Hours vary by location and season. Please check the Hourssection on our website or call the restaurant directly.. Also check our google listing for both locations
The Origin of Shiraz Kitchen
My mother's. Her name is Iran, like the country. She never measured and never wrote anything down. She cooked by instinct, with the kind of confidence that only comes from feeding people your whole life.
She could serve fifty guests without ever looking overwhelmed, because to her, feeding people wasn't work. It was love made visible.
On my mother, Iran
The phone rang.
"Someone from The New York Times is on line two," my staff member said, eyes wide with excitement.
I barely glanced up from the dish I was plating. "Tell them I'm busy."
She blinked, incredulous. "But... it's The New York Times."
In our kitchen, every dish tells a story passed down through generations. Picture our chefs tenderly layering fresh herbs between grains of fragrant basmati rice, crafting the coveted tahdig. As the golden crust forms, their eyes gleam with pride—a triumphant moment that turns every meal into a celebration. Tahdig, a golden-crusted masterpiece, is the crown jewel of Persian cuisine. The patient simmer of Ghormeh Sabzi, a time-honored stew, fills the air with the distinctive aroma of fenugreek and dried lime, while tender chunks of beef melt into a sauce perfected over centuries.
Even though my two locations are only thirty minutes apart, it feels like I’m running two entirely different businesses. In White Plains, the pace is slower. People take their time—they enjoy their meals, sip their wine, and catch up on life. It’s the kind of place where you get to know people. When someone walks through the door, they greet me by my first name. There’s comfort in that kind of familiarity. It’s not just about food; it’s about connection. Guests feel at home, and I love being part of that.
That's what we carry forward at Shiraz Kitchen — not only her recipes, but her quiet rules of hospitality.
At my mother's table, the doorbell didn't stop. The stove didn't rest. Fifty guests wasn't a special occasion — it was the weekend. And somehow, every person walked out feeling like she had cooked just for them.
That's the standard we live by: before the plate, the person. Look up. Take your time. Learn the name. Say it back with care. And let every guest leave with the same feeling — like they were welcomed into a home, not served in a dining room.
Food is what brings people in.
Kindness is what brings them back.
And the table is where strangers become family.
