How to Make Sri Lankan Karawala Sambol — The Old Way, The Real Way

There’s a certain smell that floats from an old Sri Lankan kitchen on a rainy afternoon.

Not curry. Not fresh fish either.
Something sharper. Stronger.
Karawala Sambol.

If you’ve grown up near a coastal town—or let’s be honest—any Lankan household with a decent-sized clay pot, you’d know. The scent of dried fish hitting hot oil is... well. You can’t escape it. You either run outside holding your nose or you pull up a stool to wait with rice steaming in a corner.

What is Karawala Sambol, anyway?

For the unfamiliar, Karawala means dried fish. Thalapath. Mora. Bombili. Thora. Even Katta and tiny white Sprats. Balaya if you're feeling bold. All hard, tough fish made soft by fire and oil. It’s poor man’s curry turned rich man’s delicacy in Colombo cafés these days. Go figure.

Back then, it wasn’t about fashion. It was survival. Salted fish strung on ropes under the sun, crackling in the wind. Gran used to keep a pile wrapped in old newspaper on the kitchen shelf. Next to the chili grinder. Always ready.

How to make it? Easy. But not easy.

First rule.
Get the right fish.

Thalapath is thick and sturdy—good if you like your sambol chewy. Mora flakes easy. Bombili is fatty and soft—grand for frying till crisp. Sprats are small but loud—one handful and the sambol comes alive. Katta Karawala, now that’s sharp and salty, a little wild on the tongue. Balaya? Hmm. Some say too strong. Some swear by it.

Take your pick. Slice or break into small pieces—don't bother making them perfect. Sambol isn’t meant to be fancy.

Next step. Fry.

Heat coconut oil in a small pan. Not olive oil. Never butter. Coconut oil. Wait till it shimmers. Toss the fish in. They will spit and crackle and hiss. Stay back. Let them brown, dark golden. Too long and they go bitter. Too soon and they stay tough.

Drain them. Set aside. Don’t eat yet. Hard, I know. But patience.

Chili time.

Grind fresh red chilies. Or use chili powder if you must. A little roasted chili flakes, if you like the heat creeping slow. Salt. Sliced onions, thin. Green chilies for bite. Some throw in garlic—good choice. Others toss in curry leaves—better choice. Mix everything. Now add the fried fish. Toss, coat, turn till it all sticks together.

Some add a squeeze of lime. Some don’t. Depends on your mood.

Taste. Adjust. More salt? More chili? Up to you. Sambol is personal.

Done.

Serve with hot rice. Maybe dhal curry. Maybe pol sambol on the side. Some fried egg if you feel generous.

And there you have it.

The smell of rain and fire in a plate. The taste of sea and salt and childhood.

Karawala Sambol. Old. Simple. Perfect.