
Chef Margarida
Areias de Cascais
The sand cookies of Cascais, where three simple ingredients become something that melts on your tongue and sparkles like the beach at sunset. Butter, flour, sugar. That's all. That's enough.
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Thin ribbons of fried dough, crisp and sweet, twisted into whimsical shapes and buried in cinnamon sugar. Carnival tradition, but honestly good any time you need something sweet.
The smell of hot oil and cinnamon sugar is the smell of Carnaval. Before Lent arrived with its fasting and restraint, there was Entrudo: days of excess, of eating everything you wouldn't eat for forty days, of filling the house with fried doughs and sweets.
Coscorões were the heart of it. Avó Leonor would start making them the week before Carnaval, the kitchen transformed into a production line. My cousins and I were put to work twisting the strips of dough while she managed the pot of hot oil with the confidence of someone who'd done this a thousand times. We'd eat them warm, still dusty with cinnamon sugar, burning our tongues because we couldn't wait.
The secret is in the thinness. Everyone thinks they've rolled the dough thin enough. They haven't. Roll it until you think it will tear, then roll it a little more. When you hold it up to the light and can almost see through it, you're close. This is what makes the difference between coscorões that shatter when you bite them and coscorões that just crunch. You want the shatter.
I've documented coscorões from Minho to the Algarve, and every region has its opinion. Some add milk. Some use olive oil instead of butter. Some splash in vinho branco instead of aguardente. All of them are right. This is my grandmother's version, the one that tastes like childhood to me. Make it yours.
Coscorões belong to Portugal's rich tradition of Entrudo (Carnival) sweets, the indulgent fried pastries eaten before Lenten fasting began. Similar fried doughs appear across Mediterranean cultures, suggesting ancient shared origins. The name likely derives from 'casco' (shell or husk), describing their thin, crispy texture.
Quantity
500g
plus more for rolling
Quantity
3 large
Quantity
75g
Quantity
75g
softened
Quantity
from 1 orange
Quantity
from 1 lemon
Quantity
3 tablespoons
Quantity
1/2 teaspoon
Quantity
for frying
Quantity
150g
for coating
Quantity
2 teaspoons
for coating
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| all-purpose flourplus more for rolling | 500g |
| eggs | 3 large |
| granulated sugar | 75g |
| unsalted buttersoftened | 75g |
| orange zest | from 1 orange |
| lemon zest | from 1 lemon |
| aguardente or brandy | 3 tablespoons |
| fine salt | 1/2 teaspoon |
| vegetable oil or light olive oil | for frying |
| granulated sugarfor coating | 150g |
| ground cinnamonfor coating | 2 teaspoons |
Mound the flour on a clean work surface and create a well in the center. Add the eggs, sugar, softened butter, orange zest, lemon zest, aguardente, and salt to the well. Using a fork, beat the wet ingredients together, gradually pulling flour from the edges until a shaggy dough forms. Knead for 8 to 10 minutes until smooth and elastic. The dough should be firm but pliable, not sticky. If it clings to your hands, add flour a tablespoon at a time.
Shape the dough into a ball and wrap tightly in plastic or a clean kitchen towel. Let it rest at room temperature for 30 minutes. This relaxes the gluten and makes rolling much easier. Don't skip this step. A tired dough fights back; a rested dough cooperates.
Divide the dough into four pieces. Work with one piece at a time, keeping the rest covered. On a lightly floured surface, roll the dough as thin as you possibly can. I mean thin. Translucent thin. You should almost see the wood of the table through it. This is where most people go wrong. They think thin enough is good enough. It isn't. Thinner.
Using a sharp knife or pastry wheel, cut the rolled dough into strips about 3 cm wide and 10 to 12 cm long. You can leave them flat, twist them once in the center, or tie them in loose knots. The shapes don't need to be perfect. This is home cooking, not pastry school. Every grandmother's coscorões look different, and that's as it should be.
Pour oil into a wide, heavy pot to a depth of about 5 cm. Heat to 180°C (350°F). If you don't have a thermometer, drop a small piece of dough into the oil. It should sizzle immediately and rise to the surface within seconds. Too hot and they'll burn before cooking through. Too cool and they'll absorb oil and turn greasy.
Fry the coscorões a few at a time, being careful not to crowd the pot. They cook fast, about 30 seconds to 1 minute per side. Flip when the bottom turns golden. Remove when both sides are a beautiful golden brown with slightly darker edges. The color should remind you of honey in sunlight. Drain on paper towels or a wire rack.
Mix the sugar and cinnamon together in a shallow bowl. While the coscorões are still warm (but not burning hot), toss them gently in the cinnamon sugar. Coat them generously. The warmth helps the sugar cling. Let them cool completely on a wire rack. They'll crisp up even more as they cool.
1 serving (about 25g)
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