Sfenj

Sfenj feels like the kind of thing invented by someone who woke up one chilly North African morning, stared at a pot of bubbling oil, shrugged, and decided that life would improve dramatically if dough went for a swim. And do you know what? They were right. Whether sold from tiny street corners in Marrakech or handed over on a piece of paper in Tangier, Sfenj remains Morocco’s golden spiral of joy. Some say it’s the purest form of doughnut because it dares to exist without unnecessary drama. No glaze. No sprinkles. No flamboyant pastry chef whispering about “notes of Madagascar vanilla”. Sfenj just arrives warm, wobbly, and proud of its simplicity.

The history hides somewhere between Berber kitchens, medieval bazaars, and the kind of inter‑regional recipe swapping that happened long before food bloggers turned it into a career. The word itself comes from the Arabic root for “sponge”, which honestly describes it better than any Michelin guide ever could. Generations learned to stretch dough into loose rings with the finesse of someone who’s done it since childhood. Everything travelled through families, neighbours, souks, and those chatty aunties who somehow know every recipe from Agadir to Chefchaouen.

Regional varieties put their own accents on the theme. In Morocco, the classic is rustic, airy, and almost suspiciously light for something deep‑fried. In Algeria, a close cousin called “sfenj el beidha” sometimes appears with a crispier edge. In Tunisia, there’s a pride in slightly thicker, more structured rings. Across the Mediterranean, Spanish buñuelos and even southern Italian zeppole echo similar instincts. People looked at flour, water, and oil and collectively thought: yes, this is what we needed.

Sfenj stands out because it doesn’t pretend to be anything other than itself. It offers no complicated fillings, no engineered fluffiness, no luxury marketing. It’s the breakfast of builders, students, taxi drivers, and anyone who appreciates the universal healing power of fried dough. There’s a spontaneity about it. You tear it apart with your hands, sugar‑coat your fingertips, and realise there’s no wrong way to eat it. Some dip it in honey. Others dunk it in mint tea. A few contrarians break it into pieces and stuff it with cheese, because culinary rule‑breaking remains humanity’s favourite pastime.

The drinks that go with Sfenj tell their own story. Mint tea remains the classic partner, partly because the fragrant sweetness flatters the dough’s mild savoury edge, and partly because no Moroccan morning feels quite right without it. Strong black coffee brings more attitude. Fresh orange juice steps in when the atmosphere calls for sunshine in a glass. If you decide to have Sfenj after dinner, a late‑night espresso works with surprising charm, especially if you sit somewhere breezy and people‑watch.

Other foods complement Sfenj in ways that feel like casual invitations rather than formal pairings. Honey fits perfectly. A warm bowl of bissara — the split‑pea soup of Moroccan comfort food fame — turns Sfenj into a proper meal rather than a guilty treat. Soft cheese or labneh makes it savoury. A handful of olives on the table adds the right kind of contrast. A few like to pair it with fresh fruit, mainly to tell themselves they’re making balanced dietary choices.

Health benefits and considerations enter the chat with predictable awkwardness. It’s still deep‑fried dough, so no nutritionist will appear with a gold star. Yet fresh Sfenj made with minimal ingredients avoids the ultra‑processed drama of packaged sweets. You know exactly what you’re eating: flour, water, yeast, salt, and a polite amount of oil. The key word is moderation. Have it when it’s worth it. Make it a ritual rather than a habit. Enjoy it with friends, fresh air, and maybe a brisk walk afterwards.

Finding Sfenj these days isn’t difficult if you know where to look. In Morocco, every city has at least two or three trusted vendors, the sort people recommend the way others recommend doctors or mechanics. In Europe, North African bakeries often sell them in the morning, though they tend to vanish quickly. In London, areas with Moroccan or Algerian communities sometimes feature pop‑up stalls on weekends. If you’re travelling across Morocco, the most reliable place remains the souk: follow the smell of hot oil and cheerful chatter, and you’ll get there.

Making Sfenj at home feels intimidating the first time, mostly due to the dough’s sticky personality. Once you get over that, it becomes oddly meditative. The dough needs time to relax, stretch, and bubble. You shape it with wet hands to prevent sticking, form loose rings, and drop them gently into hot oil. They puff, they blister, they turn golden, and suddenly your kitchen smells like a Casablanca street corner at 7am.

Here’s how to make a batch that, while perhaps lacking the romance of a Marrakech morning, will still transport you somewhere sun-soaked and spice-scented.

Sfenj Recipe

For your ingredients, you need:

• 500g of plain flour
• 1 tsp salt
• 1 tbsp sugar (optional, and very controversial)
• 1 tbsp dry yeast
• 400ml lukewarm water (give or take)
• Neutral oil for deep frying (sunflower works well)
• Granulated sugar or honey for serving (optional but delightful)

In a large mixing bowl, stir together your flour, salt, sugar (if you dare), and yeast. Slowly add your warm water and mix with a wooden spoon or your hand until a sticky, elastic dough forms. Don’t expect it to be tidy. This is not tidy dough. It should cling like a needy toddler and wobble slightly when poked.

Cover with a tea towel and let it rise somewhere warm for at least an hour, until it’s doubled in size and looks like it might crawl out of the bowl if you leave it any longer. Give it a gentle stir to knock it back down. Wet your hands (this is essential) and tear off golf-ball-sized lumps of dough. Stretch them into rough rings, poke a hole in the centre, and drop them carefully into hot oil (about 180°C if you’re precise, or until a tiny blob of dough sizzles and floats).

Fry until golden on both sides, turning once. Remove and drain on kitchen paper. At this point, you have choices. You can eat them as-is, gloriously plain. You can dust them with sugar like a decadent. Or you can drizzle them with warm honey, at which point you’ve basically entered dessert territory and will need to lie down afterwards.

Eat immediately. Do not wait. Do not refrigerate. Do not attempt to reheat tomorrow. Sfenj waits for no one.

So next time you’re in Morocco, or just in your own kitchen wondering what to make for breakfast that doesn’t involve cereal that tastes like sadness, remember sfenj. It’s not perfect. It’s not delicate. But it is fried, warm, and wonderful. And frankly, that’s more than enough.