Psychology of Craving Snacks
What is it about salt and crunch that calls to us?
At Patang, we think about craving a lot. Not the loud kind. Not the billboard kind. The quieter one. The one that arrives at 4 PM with your tea. The one that makes your hand wander to a steel dabba without thinking. The one that doesn’t ask if you’re hungry. It just knows you want something familiar. Something salty. Something that cracks and crumbles in your fingers.
Namkeen is not just a snack. It’s a pause. A habit. A memory dressed up as a mouthful. It’s the sound of a spoon in a tiffin box. The feel of murmura on your tongue. The thing you reach for when you don’t know what else to reach for.
But cravings aren’t random. They come from somewhere. From biology, from habit, from family, from weather, from the kind of day you’re having. From the stories we’ve told ourselves for years.
This is a little note about why namkeen makes us feel the way it does. And why, no matter how much changes, we’ll always reach for it again.
The Science of Craving
Our bodies are older than our habits. And they remember things we don’t.
They remember that salt meant survival. Sodium helps us stay hydrated, keeps our nerves working, and our brains clear. So when we eat something salty, our bodies still respond like it’s essential. Not just tasty. Essential.
Fat does its own thing. It triggers the brain’s reward system. When salt and fat show up together, like in a spoon of spicy masoor dal or a handful of chivda, our brain lights up. Literally. Research from Avena (2008) and Levine (2003) shows that fat-salt combos activate the same pathways that respond to joy, to comfort, even to love.
And then there’s the crunch. That sharp little sound we crave is a signal from thousands of years ago. Crunch meant fresh. Safe. Alive. It still does. That’s why we instinctively love the crackle of sev, the snap of curry leaves, the crumble of a roasted cashew.
As food writer Harold McGee once said, “Crunchiness is the sound of freshness made edible.” (Katz, 2010)
Potato chips figured this out. But Indian namkeen did it first. And with more soul.
Memory Masala
Not all cravings begin in the tongue. Some begin in the mind.
You think you’re hungry. But you’re actually remembering something. Your mother pouring chivda into a katori while you did homework. Your grandfather opening a pack of hing chana during the evening news. A train ride, a paper cone, a breeze through the window.
This is emotional memory. A taste unlocking a moment. What researchers call “Proustian recall.” A flavour that suddenly brings back a whole house.
In India, snacking is never just about food. It’s about rhythm. It’s the thing between things. The companion to chai. The reward at the end of the day. The background to gossip, games, and goodbyes.
We don’t always snack because we’re hungry. We do it because it feels like home. That’s why it’s comforting. That’s why it’s constant.
A Country of Cravings
India doesn’t have one namkeen. It has thousands. Each one rooted in its region. Each one tasting of the soil and stories around it.
In the north, you get aloo bhujia with its sharp hing and soft spice. In the west, bhakarwadi curls with sweetness and spice while Kolhapuri bhadang sets the tongue on fire. The south sends us mixture filled with roasted curry leaves and seeval as red as the earth it’s made in. The east brings chanachur with mustard oil and muri that snaps between your teeth like a secret.
Climate plays a role. Spice cuts through humidity. Fried food warms colder interiors. But so does tradition. The cone of chana at the beach. The mixture passed around after pooja. The steel dabba that appears every time guests arrive.
Namkeen is a language. And everyone speaks it in their own accent.
When Craving Became a Business
Modern snacks are engineered to make us crave them. The right salt content. The right oil. The right crunch. Packets that feel light in the hand. Ads that say “Feeling hungry?” at exactly the time they know you are.
Some brands lean hard into nostalgia. Using words like “maa ke haath ka swaad” or “ghar ka taste” not just because it’s true, but because they know it works.
At Patang, we don’t want to manufacture memory. We want to protect it.
We roast slowly. We use real spices. We follow recipes that came from kitchens, not computers. We don’t want to hijack your craving. We want to honour it.
Craving as Culture
Some cravings are private. But others become rituals.
Like chai and namkeen in the office. A daily pause that everyone expects but no one announces.
Like chivda during Navratri. A snack that becomes a loophole, a permission, a celebration.
Like the steel dabba in the wedding bag. Tucked in alongside sweets. Always opened first.
Craving doesn’t just shape what we eat. It shapes when we stop. When we gather. When we talk.
What Happens Next?
As the world moves toward labels, ingredients, and clean choices, our cravings are beginning to ask different questions. What’s in this? Where did it come from? Can I trust it?
At Patang, we believe you shouldn’t have to choose between feeling good and feeling something.
Craving and consciousness can go hand in hand. Let the salt stay. Let the crunch stay. Let the memory stay. But let it be clean. Let it be honest. Let it be made the way it used to be — with time, with care, with a hand that knows when to stop roasting and start listening.
We’re not trying to reinvent namkeen. We’re trying to bring it back to itself.
Because craving is not always about hunger. Sometimes, it’s about history. A certain 4 PM breeze. A chipped steel dabba. That feeling of being seven years old again, sitting on a cool floor, your fingers dusted with haldi and hing.
As we like to say at Patang, “To crave namkeen is to remember a life that felt more real — crumbs on the floor, a grandmother’s scolding, the tang of amchur on your tongue.”
That’s what we make our snacks for.
So when the craving comes, as it always does, we hope your hand finds Patang.
We’ll be right there, slow-roasted, lovingly spiced, and ready to remind you where you come from.
