You know that one snack your friend’s mom used to make when you randomly dropped by after school and she low-key judged your skinny jeans but still handed you a plate of hot food like you were her own? That’s Punugulu.
Messy. Crispy. Slightly feral. And if I’m being real with you? It’s the one thing I will burn my tongue for and still go back for seconds like a fool.
And listen, I live in the U.S. now—miles from Hyderabad traffic and Amma’s coconut chutney—but that crunch from the first bite of a good Punugulu? It haunts me in the best way.
So buckle up, because I’m about to show you how to make the most chaotic-good street snack from Andhra Pradesh right in your boring suburban kitchen.
What Even Is Punugulu?
If you don’t know Punugulu, oh sweet child, let me ruin you with joy.
Punugulu (pronounced poo-noo-goo-loo, but no one cares if you butcher it) are deep-fried balls made from fermented dosa batter. Yep, that same batter you use to make thin, elegant dosas? You just yeet spoonfuls of it into hot oil and BAM—you’ve got crispy-on-the-outside, fluffy-on-the-inside fritters that do not care about your diet plan.
It’s Andhra’s answer to your “I just want something salty and greasy at 5 PM” vibe. Which, let’s be honest, is all of us every other day.
The Day I Accidentally Invented Dinner
I didn’t even mean to make Punugulu the first time.
I was cleaning the fridge (okay fine, staring at the fridge hoping food would magically appear), when I found this sad little container of old dosa batter. It was just sitting there, neglected like an unread Terms & Conditions pop-up.
I should have thrown it out. Instead, I remembered my neighbor, Aunty Lakshmi, telling me once:
“Old batter makes the crispiest Punugulu, ra. Don’t waste it!”
God bless that woman.
So I heated some oil, threw in random stuff I had (onions, chilies, whatever looked edible), and I swear—I created a MONSTER.
A delicious, crispy, greasy monster that my toddler stole right off my plate before I even sat down.
Here’s How to Make Punugulu Like a Snack-Happy Desi Witch
- 2 cups fermented dosa batter (ideally 1-2 days old. Slightly sour is chef’s kiss.)
- 1 small onion, finely chopped
- 2 green chilies, chopped (or less if you’re weak like me)
- 1 tsp cumin seeds
- A few curry leaves, chopped (optional but fancy)
- 1 tbsp rice flour or sooji/rava (makes it crispier—yes, please)
- Salt, to taste (if your batter wasn’t salty enough already)
- Oil for deep frying
Optional, but highly recommended Add-ins:
- A pinch of hing (asafoetida)
- Grated ginger
- Chopped coriander
- That leftover half of a capsicum you keep pretending you’ll use
Directions: A.K.A. Organized Chaos
- Mix everything (except the oil, duh) into your dosa batter. Stir gently—don’t beat it like it owes you money. You want a slightly thicker consistency than dosa—something that drops off a spoon but doesn’t flow like soup.
- Heat oil in a deep kadai or wok. Not smoking hot, but hot enough that a tiny drop of batter sizzles and floats up like it’s living its best life.
- Drop in spoonfuls of batter using a wet spoon (or your hand if you’re feeling grandma-level bold). Don’t overcrowd unless you want a sad, oily clump-fest.
- Fry on medium heat, flipping occasionally, until they’re golden and crispy on all sides. Don’t rush it. Patience is key—or at least pretend you have some.
- Fish them out and drain on paper towels (or that New York Times you never read).
- Serve with coconut chutney, tomato chutney, or just ketchup if you’re a chaotic neutral.
Real Talk: Things That Can Go Wrong (Because They Did for Me)
- Batter too thin? You’ll end up with oil-soaked sadness. Thicken it with more rice flour.
- Too salty? Yeah, I once forgot I had salted the batter already. Ate them anyway. Regrets? Not really.
- They burst in the oil?? That’s what you get for not mixing properly. Stir well to avoid mini explosions and trauma.
Why You Should 100% Make These, Even If You Burn One
Because they’re the perfect snack-food energy.
You don’t need fancy equipment. You don’t need a plan. You just need a little leftover dosa batter, a few minutes, and the courage to deep fry.
And look—I’m no chef. I’ve literally burned rice in a rice cooker. But Punugulu? I nailed it. Eventually.
These are like edible hugs for people who grew up with rainy-day power cuts, Sunday cricket on TV, and moms yelling “Don’t eat now, you’ll ruin your dinner!” (But secretly slipping you two extra pieces when no one was looking.)
Want More Like This?
You’ve got to check out Saffron Trail’s blog—her chutney game is next-level. Also, if you’re the “try something slightly unhealthy but emotionally fulfilling” type, my chaotic vada pav story is coming next week. Stay tuned. Or don’t. I’ll still eat it either way.
One Last Thing…
Punugulu isn’t about perfection.
It’s about that glorious, golden first bite while the rest of your kitchen smells like deep-fried dreams. It’s the snack that forgives your laziness, your fridge sins, your three-day-old dosa batter.
So next time you’re hangry, broke, and staring into your pantry like it’s a crypt?
Make Punugulu.
Just… maybe wear an apron. And pants.
