Baghrir

You know you’re in for a good day when breakfast looks like a stack of tiny, bubbly, sponge-like pancakes that resemble the lunar surface more than anything fit for a plate. Welcome to the world of baghrir, North Africa’s delicious answer to the question no one asked: what if a pancake had a thousand holes?

Hailing primarily from Morocco and Algeria, baghrir is what you might call a pancake with serious aspirations. It doesn’t care for golden crisp edges or sugary toppings. No, baghrir prefers to soak up the world around it—specifically, a sinful mix of melted butter and honey. It’s a sponge, quite literally, and it soaks up sauces like your grandmother soaks up family gossip.

The story of baghrir starts, like most great culinary tales, in the lands where wheat and semolina have been staples for centuries. This pancake isn’t your average flour-and-milk affair. It’s semolina-forward, yeasted, and cooked only on one side. That last bit is key. You don’t flip a baghrir. Flipping it would destroy its identity. The whole purpose is to let it bubble and form those thousands of holes, which become the perfect landing pads for anything you decide to drizzle on top.

Historically, baghrir was the humble yet celebratory food of Berber households, served during special occasions, family gatherings, and basically any time someone popped in unexpectedly around teatime. And because Moroccan hospitality doesn’t believe in empty plates, out came the baghrir, warm and inviting, always accompanied by mint tea strong enough to kickstart a camel.

There are regional varieties, of course. In Algeria, you might find them a bit thinner, almost crepe-like, whereas in Morocco, particularly in the Atlas regions, they tend to be more plump and spongy. Some folks throw in a bit of flour along with the semolina. Others add a dash of orange blossom water to the batter, which frankly turns your kitchen into a perfume parlour, and no one’s complaining.

Now, what makes baghrir truly special isn’t just its moon-crater texture or its chewy heart. It’s the way it interacts with other foods. A freshly made baghrir, still warm from the pan, melting under a generous ladle of hot butter and honey—it’s practically therapy. The holes soak in the liquid like they’ve been waiting all their lives for this moment. And when you bite in, it’s rich, soft, slightly nutty from the semolina, with just a whisper of tang from the fermentation. In a word: addictive.

Pairing-wise, you don’t need to go overboard. Mint tea is the classic, of course. Its sharp, herby edge cuts through the richness like a scimitar through silk. But if you fancy going rogue, try a black coffee, or even a café au lait. It somehow makes the experience feel scandalously French-Maghrebi.

Food-wise, baghrir likes friends. Think olives, amlou (that magical Moroccan almond and argan oil spread), boiled eggs if you’re turning it into a proper breakfast, or fresh fruit for a slightly more virtuous twist. But honestly, no one’s here for virtue. We’re here for the butter and the honey and that divine squish when you press down with your fingers and watch the sauce rise up like a bubbling spring.

Health-wise, let’s just say it’s not unhealthy. Semolina is whole-ish, and there’s no frying involved. The butter and honey? Well, moderation is a concept. That said, baghrir is naturally dairy-free and egg-free, making it a favourite among vegans—right up until the butter-honey combo gets involved. Fortunately, you can swap the butter for coconut oil and the honey for agave syrup, and no one will be the wiser.

Want to find baghrir? Easy. Stroll through a Moroccan souk in the morning, and you’ll spot them stacked high at breakfast stalls, their signature bubbly surface impossible to miss. You can also find them in Algerian bakeries, often in the company of other carb-heavy breakfast items like msemen and khobz. In France, especially around Paris and Marseille, baghrir has followed the North African diaspora and made itself quite at home. You might even spot it in hip cafes, cheekily labelled as “1000-hole pancakes” on the chalkboard menu.

If you fancy having a go yourself (and you should, because your brunch game is crying out for this), baghrir is wonderfully simple to make, once you get the hang of the bubbling. It takes a bit of patience and a blender. Yes, a blender. You’re going to whizz up the batter and let it ferment a bit before it hits the pan.

Here’s how to make a batch of about 15 baghrir:

Baghrir Recipe

You’ll need:

• 250g fine semolina
• 50g plain flour
• 1 teaspoon sugar
• ½ teaspoon salt
• 1 teaspoon instant yeast
• ½ teaspoon baking powder
• 600ml lukewarm water

Start by putting the semolina, flour, sugar, salt, yeast, and baking powder into a blender. Pour in the lukewarm water. Blend the mixture until it’s smooth. Let it rest for about 30 to 45 minutes at room temperature, covered with a cloth. During this time, the yeast will do its thing, and the batter will bubble up slightly.

When ready, heat a non-stick pan over medium heat. No oil needed. Stir the batter gently if it has separated. Use a ladle to pour some batter into the pan—just enough to make a small pancake about 12-15cm in diameter. Cook it on one side only. You’ll start seeing those beautiful holes form as the top dries out. That’s your sign it’s done. No flipping. Resist the urge.

Stack the cooked baghrir on a plate, but don’t pile them too tightly or they’ll get gummy. Serve them warm, ideally with a sauce made by gently heating equal parts butter and honey until they become one glorious golden river.

Eat with your fingers, make a mess, and feel like royalty in a Berber tent circa 1200.

That’s baghrir. Not flashy. Not fancy. But once it lands on your breakfast table, it owns the room. And frankly, it deserves the thousand holes. It’s earned every one of them.