Loukoumades: Honey-Soaked Halos from the Gods of Fried Things

Loukoumades are little golden orbs of happiness – Greece’s take on doughnuts, but with less ego and more charm. They don’t wear icing or sprinkles; instead, they go skinny-dipping in honey, roll around in cinnamon, and occasionally get sprinkled with nuts if they’re feeling dressy. Crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside, they’re the kind of thing that makes you wonder why anyone bothers with croissants.

They date all the way back to ancient Greece. We’re talking Olympic Games old. Winners weren’t just showered with laurel wreaths and glory — oh no, they also got loukoumades, back then referred to as “honey tokens”. Imagine training for months, maybe years, to be the best discus thrower in Athens, only to be rewarded with… fried dough. Not that we’re complaining. It’s fried dough soaked in honey. That’s basically edible applause.

The Ottomans fell head over sandals for them too, and as the empire spread, so did the recipe. Nowadays, you’ll find variations all across the Balkans and the Middle East. In Turkey, they’re called “lokma” and can be dunked in syrup or even stuffed with chocolate if you’re feeling fancy. Egyptians have a version too, called “zalabia”, and they’re often dipped in sugar syrup or dusted with icing sugar. There’s even an Italian cousin, struffoli, popular around Christmas, though they’re usually smaller and cling together like needy pasta.

So what makes loukoumades special? They don’t try too hard. There’s no sourdough starter, no slow-fermentation, no exotic flour. They’re the kind of treat you throw together with basic pantry ingredients, and yet they end up tasting like a holiday. There’s a certain magic in that golden crunch giving way to airy softness, chased by the sweet cling of honey. You bite in and suddenly you’re on a whitewashed balcony overlooking the Aegean.

They’re best served warm and eaten with sticky fingers. A light sprinkle of cinnamon takes them straight to the heavens. Crushed walnuts or pistachios add a bit of texture and an illusion of health. Some cheeky chefs go rogue and pipe them full of custard or Nutella. Not traditional, but hey, who’s policing Greek pastry laws?

To drink? A hot Greek coffee is the classic pairing – thick, strong, possibly capable of fortune-telling. Or a chilled glass of retsina if you’re feeling whimsical. Even a decent dessert wine like a Muscat works beautifully. Herbal teas? Absolutely. Anything not too sharp that lets the loukoumades do the sweet talking.

They go down wonderfully after grilled meats, like souvlaki or lamb chops, or even as an indulgent breakfast. Balance? Never heard of it. But if you must, add some Greek yoghurt on the side for a cultured excuse.

As for health benefits, well. Let’s not pretend this is spa food. They’re deep-fried and sweet. But there’s joy in them, and joy is medicinal. That said, if you’re frying in good olive oil and going light on the syrup, you’re practically in Mediterranean diet territory. Practically.

Where to find them? Any self-respecting Greek bakery, especially around festive times. Athens street stalls do a roaring trade in them, especially during winter. In London, Melbourne, or New York, look for Greek neighbourhoods – if there’s a blue-and-white sign, chances are loukoumades are lurking nearby. Or go rogue and make them yourself. Here’s how:

Loukoumades Recipe (a.k.a. Sweet Olympic Victory Balls)

In a big bowl, whisk together:

• 250g plain flour
• 1 tsp instant yeast
• 1 tbsp sugar
• A pinch of salt
• 250ml warm water (or more, till it’s a thick but pourable batter)

Let it sit, covered, for about an hour till bubbly and puffy. Don’t watch it too hard. Yeast is shy.

Meanwhile, heat a pot of neutral oil (like sunflower or groundnut) until a small blob of batter sizzles and floats. Drop in spoonfuls of the batter – wet your spoon in water between dollops so they don’t stick. Fry until golden on all sides, turning occasionally. Drain on paper towels.

While they’re still warm, drizzle generously with warmed honey, a sprinkle of cinnamon, and chopped nuts if you’re in the mood.

Serve immediately. Watch them vanish. Tell people they were harder to make than they really were. Smile like a smug Greek grandma.

Efharisto and pass the napkins.