Outside, it’s all white—cars buried under powder, trees frozen mid-bend, boots by the door soaked through. Inside, though, it’s something else entirely. The windows fog, the kitchen warms, the oil is starting to shimmer in the kadhai, and the smell of garam masala hangs in the air like a promise. It’s Sunday. It’s freezing. And yet, here we are, making chole bhature. Because no matter how far we are from Delhi or Ludhiana or our nani’s kitchen, some cravings don’t care about weather forecasts. They just show up, loud and hungry.
You’d think snowstorms call for soup. And sure, we’ve done the lentil bowls and grilled cheese routines. But nothing—and I mean nothing—cradles your cold, weary soul like the deep-fried drama of a puffed-up bhatura and a bowl of spicy, slow-cooked chole. It doesn’t matter that it’s -7°C outside. You roll up your sleeves, dust the counter, and start kneading like the house isn’t shivering under central heating. Because warmth, in this moment, means heat from within.
It Starts the Night Before
The chickpeas get soaked. Always. Even if you forget and have to pull the overnight trick in the morning—pressure cook with salt and prayers. There’s something ceremonial about prepping chole. The onions are browned until golden, the tomatoes cooked down to a jam, the spices toasted one by one. Bay leaf, black cardamom, a touch of amchur for that unmistakable tang. No shortcuts. No “15-minute chana” hacks. This is Sunday chole. You earn it.
The bhature dough rests nearby, covered in a damp towel like it’s sleeping. It smells faintly of yogurt and ambition. You know it’s ready when it springs back just right under your finger. And when you roll it out—imperfect, lopsided, maybe even too thick—you drop it in hot oil and watch it transform. It puffs up like it’s been waiting all week for this moment. And in a way, so have you.
Why We Do This
People ask—why go through all this trouble, especially on a lazy Sunday in the middle of winter? The answer is simple: this isn’t just food. It’s ritual. It’s resistance. It’s choosing joy. Chole bhature is never just about hunger. It’s about the kitchen smelling like your childhood. It’s about remembering roadside stalls where bhaturas were the size of your face and chole came with that one perfect green chili on the side.
And when you’re far from home—from the country, the culture, the people who taught you how to make this—it’s about re-creating some semblance of that warmth in a place that doesn’t smell like haldi and hing. You don’t just cook this. You conjure it.
Snow Outside, Heat Inside
The contrast makes it better. Outside, the world is quiet, blanketed in silence. Inside, the oil crackles, music plays, and you dip hot bhature into spicy chole with fingers numb from the cold but grateful. You eat faster than you mean to. You wipe your plate with the last bite. You sigh like someone who’s been fed in more ways than one.
And later, as the snow continues to fall, you put away the leftovers with a strange kind of reverence. You know it’ll taste even better tomorrow. But for now, your belly is full, your house smells like Sunday, and your heart feels just a little closer to where it came from.
Because chole bhature isn’t just a meal. It’s a mood. And even in the snow, it delivers.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
