Speculoos

If biscuits had personality types, speculoos would be your sharp-tongued, well-travelled aunt who tells wildly inappropriate stories at Christmas but somehow gets away with it because she smells like nutmeg and nostalgia. She’s mysterious, oddly glamorous, a bit chaotic, and probably owns a vintage fur coat and a collection of antique spice jars.

Speculoos (or speculaas, if you want to get all Dutch about it) is one of those magical culinary mysteries that feels like it shouldn’t exist outside of fairy tales. Imagine a biscuit that’s crunchy but somehow melts in your mouth. Sweet but with a kick of spice that makes your taste buds sit up straighter. You take a bite and suddenly remember a snowstorm in a town you’ve never been to. And yes, you might be eating it with your morning coffee, but part of you is also wondering if it might go well with whiskey. It does. It absolutely does.

So where did this spicy little number come from? We’re going to Belgium first. Or maybe the Netherlands. Or possibly Germany. Like many excellent European treats, speculoos has a slightly contested origin story. The Dutch will tell you it’s theirs, citing historical bakeries and ancient guilds. The Belgians will smile politely and offer you another one, secure in the knowledge that theirs are better—more refined, more caramelised, more unapologetically addictive. Germany, ever efficient, calls them “Spekulatius” and claims ancient Roman origins. Because of course they do. The Germans never pass up a chance to mention the Romans.

The most popular theory is that speculoos emerged in the Low Countries during the 17th century, around the time European trade with Asia was booming and spices like cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and ginger were pouring into ports like Amsterdam and Antwerp. Spices were exotic, expensive, and ever-so-slightly scandalous. Baking them into biscuits was a way to show off and feel a little luxurious during the grey depths of winter. Speculoos became a celebration of these imports, the humble biscuit transformed into a status symbol and a spiced beacon of the holiday season. Something you might gift to impress your neighbours, or nibble on quietly while dreaming of far-off lands where nutmeg trees grew wild.

But don’t confuse speculoos with its more elaborate cousin, speculaas. Speculaas tends to be thicker, often shaped with intricate wooden moulds into windmills, saints, or bishops (no, really), and has a fuller spice mix. It’s a biscuit with pageantry. Speculoos, particularly the type you’ll find in Belgium, is plainer by comparison but more caramelised, more butter-forward, and frankly, more dangerous. One becomes three before you’ve even noticed. Think brown sugar doing a seductive tango with cinnamon while butter looks on in admiration.

There are other regional riffs, too. In Germany, Spekulatius biscuits are a Christmas staple, cut into rectangles and often sporting elaborate engraved scenes of Saint Nicholas or Biblical tales—because nothing says holiday cheer like edible morality lessons. Over in the Netherlands, they’re sometimes baked into enormous sheets and smashed into pieces like edible stained glass, a very Dutch solution to the question “how do you share something too beautiful to divide?” Belgium, meanwhile, keeps it cool, serving them year-round with coffee, on planes, in waiting rooms, at train stations, in dentist lobbies, and pretty much anywhere people need a little crunchy encouragement to keep going.

What makes speculoos special? Besides the fact that you can now get it in spreadable form (yes, we’ll get to that), it’s the perfect storm of texture and flavour. The dough, heavy on brown sugar and spiked with just the right balance of spices, is rolled out thin and baked until crisp. The result is a biscuit that is light, snappy, and deeply aromatic. It tastes like winter holidays, regardless of what month you’re in. It’s the edible equivalent of a crackling fire and a woolly jumper. That warm, toasty feeling that somehow sneaks up on you and makes you want to phone someone you haven’t spoken to in ages.

Let’s talk about the spread. Because someone, somewhere in Belgium had the brilliant idea to take these biscuits and blend them into a smooth, creamy paste. And lo, speculoos spread was born. It’s like peanut butter got a PhD in gastronomy and started wearing cologne. Officially known as Biscoff in many English-speaking countries (the name comes from “biscuit” + “coffee”), this velvety ambrosia is slathered on toast, pancakes, waffles, croissants, bananas, or just spooned straight from the jar in moments of emotional vulnerability. Or triumph. Or boredom. Or giddy delight. It’s versatile like that. There are even ice cream pints with speculoos swirls now, because restraint is overrated.

Pairing drinks? Coffee is the obvious wingman here. A dark roast, preferably, nothing too fruity or acidic. The bitterness draws out the sweetness in the biscuit, and the spices dance along the edge of the caffeine buzz. Tea works too—especially chai or anything with a bit of kick. Rooibos is also a surprisingly harmonious choice. If you’re feeling adventurous (and really, why wouldn’t you be?), speculoos is a surprisingly delightful companion to dark rum, bourbon, amaretto, or even a well-oaked Chardonnay. A glass of mulled wine and a plate of speculoos might actually cure seasonal depression. Don’t quote us, but do test the theory responsibly. Bonus points if you have a fireplace and a chunky knit throw.

Food-wise, speculoos gets along with everything from cheese (try it with a creamy blue or a sharp cheddar—no, seriously, the sweet-spice against salty funk is kind of a revelation) to ice cream. It’s fabulous crumbled over Greek yoghurt with a drizzle of honey, or as a cheesecake base that might actually bring people to tears. There are speculoos milkshakes, speculoos tiramisus, speculoos macarons, and yes, speculoos-filled croissants, because pastry chefs are geniuses with a slightly evil streak. There’s even a rumour that someone once made speculoos ravioli. That person is either a monster or a pioneer. Possibly both.

Is it healthy? Hahahaha. No. Absolutely not. But is it deeply satisfying and emotionally stabilising? Very possibly. Speculoos is high in sugar, carbs, and dreams. It is not pretending to be a superfood. It will not tell you that it can improve your gut microbiome or help you live longer. It will, however, make you briefly forget that your inbox has 317 unread emails, that your boss just used “circle back” unironically, and that you accidentally liked your ex’s holiday photo from 2017 at 2am. Speculoos knows your shame and offers you a spiced embrace.

You can find speculoos just about anywhere these days, though the best come from Belgium, obviously. Maison Dandoy in Brussels is practically a temple to the biscuit arts, turning out delicately spiced masterpieces since 1829. You can also grab Biscoff products in supermarkets around the world, particularly since airlines started handing out those little red-wrapped biscuits and we all collectively realised we’d been missing something important. Online retailers are stocked, of course, and some boutique bakeries are even making their own gourmet versions with fun twists like cardamom, black pepper, or even citrus zest. You might also stumble across speculoos gelato in artisan ice cream shops or speculoos cupcakes in trendy bakeries. It’s gone global, and honestly, we’re better for it.

Now, because life is short and your kitchen deserves a bit of old-world magic with a whiff of maritime spice trade ambition, here’s how to make your own speculoos at home. It’s easier than you think, and the smell alone will make your house feel like a Scandinavian cabin in the middle of a snow globe.

Speculoos Recipe:

You’ll need:

225g brown sugar (preferably light muscovado) 175g unsalted butter, softened 1 large egg 1 tsp vanilla extract 280g plain flour 1/2 tsp baking soda 1/4 tsp salt 2 tsp ground cinnamon 1/2 tsp ground nutmeg 1/2 tsp ground ginger 1/4 tsp ground cloves Optional: a tiny pinch of white pepper for an extra kick

Cream the butter and sugar together until it looks like soft sand meeting sunshine. It should be light, fluffy, and smell like the promise of better days. Add the egg and vanilla, beat until it’s all happy together.

In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, salt, and all the spices. Close your eyes and inhale. Smells like December, doesn’t it? Gradually add this to the wet mix until a dough forms. Try not to eat it all at this stage, though honestly, no judgement if you do.

Divide the dough in two, flatten into discs, wrap in cling film, and refrigerate for at least an hour (or overnight if you’re into delayed gratification, which makes the first bite even sweeter).

Preheat your oven to 175°C (fan 160°C). Line some baking trays with parchment. Roll out the dough on a lightly floured surface to about 3mm thick. Cut into rectangles, rounds, or if you’re fancy, use a wooden speculoos mould. You could also just freestyle some odd shapes and call them “rustic.” No one will argue.

Bake for 10-12 minutes, until the edges are golden and the centre no longer looks doughy. Your kitchen should now smell like an enchanted spice bazaar. Let them cool on the tray for a bit, then move to a wire rack. Or straight into your mouth.

Serve with coffee, or a sense of mischief. Or both.

Speculoos: because life’s too short for bland biscuits, and far too short not to have dessert for breakfast.