Trdelník

If you wander through the medieval heart of Prague, somewhere between the astronomical clock and yet another rack of souvenir stalls full of dubious faux-folk trinkets, you’ll start to notice something sweet wafting through the air. Follow your nose, and you’ll soon find a street vendor twirling dough around a cylindrical spit, roasting it over open flames until golden and crackling, then rolling it in a crystalline layer of cinnamon sugar. This hypnotic pastry is the trdelník, and yes, it’s every bit as glorious as it sounds. But is it actually Czech? Well. Sort of. Let’s just say the history of the trdelník is about as twisted as the dough itself.

The name trdelník comes from the word “trdlo” — a wooden or metal cylinder around which the dough is wrapped. While modern versions might be served warm and hollow like a doughnut tunnel to happiness, the roots go back to the 18th century in Transylvania. Count József Gvadanyi, a Hungarian general with a flair for feasting, brought the recipe to the Slovak town of Skalica, which still claims the trdelník as its own. From there, it crept across borders, shaped by centuries of imperial mingling, Austro-Hungarian entanglements, and tourist opportunism.

In its native form, the Skalický trdelník is denser, thicker, and protected by the EU as a traditional specialty. But the version that conquered Prague is lighter, fluffier, and made for Instagram. Somewhere along the way, someone had the brilliant (or blasphemous) idea of filling the hollow centre with Nutella, whipped cream, or a full scoop of vanilla ice cream. Cue the queues of tourists.

Regional versions pop up all over Central Europe. In Hungary, you’ll find “kürtőskalács,” which tends to be larger, richer in butter, and roasted over charcoal. In Romania, they’re known as “cozonac secuiesc.” Each has its own twist, from the type of dough to the choice of toppings — walnut, poppy seed, cocoa, even shredded coconut if the vendor’s feeling experimental. But the Prague trdelník? It’s the showstopper. Not necessarily because it’s the best, but because it knows how to put on a show.

What makes trdelník special isn’t just its smoky-sweet scent or that perfect crisp-chewy texture. It’s theatre. Watching it made is half the pleasure. The dough is stretched, rolled, twirled, roasted, and sugared all in front of your eyes. And like any good performance, it ends with applause in the form of cash changing hands.

Pairing-wise, trdelník doesn’t demand much. Coffee, obviously. A dark roast with no nonsense to offset the sugar. Or mulled wine if you’re gallivanting through the Christmas market. In summer, a Czech pilsner might seem out of place until you’ve tried the sweet-salty combo. It works. Don’t ask how.

It goes with everything and nothing. It’s not a side dish; it’s the main event. But if you insist on pairing, go for contrast: some smoked cheese, or even salty roast pork if you’re doing a street food crawl and feeling bold. Trdelník is dessert theatre, but nothing says you can’t mix genres.

Health benefits? Look, let’s not pretend. This is sugar, carbs, and dreams. It’s not a kale salad. But it’s also not deep-fried and there’s yeast involved, which feels like it should count for something. Eat it while walking and it doubles as cardio. That’s the logic we’re going with.

Where to find it? Prague, obviously. It’s reached plague-level popularity in the Old Town. But venture further afield and you might find more authentic versions in Slovak villages or Hungarian markets. The key is to find a vendor who roasts them fresh over a flame. If it’s being reheated in a microwave, run.

Now, if you’re feeling adventurous and want to turn your kitchen into a medieval Bohemian bakery, here’s how to make your own.

Trdelník Recipe

You’ll need:
500g plain flour
200ml warm milk
1 sachet (7g) dried yeast
2 egg yolks
50g sugar
60g melted butter
Pinch of salt

Toppings:
Caster sugar mixed with cinnamon
Optional: crushed nuts, cocoa powder, coconut flakes

Warm the milk and stir in the yeast and a teaspoon of sugar. Let it froth. In a bowl, combine flour, rest of the sugar, salt, egg yolks, butter, and the frothy yeast mixture. Knead into a smooth dough. Let it rise until doubled in size (about an hour, depending on your kitchen’s attitude).

Meanwhile, prepare your rolling cylinders. Empty aluminium cans wrapped in baking paper work surprisingly well.

Once the dough has risen, roll it into thin ropes and spiral them around your cylinders. Brush with melted butter, roll in the cinnamon sugar mix, and bake at 180°C for 15-20 minutes, rotating if you can. Or better yet, roast over a grill for that smoky authenticity.

Let them cool slightly before sliding them off the can. Then fill, if you must, with something sinful. Or keep it simple and enjoy the crispy, caramelised crust just as it is.

There you have it: a Transylvanian-Hungarian-Slovak-Czech pastry with no real passport, infinite aliases, and one simple purpose — to bring joy, one twirl at a time.