Harira: Moroccan Ritual Soup

Harira is what happens when a country throws its pantry into a pot and somehow emerges with harmony. Thick, tangy, filling, fragrant, and unapologetically loud in flavour, it’s the kind of soup that demands to be eaten with your sleeves rolled up and your appetite wide open. Morocco’s answer to both grandma’s chicken soup and the bachelor’s one-pot meal, harira has been warming hands and homes for centuries.

In Morocco, harira isn’t just food. It’s a ritual. Especially during Ramadan, when the cannon sounds at sunset and entire families dive into bowls of it to break their fast. But it also shows up on street corners, in riad courtyards, and at 3 a.m. in chaotic bus stations—because harira doesn’t need a special occasion. It is the occasion.

Its history is as layered as the soup itself. The name likely comes from the Arabic word “harir,” meaning silk—an ode to its velvety texture once all those lentils, chickpeas, lamb, tomatoes, and spices have had their long, simmering embrace. Some say it originated in Fez, the old intellectual heart of Morocco. Others swear by their grandmother’s Tangier version, which contains secrets no cookbook has ever revealed.

There are as many types of harira as there are aunties with opinions. The classic Fez version is tomato-heavy, meat-based, and thickened with a fermented flour mixture called taqdim. In Casablanca, you might find it slightly thinner, more peppery. Some recipes include rice instead of vermicelli, others ditch the lentils. Vegetarians may weep with joy (or carnivores with horror) at meatless versions brimming with courgette and carrot. There’s even a Berber twist, ditching flour altogether and going for barley or spelt to thicken the broth.

What makes harira special? It’s the fusion. It’s where Arabic spices like cinnamon and ginger waltz with Andalusian influences and Berber pragmatism. A warming swirl of turmeric, a shock of coriander, the earthiness of lentils. The silky broth owes its texture to either the taqdim or egg beaten in at the last minute. It’s comfort food with drama.

If you’re wondering what to drink with harira, traditionally it’s chebakia that steals the show—not a drink, but a sesame-honey pretzel-shaped pastry that’s so sweet and sticky it practically glues your fingers together. Still, mint tea never hurts. For wine drinkers outside of Ramadan, a Moroccan Syrah holds up surprisingly well to harira’s boldness. Or try a chilled, very dry rosé if you’re leaning more into the tomato tang than the lamb depth.

As for accompaniments, dates and boiled eggs are a must during Ramadan. Outside of that sacred window, crusty khobz bread becomes your best utensil. Don’t even think about a spoon until you’ve used the bread to mop up the first round.

Healthwise, harira is a multitasker. It’s full of protein from the lentils and chickpeas, vitamins from tomatoes and herbs, and all the gut-loving joy of a long-simmered stock. Depending on how much lamb fat you leave in, it can range from virtuous to comfortingly sinful. Vegan versions still pack a nutritional punch and may make your digestive system sing (or at least hum appreciatively).

Where to find it? In Morocco, start with the medinas. Marrakesh has stalls that serve nothing else, Fez still claims supremacy with versions handed down like family heirlooms, and in Rabat, you’ll find harira cafes open from noon to midnight. In Europe, harira shows up in Moroccan delis and during Ramadan at pop-ups and prayer halls. Paris and London’s Maghrebi communities often offer the real deal—thick, hot, unfiltered.

Feeling bold? Make it yourself.

Harira Recipe

You’ll need:

• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 250g lamb (bone-in neck or shoulder), diced small
• 1 onion, finely chopped
• 2 stalks celery, finely chopped
• 1 bunch coriander, chopped
• 1 bunch parsley, chopped
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1 teaspoon turmeric
• ½ teaspoon ground ginger
• Salt and pepper to taste
• 400g canned chopped tomatoes (or 3 fresh tomatoes, peeled and blitzed)
• 1 tablespoon tomato paste
• 1.5 litres water or stock
• 100g lentils
• 100g cooked chickpeas
• 30g vermicelli noodles
• 1 tablespoon plain flour mixed with 3 tablespoons water (or one beaten egg)

Heat oil, brown the lamb, then add onion, celery, and spices. Stir until fragrant. Add chopped herbs, tomatoes, tomato paste, water, lentils, and chickpeas. Simmer 45 minutes. Add vermicelli, simmer 10 more. Finish by slowly stirring in your flour mix or beaten egg to thicken. Adjust seasoning. Eat far too much.

Harira isn’t tidy. It’s not refined. But it’s the kind of meal that tastes like a hug and smells like home, even if you’ve never set foot in Morocco. Especially then.