Pani puri party
listen there were better photos but then you'd have missed this doggo photobomb
Earlier this year I asked a friend who had lived in Nepal for many years if there was anything she wanted me to bring to the US for her. “A few bags of those pani puri discs, with some boxes of pani puri masala.”
I was a little surprised, I’ll admit, but last weekend I saw the light.
**
The first time I remember seeing pani puri was years and years ago; there used to be a vendor at the end of Khichapokhari, in New Road. Maybe there still is. People—in groups and solo, across all strata of society—gathered there. I specifically remember the college students, for whom it seemed a particular haunt.
Cracking a hole into the top of the puffed hollow orb, the pani puri maker would fill it with a mixture from a bowl, then pour over a liquid, murky with spices. A few of these would be handed to the customer on a small metal plate, ideal to catch the drips; they were popped into the mouth whole and then the plate was usually held out for refills.
I remember it because of how satisfied the eaters looked. I envied them. But I’d not been here long and I was following strictly to the nothing-that-isn’t-cooked philosophy I’d been told by everyone. Also I didn’t understand quite what it was. A cold, savory, watery sauce didn’t sound exactly appealing.
**
In the intervening years I’ve tried pani puri, but it’s been a little underwhelming, probably because they were usually made by—well, eateries with walls when it’s really the quintessential wandering street food. Also the flavor profile of the spices in the sauce took me some getting used to.
I guess that’s why I was impressed and a little surprised when my friend asked for pani puri fixings, of all things.
Turns out the joke was on me because over the weekend I had my mind blown by some truly exquisite little stuffed, juicy morsels.
At a party where most everyone was in and out of the kitchen helping to cook, two of the invitees made pani puri. I love watching people cook and if there’s anything I can do to help that’s even better. A couple of us peeled a pile of freshly boiled potatoes—an easy enough job with your fingernails, providing the spuds are cool-ish—while the experts popped circular discs maybe an inch across into a wok half-filled with hot oil, where they almost instantly puffed up into small, hollow balls. They filled a large bag.
The two young women then mashed the potatoes, shelling in fresh peas and adding chopped onions. The spice mixture went into two plastic jugs of water, with fresh danya and perhaps more chopped things. Black salt, generally not one of my favourite flavors, was added in some quantity. It’s… sulphuric.
**
We’d already been eating for several hours, but there was excitement in the room when everything was ready, and people crowded round the table. Someone took on the task of filling up the little balls (inexplicably not the least bit greasy) with the potato-onion-pea mixture and passing them on to be filled with the sauce—spice water, really—and then, rapidly consumed. The chefs watched us from the side of the room.
It was crunchy and soft and everything from the zippy onion and fresh peas to the unfamiliar spices combined delightfully.
Oh, I get it now.
We only stopped when the last bits of potato mixture were scraped out of the bowl.