want to understand plov culture, you have to drag yourself out of bed for Thursday morning plov.
Cafè Plov on Amir Temur Avenue opens at 6 a.m. on Thursdays, and by 7:30 there’s a line of locals that wraps around the block, everyone from construction workers to business executives in suits, all waiting for the same thing. The tradition goes back decades, maybe longer—Thursday plov before the workday, often eaten with neighbors or coworkers, this communal meal that marks the approach of the weekend. I stumbled into this half-asleep on my second week in Tashkent, jetlagged and confused, and ended up sharing a platter with three strangers who spoke maybe five words of English between them. The plov came out steaming, the rice glistening with that deep amber oil, chunks of lamb so tender they fell apart when you touched them, and whole heads of garlic (softened and sweet from cooking inside the rice) that you’re supposed to squeeze out and spread on the meat. Nobody talked much, just ate, and there was something almost meditative about it—the scrape of spoons on metal, the occasional satisfied grunt, someone pouring green tea from a ceramic teapot with this beautiful blue pattern. Turns out the tea isn’t just for drinking; it helps cut through the richness of the lamb fat, which is definately necessary because authentic plov is not a light meal.
The owner told me later (through a translator) that their recipe hasn’t changed since his grandfather opened the place in 1973, same proportions, same wood-fired kazan, same source for the lamb from a specific farm outside the city. I can’t verify that last part, obviously, but the plov tasted like it carried weight, like it knew its own history.
