An ode to the molagha bajji

In its plain avatar, it is a thinly gram (chickpea) flour coated large chilli, deep fried in a sizzling wok of oil to a crisp, served up on an old piece of newspaper that aids to be a throwaway serviette, while acting as an effective blotter that soaks up the excess oil from the fritter. Yet, especially come the rains, there’s nothing that’s more drool worthy to warm your innards - both stomach and soul.

Growing up in Chennai in the 80’s, before the advent of the desi pizza and burger that first stirred the winds of western aspirations, a Sunday outing meant a trip to the Marina beach, where after letting the waves wash up to the knees, beyond which even the waves backed down in obeisance to propriety, one trundled back with sand crusted feet to the lure of the bajji carts. Strings of the long light green chillies hung down like shapely garlands both serving as decoration as well advertisement.

This molagha bajji, deep fried in the ration-shop palm oil that gets used repeatedly, trans fats be damned, is redolent with the special added flavour and texture of a few grains of beach sand that just can’t be avoided. But for those of us who have tasted this slice of heaven, no other bajji can stake claim to be better.

However, the reason that kindled my fingers to tap out this ode was a visit to ‘Thindi Beedi (pronounced Beedhi) at VV Puram in Bangalore where after stopovers at various other cities, I now reside. I lived for a while in Gurgaon before this and nearby Delhi is a mecca for street food and I had set out to see what Bangalore had to offer. The street is fairly non-descriptive at least during the day; but come the evening and it’s a bustling 200m of sweets and savouries, chaats and chinese and authentic kannadiga oota. It is here that I encountered what is

arguably one of the best molagha bajji or chilli bajji that I’ve ever had. Once I managed to shove my way to the front of the raucous crowd around the shop all shouting and pointing to the various bajjis of their choice, I point to my choice of the humble chilli bajji that lay innocuously to the side of its richer cousin, the capsicum bajji. The chef here, with no lesser flair and finesse than Gary Mehigan of Masterchef fame, deftly picks and palms a precooked bajji, adroitly slices open one side of it, smears a dollop of masala potato paste into its innards, garnishes it with a sprinkle of finely chopped onion and then ends with a flourish of a squeeze of lemon to seal in all the flavours.  He then slices it down to bite sized bits, wraps them in newspaper and sends me off on one of the most delightful culinary experience I was to experience. What can I say? Masterchef would have been speechless.

Over the years I have come across various avatars of this humble chilli bajji (or pakora as it is called above the Vindhyas.) The stuffed version is the most popular with it being filled usually with potato or sometimes paneer (cottage cheese). A recent trip to Chennai had me visiting a newly opened gastro-pub near the Besant Nagar beach. Here the humble molagha bajji had upgraded to a most ‘gastro’ suitable version, and so was filled with cheese and served in a tall beaker-like apparatus, suitably arranged with accompaniments. Pretentious as it may have been, not to mention expensive, it did taste quite good; actually pretty good with a shot of gin to accompany. Interestingly, the still humble original version was available just a few meters across the road and on the beach.

BTW. Did you know that this chilli, which we know as bajji or pakora chilli is actually called banana chilli or banana pepper? Guess it must be the shape that inspires the moniker; thankfully has no taste of banana. I have trawled through the omnipotent Google to find the origins of this tasty fritter, but failed to find any. If anybody does know, please do share. The banana pepper or chilli does not seem to have any geographical ties to any place in particular, have come across recipes using it from Europe and Australia. Being not spicy but veering towards slightly sweet in its yellowed form, a number of western recipes use it for pickling in brine.  

Talking about recipes, I have tried making the humble desi chickpea-coated chilli bajji a number of times at home, but failed. I just can’t get the batter to stick to the smooth skin of the chilli; it always slides off and forms a puddle of batter quite resolutely away from the chilli. And the chilli just cooks to an uninspiring brown limp thingie which even I wouldn’t eat, let alone the rest of the family. I have tried adding cornflour and rice flour, but no avail.

And just for this, I do have an added degree of respect for the effortless way that the street and beach cart cooks dish it out – the amazingly crisp and thickly batter coated molagha bajji nee pakora nee fritter.