Sfenj

If you ever find yourself in a Moroccan medina early in the morning, nose twitching, stomach growling, and following the scent of something warm, golden, and just a little bit greasy, you’re probably on the trail of sfenj. And let me tell you right now: follow it. Abandon your plans. Cancel your sunrise camel ride. Tell the riad you’ll be back later. Because that fried dough ring, my friend, is breakfast royalty.

Sfenj is the sort of thing that doesn’t bother pretending to be fancy. It doesn’t need icing sugar stencils, maple glaze, or celebrity endorsements. It has exactly three goals in life: to be hot, golden, and so airy you wonder if someone trapped a breeze in dough. It looks a little like a doughnut that stayed up too late and forgot to tidy itself up. Irregular, wonky, sometimes resembling a lopsided halo, it might not be the most Instagrammable snack out there. But what it lacks in symmetry, it makes up for in soul.

Let’s rewind a bit, though, to where sfenj comes from. Like many great food stories, this one starts in North Africa. The word itself, “sfenj,” comes from the Arabic word for sponge, which tells you a lot about what you’re in for. This isn’t some dense, cakey affair. It’s springy, with a texture that bounces back when you prod it – assuming you’re the kind of person who pokes their food before eating it (and no judgement if you are).

The tradition of sfenj is deeply entwined with Moroccan daily life. It’s the breakfast of champions, the mid-morning snack of market traders, and the afternoon pick-me-up of schoolchildren and grandmas alike. You’ll often see it sold from tiny hole-in-the-wall shops or street-side oil-slicked stalls where dough is slapped, stretched, pierced, and tossed into a cauldron of bubbling oil like some kind of edible acrobat. No two sfenj makers do it quite the same. Some make them enormous, nearly the size of a dinner plate. Others serve bite-sized versions skewered like golden trophies on a stick.

There are regional quirks, too. In Casablanca, you might get sfenj dusted in sugar, a faint nod to the Western-style doughnut, but don’t expect rainbow sprinkles. In Fez, they lean more towards the purist version: unsweetened, fried to a deep bronze, and meant to be dunked with reckless abandon into your tea. In Tangier, the sfenj seller might offer it with honey, making the whole thing so sticky and luscious you’ll be finding bits of sugar in your moustache for days.

What makes sfenj really special, though, isn’t just the dough or the frying technique. It’s the moment. The sfenj moment. That precise few minutes when it’s still piping hot, barely out of the oil, and you’re standing in a side street with a paper napkin slowly turning translucent in your hand. That’s when you understand why this treat hasn’t been replaced by croissants or granola bars. It doesn’t need reinvention. It just needs you, a glass of mint tea, and maybe five minutes of silence to commune with the divine.

Now, about that mint tea. There is, arguably, no better drink to pair with sfenj. The sugar-laden, hyper-perfumed, almost syrupy Moroccan green tea with mint is the yin to sfenj’s yang. The tea is sweet enough to replace the need for sugar in the dough, and strong enough to cut through the richness of the fry. If you want to be truly local about it, you sip your tea while using the sfenj as a sort of edible spoon. Yes, really. Dip it. Drape it. Let it soak for a second or two and then eat like you mean it.

If you’re not a tea person, you could stretch tradition slightly and pair it with strong Arabic coffee, or even a rich hot chocolate. Anything bold enough to stand up to sfenj’s swagger will do. Just don’t go pairing it with a matcha latte and expect cultural harmony. That way lies culinary confusion.

Food-wise, sfenj is a bit of a solo act. It doesn’t typically show up alongside other dishes. This is not a buffet item. This is the main event. But if you’re feeling especially decadent, or perhaps have one foot in the fusion camp, you could do a sweet-and-savoury thing with cheese, olives, or even harissa jam. Don’t tell grandma, though. She’d clutch her teapot.

Let’s talk health, just to keep the wellness warriors from fainting. Sfenj is not, shall we say, low-calorie. It is fried dough. There is oil. There is gluten. There is salt. There may be sugar. But here’s the thing: it has no preservatives, no fake flavourings, and it’s made fresh, often in front of your eyes. And you’re not meant to eat twelve. (Although who among us hasn’t considered it?) As occasional indulgences go, sfenj is as honest as it gets. No protein bar pretending to be dessert. Just deep-fried joy.

Of course, sfenj is a street food at heart, which means you won’t find it in Michelin-starred restaurants or boutique patisseries with mood lighting and flute music. But that’s the charm. You want the guy with a face like sun-baked leather and fingers stained with saffron who’s been frying dough since before you were born. You want the back alley that smells like fried heaven and sounds like a lunchtime argument in Darija. You want the authenticity, the imperfection, the joy of eating something that has been made a thousand times before and will be made a thousand times again, long after your Instagram Story expires.

Still, if you’re not in Morocco, and your nearest sfenj seller is a few thousand miles away, all is not lost. You can absolutely try your hand at making them at home. Just clear a bit of counter space, find a good podcast, and embrace the slightly chaotic nature of sfenj dough. It’s not like making cookies or muffins. It sticks. It stretches. It misbehaves. But it also forgives.

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.