You ever have a food obsession so intense that you can taste it in your dreams?
Yeah. That was me with Raj Kachori last month.

I mean, the moment I even think of this giant, crispy, crunchy puff loaded with spicy potatoes, tangy chutneys, cool yogurt, and alllll the chaat goodness—it’s game over for my willpower.

And the wildest part? I’d never actually made it before.

Sure, I’ve demolished many a Raj Kachori at my favorite street stalls in Delhi or during family trips back to India. You know the scene: plastic chair, sticky table, a mountain of chaat plopped down in front of you, and you try to dig in before it gets soggy. A RACE against time.

But here in my cozy little American kitchen? The closest I can get is scrolling chaat photos on Instagram at midnight. Dangerous.

So, one fine Saturday (read: totally boring, rainy, and I was stuck indoors), I declared: I will make Raj Kachori. At home. Today. Probably a terrible idea. But whatever.

What followed was… an adventure. And a lot of dishwashing. And one triumphant, messy, glorious moment of cracking into that big kachori shell.

First, What IS Raj Kachori, Anyway?

If you’ve never had one (I weep for you), let me paint a picture:

Raj Kachori is basically the king (RAJ, get it?) of chaat dishes—a giant, crispy kachori shell, deep-fried until golden and hollow inside, then stuffed with:

  • Spiced potatoes
  • Boiled sprouts
  • Chopped onions and tomatoes
  • Cool yogurt
  • Sweet and spicy chutneys
  • Crunchy sev
  • Pomegranate seeds
  • Chaat masala and random magic

It’s the kind of dish where every bite is a chaotic flavor explosion—and if you don’t have yogurt dripping down your fingers by the end, you’re doing it wrong.

The Great Raj Kachori Experiment Begins

I texted my cousin, who is an actual good cook:

Me: “Making Raj Kachori today. Pray for me.”
Her: “HAHAHA. Good luck with the shell.”
Me: “…what do you mean.”
Her: “You’ll see.”

Famous last words.

So, with zero professional skills but lots of enthusiasm (and coffee), I set off.

The Ingredients I Used (aka My Shopping List of Chaos)

For the kachori shell:

  • 1 cup semolina (sooji)
  • 1/4 cup all-purpose flour (maida)
  • Salt to taste
  • 1 tbsp oil
  • Water (as needed)

For the filling:

  • Boiled potatoes, diced
  • Boiled moong sprouts
  • Chopped onions
  • Chopped tomatoes
  • Sweet tamarind chutney
  • Green coriander chutney
  • Yogurt, whisked with a pinch of sugar and salt
  • Sev
  • Pomegranate seeds
  • Chaat masala, red chili powder, cumin powder

Optional (but fun):

  • Crushed papdi
  • Boondi
  • Anything crunchy and chaat-worthy

Making the Raj Kachori Shell (Cue Dramatic Music)

Okay, THIS is where things got interesting.

Making the filling? Easy peasy. I can boil stuff. I can chop stuff. No sweat.

But that giant puffed kachori shell? That was my Everest.

The Dough Drama

I mixed sooji, maida, salt, and oil in a big bowl. Added water slowly to form a firm dough (my cousin had warned: not too soft or it won’t puff).

Then came the kneading. And more kneading. And my Spotify playlist looping twice.

Tip: Rest the dough for 20–30 mins. Gives you time to question your life choices.

The Frying Fiasco

Rolling the dough: you want big, even discs—about 5-6 inches diameter. Smooth edges help them puff properly.

Now, the part where I 100% thought I’d fail: deep frying.

  • Heat oil. Test with a small dough ball—it should sizzle and float.
  • Slide in the rolled kachori gently.
  • DO NOT PANIC. It’ll sink first, then start puffing. Lightly press with a slotted spoon to encourage puffing.

My first one? Flat as a pancake.
Second? Slightly bloated.
Third? PERFECTLY puffed and golden. I screamed. The cat jumped. Victory.

The Fun Part: Assembling Raj Kachori

Now comes the chaos I love: assembly.

Here’s how I did it:

  1. Crack open the top of the shell gently to make a little bowl.
  2. Stuff in diced potatoes and sprouts.
  3. Add onions and tomatoes.
  4. Spoon over that glorious, cool yogurt.
  5. Drizzle sweet tamarind and spicy green chutneys.
  6. Sprinkle chaat masala, cumin powder, red chili powder.
  7. Top with sev, pomegranate seeds, crushed papdi, boondi.
  8. More yogurt and chutney on top (because why not?)

Pro tip: Assemble right before eating. Kachori shell + time + yogurt = soggy sadness.

The First Bite: An Experience

I kid you not—I had an out-of-body experience with that first bite.

Crunchy, creamy, spicy, sweet, tangy—just EVERYTHING happening at once. The textures! The flavors! The mess dripping down my fingers!

I stood in my kitchen, looking at the kachori remains like, “I am a culinary goddess. Bow before me.”
(Then I looked at the oil-splattered stove and sighed.)

Why You Should Totally Try This Raj Kachori Recipe

  • It’s FUN. A project, sure, but super satisfying.
  • You can customize it endlessly. Got leftover chole? Toss it in. Want to make it vegan? Use plant-based yogurt.
  • It’s the ultimate party trick. People are impressed when you serve homemade Raj Kachori.

Things I Learned (So You Don’t Repeat My Mistakes)

  • Roll your kachori discs evenly—thin in the middle, thicker edges = disaster.
  • Don’t crowd the pan. Fry one at a time.
  • Keep everything ready for assembly BEFORE you fry the shells. Timing is key.
  • Be ready to embrace the mess. This is not a neat-and-tidy dish.

Final Thoughts: I Am Now a Raj Kachori Snob

I should probably be embarrassed, but I’ve made this four times since that first attempt.

I now judge restaurant versions. I’ve told three friends they must try making it. I’m considering starting a Raj Kachori Fan Club (hit me up).

And honestly? If this clumsy, easily distracted home cook can pull it off—you can too.

Will your first kachori puff perfectly? Maybe not. Will you care once you’re eating spicy, crunchy goodness? Not even a little.

Now go forth and chaat, my friend. You won’t regret it.

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