Growing up, our family enjoyed pita, which we referred to as Syrian bread. Rather than the small pita pockets found at supermarkets, we opted for its larger cousin, often branded as Lebanese bread; roughly twelve inches in diameter. A member of the flat bread family, pita distinguishes itself by forming a pocket when baked. The loaf translates into an instant sandwich if it is cut down the middle. Or if it is split along the edge, as I usually do, the resulting single layers are pliable, and easily perform double duty as roll-ups, or for scooping up a curry. It’s an everyday bread that I still enjoy.

Because my father did not have any patience for Wonder Bread, or other such “prefab” white breads, they were not given houseroom. Instead, we grew up learning that bread came in many different shapes and sizes; sometimes with funny names. Explain pumpernickel to a five year old? I was never a fan of that one, although rye bread with caraway seeds? Count me in! And the occasional loaf of fresh French bread was special.

Occasionally, we would get a package of Armenian cracker bread for the weekend; or Choreg (Armenian sweet bread) during the holidays. Lucky for us Eastern Lamejun was close by in Belmont for those treats. (Or even better, Lamejun itself!)

introducing puri

None of these breads, however, prepared me for my initial encounter with puri (a.k.a. pooris). I likely first ordered it to accompany a vindaloo at Old Calcutta back in the early to mid-eighties and was instantly enchanted by the puffy deep-fried bread. Puri was unlike anything I had eaten before and it seemed to perfectly compliment the magic I was starting to discover in restaurant curries. The best puri was light and flaky…though quite oily.

How puri puffed up was mysterious, yet intriguing, and I shortly found myself at the beginning of another khojana as I was determined to learn how to make this bread. Because I didn’t know much about it, I started by looking through my cookbooks. Once a suitable recipe was located, I attempted to make it; with less than successful results as previously recounted. The instructions in the recipes I consulted were detailed enough, though possibly not complete, as I would learn later. Even so, I should have been able to make puri successfully had I followed their guidance more closely. Alas… Quite recently, I found a recipe which noted puris should be rolled out as round as possible — something that I did not remember reading before. Considering the shapes I was usually creating, that would have been useful advice.

But, what exactly is Puri?

The three cookbooks I owned at the time all included recipes for puri, but not very much about its background. And to be honest, I had never really thought about the origins of puri until recently. Consulting A Historical Dictionary of Indian Food gave me some insight: “The Sanskrit word pūra,” meaning blown up or filled up, may have occasioned the name.¹ Another entry explained the differences between puri and its cousins lucchi and bhatura.

This spare information was expanded somewhat by Wikipedia’s page. Here, other than the basic instructions for making puri, I found many interesting ideas to adjust the recipe and, more importantly, a clue as to why it puffs up. “While deep frying, puris puff up like a round ball because moisture in the dough changes into steam, which expands in all directions.”^2[↗] The bread becomes filled with steam. Ahhh, this explains it! The page also delves into similar breads (lucchi, bhatura, Bedmi Puri, pani puri) from around India. Interestingly, it still came up short on the actual origin of the bread simply stating that it “originated from the Indian subcontinent.” ³

Despite the sometimes detailed instructions in cookbooks, at the time, I did not have any visual clues to the process of frying puri. Restaurant puris arrived at the table already beautifully puffed. Regrettably, at the time, I did not have a way to watch them being prepared.

This changed one day in the late 1990s. I was at a rather large street festival in Cambridge, and came across a huge karahi set up on the side of the street. Stepping in for a closer look, I watched as a man placed a flat disc of dough into the karahi. Immediately, he used a large spoon to bathe the top of the dough with hot oil, and the bread puffed up! He flipped the oval shaped bread one time, and in approximately 10 seconds it was all over.

So this is how to make puri! I had tried so many times to get the bread to puff, and yet I was never able to really get it to blow up like that! I watched him make a few more, and while I thought I took a photo, I am unable to find it now.

All this, like so much else, has changed with the internet and YouTube. With the plethora of street food vendor videos from every imaginable corner of South Asia, it’s easy to find people making all manner of puris. And they make it look very easy! While my quest to make puri didn’t last all to long, it opened the possibility of making other types of bread.

Chapati, Roti, Thelpa — More Approachable Options

After my initial puri fixation faded, I began to sample other breads at restaurants. I ordered the more common parathas, chapatis, kulcha or naan; all flat breads. But having them served hot off the griddle was something new. I became particularly curious about the stuffed parathas — the fillings made these breads unique: onions, potatoes, keema, mooli (radish) or cauliflower. Because some of them tended to be heavy, naan became the restaurant go-to. Which was fine with me! When a naan, whether plain or garlic was freshly baked in a tandoor then brushed with (I hope) ghee, it was every bit as enjoyable as puri.

At that time, I considered both rice and bread as accompaniments to any meal. I wasn’t aware that in most of India a dinner would be accompanied by either bread or rice, but usually not both. Location might dictate which would accompany your meal. Or, because different breads tended to partner well with certain dishes, a breakfast of chole from a street vendor could be accompanied by puri or bhatura. Chapatis or roti work well folded to fit in a tiffin delivered for lunch by a by a dabbawala.

In general conversation, chapati and rotis seem to be interchangeable and the term roti often used more generically to simply refer to bread. Indeed, Wikipedia notes that “The word roti is derived from the Sanskrit word roṭikā, meaning “bread.” ⁴ Different flours, cooking methods, spices or fillings have created a myriad of imaginative sub-varieties. Chapati, roti, rotli, phulka and many others all belong to the same extended family of flat breads that subtly change names with location, ingredients or language.

For a long time, most local restaurants paid little attention to all of these possible variations, but instead limited themselves to a few types of chapati, naan, puri or paratha with one or two different fillings. But, by the early 2000s, I found a few adventurous restaurants willing to offer bhatura, though the versions I tried were quite different from one another.

The first bhatura I tried was at Kashmir, an upscale restaurant located on Newbury street in Boston’s Back Bay. It was the first time I had seen Chole Bhatura on any menu, so I leapt at the opportunity to try it. I don’t remember the chole as being really all that special, but the bhatura was notable — like a very large (unsweetened) fried dough. The combination of the two was quite enjoyable, though oily. A few years later, a buffet labeled a very different looking bread as bhatura as well. Unlike Kashmir’s large offering, these were smaller and rectangular resembling dinner rolls rather than a flat bread.

I continued to keep my eyes open for other unique breads. My search bore fruit at the Kebab Factory in Cambridge as I dined with a friend to celebrate my birthday. The restaurant had opened in the early nineties across the street from a music venue, the Kirkland Cafe. Oddly, although I was at the Kirkland regularly, I waited several years before trying the Kebab Factory! While their specialty is kebabs, they also listed several unique breads including one with Persian roots named Sheermal that I had never heard of. The menu describes it as “a rare Indian bread from Mehboobobad made from milk, clarified butter and flour with the lightest touch of saffron.” I tried it and found it to be a sweet and flaky. Like all Indian breads it was at its best when served warm. And while I ordered it at a subsequent visit to the Kebab Factory, I have not been able to find it at any other restaurant.

My More Sensible Adventures

After the puri incident, I took a step back and decided to opt for something more in tune with my embryonic capabilities. I turned my attention towards parathas, using supermarket whole wheat flower and a frying pan. This venture was more successful, but still differed from the restaurant parathas I was using as my model. One day I attempted a stuffed paratha, but it was a lot of work, and mine did not come out particularly well. So parathas became a short-lived experiment. In fact, I stopped making bread of any type for a long time. I became content with the ease of store-bought brands, particularly Crispy which I occasionally used for lunch roll ups.

A few years later, though, the store-bought chapatis lost favor with me. The slightly different flavor and texture was acceptable as a wrap, but not ideal to accompany my dinner. So, I began making chapati again; this time with better results. Practice was helping and I was finding them easier to make. But the perfectionist in me was still not satisfied. Something about my chapati wasn’t quite right — they didn’t have the flexibility of the restaurant’s versions.

I felt I was on the right track though, so I consulted different recipes, looked online and continued to tweak my cooking process in search of the perfect chapati. A marked improvement came when I started to use atta flour and bought a new tava to replace my initial one that had lost it’s handle (and was likely in some stage of rusting). Later, I got a simple belan to replace the standard rolling pin I had been using. This seemed to help my control when rolling out the chapati.

I undertook a few “field trips” to try a few non-chapati recipes. And here I found some success! Methi Chapati⁵, Missi Roti and an Onion Paratha recipe all came out better than expected. I even experimented with different flours and lesser-known recipes like Thalipeeth and Makki Roti with mixed results. Alas, I was still pining for that perfect chapati!

Again, I employed YouTube as a bit of a guide, and watched several videos to glean a few new hints. I noticed that people making chapati were not cooking them for nearly as long as I was. Instructions in cookbooks seem to vary a bit on this point, but I still felt like I might be overcooking the chapati. Perhaps this was affecting their texture? I tried adjusting the heat and the cooking time even going as far as counting out loud while cooking each side of a chapati. Put a chapati on the tava; count to 20; flip and count to 10; cook a few more seconds on each side and remove it to a plate. While this worked, I still thought I was overcooking them, so I stopped counting, and have tried to cut down their time on the tava.

The latest and perhaps most significant tip for this khojana came from Krish Ashok’s Masala Lab; a book that explains Indian Food in a scientific (and humorous) manner. The two pages explaining what happens when making chapati was a game changer for me. I had been combining atta, salt, water and ghee and kneading them all together for five or more minutes before resting the dough.

Ashok offers a different algorithm. Mix the flour and water until completely combined (kneading not necessary!). Then let the dough rest for 30 minutes to allow gluten to form between the flour and water. Add the salt after the dough has rested was the secret. As it turns out, the salt affects the gluten formation process, which is why Ashok advises us to add it later.⁶ After adopting Ashok’s method as well as a shorter cooking time, I noticed an marked improvement to my chapati. They remained much softer, even the next day!

Occasionally, I still hanker for puri, and even dare to think that now, I might be able to make them at home with all that I have learned. But then I recall that I have only occasionally tried to make puri over the years and I really am out of “practice.” Plus I don’t really like the idea of deep frying at home. This bread I am happy to leave to the professionals.

Footnotes

1. K.T. Achaya, A Historical Dictionary of Indian Food (Oxford University Press, 1998), 201 [↖︎]
2. “Puri (food)”, Wikipedia, Accessed: July 9, 2025 [↖︎]
3. Ibid [↖︎]
4. “Roti”, Wikipedia, Accessed: July 9, 2025, [↖︎]
5. Raghavan Iyer, 660 Curries (Workman Publishing Company, 2008), 733 [↖︎]
6. Krish Ashok, Masala Lab (Penguin Books, 2020), 42–43 [↖︎]