
Chef Juliana
Barreado Paranaense
You think the sealed pot is the hard part. It isn't. The hard part is believing dinner can be this good with beef, onions, patience, and no packet pretending to help.
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You think frying dough is where cooking gets serious. It isn't. Mix, rest, roll thin, fry hot, dust warm. Anota aí: this is learnable.
You might be looking at the pot of oil and thinking, isso não é pra mim. Good. That little voice can sit at the counter and watch you prove it wrong, because cozinhar não é dom, é um aprendizado. Frying isn't bravery. It's temperature, patience, and not dumping everything into the pot like you're angry at dinner.
I fight for the pê-efe, rice, beans, a piece of meat or egg, and something green, because that plate quietly keeps Brazil itself. But a home table isn't only lunch. It has coffee after the plate, birthdays with sticky fingers, a picnic tin opened on someone's lap, and sweets that came through immigrant kitchens and stayed because people kept making them. That's comida de verdade too: not fancy, not mysterious, just taught properly.
The method is simple, but not careless. Rest the dough so it stops fighting the rolling pin. Roll it thin so the oil can turn it crisp before it gets heavy. Fry a few at a time so the oil stays hot; crowd the pot and you'll get pale, greasy ribbons sulking at the bottom. Dust while warm so the sugar clings. A step without its why is just a rule, and rules get forgotten.
By the end, you'll have a plate of golden grostoli that crackles under your teeth, smells like festa, and makes you understand why some recipes survive without anyone needing to dress them up.
Grostoli belongs to the Italian-immigrant belt of southern and southeastern Brazil, especially communities shaped by the immigration waves that began in 1875 in Rio Grande do Sul and spread through Santa Catarina and Paraná. The name comes from Italian crostoli, a fried ribbon sweet related to Carnival pastries known in Italy by regional names like chiacchiere and bugie; in Brazil, cousins of the same dough are also called cueca virada, orelha de gato, or cavaquinho depending on the state. The names mark family memory and settlement history more than strict recipe borders.
Quantity
2 1/2 cups, plus more for dusting
Quantity
2 tablespoons
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
1/2 teaspoon
Quantity
1 teaspoon
finely grated
Quantity
2 large
Quantity
2 tablespoons
melted and cooled
Quantity
1/4 cup, plus 1 to 2 tablespoons as needed
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
4 cups, or enough to come 5 cm up the pot
for frying
Quantity
1/2 cup
for dusting
Quantity
1 teaspoon
for dusting
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| all-purpose flour | 2 1/2 cups, plus more for dusting |
| sugar | 2 tablespoons |
| baking powder | 1 teaspoon |
| fine salt | 1/2 teaspoon |
| lemon or orange zest (optional)finely grated | 1 teaspoon |
| eggs | 2 large |
| unsalted buttermelted and cooled | 2 tablespoons |
| whole milk | 1/4 cup, plus 1 to 2 tablespoons as needed |
| cachaça or white vinegar | 1 tablespoon |
| neutral oilfor frying | 4 cups, or enough to come 5 cm up the pot |
| sugarfor dusting | 1/2 cup |
| ground cinnamonfor dusting | 1 teaspoon |
Put the flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and citrus zest, if using, in a large bowl. Whisk for 30 seconds, until everything looks evenly mixed. This spreads the salt and leavener through the flour so you don't get bitter pockets or flat corners. Baking powder here is doing one small leavening job; it's not a packet pretending to be flavor.
Add the eggs, melted butter, cachaça or vinegar, and 1/4 cup milk. Stir with a fork until the dough turns shaggy, then squeeze it with your hand. If dry flour stays at the bottom, add more milk 1 tablespoon at a time. Knead in the bowl or on the counter for 5 minutes, until smooth, firm, and barely tacky. Too wet and you'll keep feeding it flour; too dry and it cracks when you roll.
Shape the dough into a ball, cover it with a clean towel or an upside-down bowl, and let it rest for 20 minutes. When you press it, it should feel relaxed, not tight and springy. Resting lets the flour hydrate and the dough stop fighting you, which means thinner ribbons and less muttering at the rolling pin.
Divide the dough into 4 pieces and keep the pieces you're not using covered. Lightly flour the counter and roll one piece at a time into a very thin sheet, about 1 to 2 mm thick, thin enough that the counter color almost shows through. Use only enough flour to stop sticking. Too much loose flour burns in the oil and leaves bitter specks.
Cut the sheet into strips about 3 cm wide and 10 cm long. Make a small slit in the center of each strip, pull one end through the slit, and gently straighten it into a twisted ribbon. The twist gives you thin edges that crisp quickly and a thicker middle that still has a tender bite. It also makes the plate look like someone cared, without turning this into a performance.
Pour the oil into a heavy pot so it comes about 5 cm up the sides. Heat it to 175°C (350°F), or drop in a tiny scrap of dough: it should bubble right away, rise to the surface, and turn golden slowly, not brown in ten seconds. Oil that's too cool makes greasy grostoli. Oil that's too hot browns the outside before the dough dries inside.
Fry 4 to 5 ribbons at a time, turning once, until pale gold with darker bubbled edges, about 45 to 60 seconds per side. Don't crowd the pot. Too many pieces drop the oil temperature, and then the dough drinks oil instead of crisping. Lift them out with tongs or a slotted spoon and drain on a wire rack or paper towels.
Mix the 1/2 cup sugar with the cinnamon in a shallow bowl. While the grostoli are still warm, toss or sprinkle them with the cinnamon sugar until lightly coated. Warm pastry holds the sugar better; cold pastry lets it slide off like it has somewhere else to be. Eat a few right away. That's not greed, that's quality control.
1 serving (about 18g)
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