Crispy delights: 10 famous fried foods across Asia that aren’t fried rice

If tempura is refinement, karaage is heart and soul. Marinated in soy, ginger and garlic, then deep-fried twice for maximum crunch, karaage is a staple of Japanese comfort dining. Bite-sized and juicy, it appears in bento boxes, izakaya menus and summer festival food stalls. Its influence has travelled widely, inspiring Taiwan’s popcorn chicken (yan su ji) and Filipino fried chicken variations, both echoing the balance of savoury depth and crisp skin of karaage.

In Korea’s Chinese restaurants, no order of jajangmyeon feels complete without tangsuyuk, which is deep-fried pork or beef glazed in glossy sweet-and-sour sauce. Adapted from Northeastern Chinese cuisine, it became a beloved staple of Korean-Chinese dining. Variants exist across Asia: in China proper, sweet-and-sour pork (tángcù lǐjǐ) leans sharper in vinegar; in the Philippines, “sweet and sour pork” has transformed into a classic Chinese-Filipino banquet dish. Each version plays the same game: crisp meat, sticky sauce, a tug-of-war between sugar and acid.

Fried bananas are Southeast Asia’s sweet fried soul food. Known as pisang goreng in Indonesia and Malaysia, this snack involves ripe bananas dipped in batter and fried until caramelised at the edges. In Singapore, they appear in hawker centres as simple fritters, while in the Philippines, maruya (banana fritters dusted with sugar) and turon (spring rolls stuffed with banana and jackfruit) carry the tradition. Thailand has its own version, kluay tod, often sold at street stalls alongside fried sweet potatoes and taro. Each one proves that when tropical fruit meets hot oil, cultures converge on joy.

The Filipino lumpia, descended from Chinese spring rolls, is deep-fried until crisp and is slender enough to be eaten by the handful. Lumpiang Shanghai is typically stuffed with ground pork and vegetables, then dipped in sweet chilli sauce. Elsewhere across Asia, cousins abound: Vietnamese cha gio use rice paper wrappers for an extra shattering crunch, while Indonesia’s lumpia Semarang leans on bamboo shoots and chicken. These fried foods are a shared roll of migration and adaptation, rewrapped in local tastes.

Few fried foods have travelled as far as the samosa. Originating in the Middle East and brought to South Asia by traders, the samosa evolved into South Asia’s most recognisable snack. Triangular pastries stuffed with spiced potatoes, peas or meat are fried until blistered and eaten with chutney. In Nepal, samosas are sharper with chillies; in Bangladesh, the shingara is plumper with cauliflower or peanuts. Even further afield, samosas journeyed with Indian communities to East Africa, where they’ve become integral to Kenyan and Tanzanian street food.

If there’s a rainy afternoon in India, there’s likely pakora. Vegetables dipped in spiced chickpea flour batter are fried into irregular, craggy fritters: onions for bhaji, spinach for palak pakora, potatoes for aloo pakora. In Bangladesh, shingaras sometimes overlap with pakoras, while in the United Kingdom (which is not immune to its delicious charms), onion bhajis became a diaspora staple in curry houses. The pleasure is universal: irregular, golden, best eaten hot with tea.

The Chinese cruller, or youtiao, is breakfast’s most iconic fried companion. Long golden strips of dough are eaten with soy milk or congee, a tradition that dates back centuries. Its diaspora spread across Southeast Asia: in Vietnam, quẩy is served with pho; in Thailand, pa tong go is paired with condensed milk for a sweet twist. In Malaysia and Singapore, youtiao are eaten at breakfast with congee, or simply as an accompaniment to milk or coffee. It’s a dough stick that adapts as easily as it puffs.

Though often associated with Chinese restaurants abroad, fried ice cream has a pan-Asian following. The technique—coating frozen scoops in batter or breadcrumbs and flash-frying—might have been born in 20th-century banquet kitchens, or some say, Chinese-American restaurants before spreading internationally. In Thailand, night markets sell handheld versions rolled in breading, while in Vietnam, it’s offered alongside tropical fruit desserts. Its appeal lies in contrast: molten crust against frozen cream, indulgence wrapped in theatre.

Korean fried chicken, or chikin, exploded after the Korean War, becoming a late-night cultural ritual. Double-fried for shatteringly thin crusts and glazed in soy-garlic or spicy gochujang sauces, it’s often eaten with beer in a pairing called chimaek. Diaspora communities carried it abroad, and today, Korean chicken chains thrive in the US and all throughout Asia, each adapting sauces to local tastes. What sets it apart is its technique: the crunch is engineered, not improvised. No wonder its a staple in many K-dramas.

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