Blow, dunk, bite, crunch. Yum. It’s the best way to describe eating a bajji. And who doesn’t love a beautifull, golden-fried bajji? Onion, plantain, chilli, potato, capsicum or even egg —bajjis are so easily adaptable; they come in so many variants and are the perfect snack for those breezy evenings by the beach. Just grab a plate, plonk yourself onto the sand and watch the waves roll in as you devour the crunchy goodness.

Even the process of bajji making is therapeutic to watch. A few quick flicks of the wrist and you have sliced vegetables. A swirl there, and batter is ready. Dip the slices into the batter one by one, coat them in the creamy mix, and watch them sizzle and float in hot oil, as they take on a lovely golden hue, and get a crunchy layer to sink your teeth into.

Feel like eating something starchy? Opt for the potato bajji. Want to add some zing to life? Bite into a chilli bajji. Want a bit of everything? Ask for a mixed plate. And you can elevate the flavours with a side of chutney: bajjis are very friendly that way, they don’t mind being dunked into a generous amount of chutney. They’re happy to create that lovely melange of flavours and textures for your palate. The best part: you don’t have to worry about landing a not-so-fresh piece of fish that can give you the runs, or pairing it with something it might not agree with. There are no bones to dig out either, just the joy of eating. And oh, you don’t have to worry about smelly fingers or bad breath either at the end of it all.

— Ranjani Rajendra would like to write more but she’s busy grabbing that next plate of bajji.

The wave at Bessie Beach that you assumed would gently kiss your feet, has slapped you across your face. You’re drenched, head to toe. The after-effects of a wet beach visit can be annoying — the damp clothes, sticky hair... The only thing that can lift your spirits then, is fish fry at a stall nearby. You pick your fish from the display — the varieties, from vanjiram and nethili, to prawns and squid, gleam from their trays in all their marinated glory — and wait for the akka to fry it for you.

It arrives on a plastic plate, a slice of lemon on top. As the sun sets, cheap plastic whistles go ‘wheeee’ and toy helicopters zoom skywards and back from a toddler’s hand, red lights flickering, you break a piece off the fish and eat it. The meat is red hot — your eyes and nose start watering half way through. But you summon the anna who takes orders and ask for another plate. This time, it’s prawns.

Eating fish fry is a ritual for any beach lover worth her salt. Regulars will tell you how fresh the fish is; the men who own the stalls are mostly fishermen themselves; what they catch by the day, they fry by the evening. And smelly fingers? The masala smells so good that you don’t even want to wash your hands. The bajji with its watery chutney fades in comparison — heck, squeeze it and you can collect cooking oil that will last you a week. Don’t even get me started on the cauliflower bajjis — are the florets ever washed? They are deep fried in all their worm-filled glory.

Choose fish fry. It is a gift from the sea to mankind.

— Akila Kannadasan aspires to set up her own stall after retirement, just so she can live happily ever after.