
Chef Elsa
Apfelradeln
Thick apple rings in a light, eggy batter, fried golden in butter and oil, then buried under cinnamon sugar while they're still hot enough to melt it on contact.
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Tyrol's golden fried lattice spirals, poured through a funnel into hot fat and dusted with powdered sugar at the table. Market food, festival food, the kind of food that makes you stop walking and stand there eating.
The first time I ate Strauben I was ten years old, standing at a market stall somewhere between Innsbruck and the Brenner Pass. Gretel had one hand on my shoulder and the other wrapped around a paper cone of her own. The woman working the stall poured batter through a metal funnel into a wide pan of shimmering fat, swirling her hand in fast circles until the batter formed a tangled golden nest. Thirty seconds later she lifted it out, shook it once, and buried it in powdered sugar. I can still hear the crackle when I bit into it.
Strauben is Tyrolean through and through. You won't find it in every Viennese Kaffeehaus, but travel west into the mountains and it's everywhere: at Bauernmärkte, at Almabtrieb festivals when the cattle come down from summer pastures, at Christmas markets where the smell of hot fat and powdered sugar pulls you across the square. The name comes from the old German strauben, meaning rough or bristly, which is exactly what the fried edges look like when you do it right.
The batter is almost absurdly simple. Flour, eggs, milk, a pinch of salt, a splash of Obstler or rum to keep the dough tender. You pour it through a funnel in loose spirals and let the hot fat do the rest. The thin strands puff and crisp while the thicker intersections stay just barely soft. You eat it dusted with powdered sugar and a spoonful of Preiselbeeren on the side, standing up, with your fingers. Strauben is not restaurant food. It's the food that makes a cold day in the Tyrolean Alps feel like a celebration.
Strauben has been documented in Tyrolean cooking since at least the 16th century, appearing in regional recipe collections as a festive fried pastry prepared for church holidays and harvest celebrations. The technique of pouring batter through a funnel into hot fat connects it to a broader family of European fried pastries, but the Tyrolean version is distinctive for its loose, irregular lattice shape and the use of fruit schnapps in the batter. Today it remains one of the most popular street foods at markets and festivals across Tyrol, South Tyrol, and parts of Salzburgerland, where every family and every stall has its own version of the batter.
Quantity
250g
Quantity
3 large
Quantity
300ml
Quantity
30g
melted and cooled
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
1/4 teaspoon
Quantity
2 tablespoons
Quantity
about 1 liter
for deep-frying
Quantity
for dusting
Quantity
for serving
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| plain flour | 250g |
| eggs | 3 large |
| whole milk | 300ml |
| unsalted buttermelted and cooled | 30g |
| granulated sugar | 1 tablespoon |
| fine salt | 1/4 teaspoon |
| Obstler (fruit schnapps) or rum | 2 tablespoons |
| lard or neutral frying oilfor deep-frying | about 1 liter |
| powdered sugar | for dusting |
| Preiselbeeren (lingonberry jam) | for serving |
Whisk the eggs, sugar, and salt together in a large bowl until the sugar dissolves. Add the milk and melted butter, whisk again, then sift in the flour and stir until the batter is smooth and free of lumps. It should be thinner than pancake batter but thicker than crepe batter. Think heavy cream. Stir in the Obstler or rum. The alcohol keeps the fried strands tender and adds a faint warmth you can't get any other way.
Let the batter rest for fifteen minutes at room temperature. This gives the flour time to hydrate fully, which means a smoother flow through the funnel and a more even fry. Don't skip this. A rested batter behaves. An impatient one sputters.
Pour lard or oil into a wide, deep pan or pot to a depth of at least four centimeters. You need enough fat that the Strauben can float freely. Heat it to 170 to 175 degrees Celsius. Use a thermometer. If you don't have one, drop a tiny bit of batter into the fat. It should sink briefly, then rise immediately and sizzle steadily. If it browns instantly your fat is too hot and your Strauben will be dark outside and raw inside.
Hold your funnel over the hot fat with one finger covering the bottom opening. Pour in enough batter to fill it about halfway. Release your finger and move the funnel in quick, loose circles over the fat, letting the batter stream out in thin, overlapping spirals. You're making a rough nest, not a perfect circle. The shape should be wild and uneven, about fifteen to eighteen centimeters across. Some strands thick, some thin, crossing over each other. That's what gives you the contrast between crisp edges and softer spots. If you don't have a funnel, a small jug with a spout or a squeeze bottle works. The Tyrolean market women use everything from antique copper funnels to cut-off plastic bottles. It's the motion that matters, not the equipment.
Let the Strauben fry undisturbed for about forty-five seconds to one minute until the underside turns deep gold. The thin outer strands will crisp first. Flip it carefully using two forks or a slotted spoon and fry the other side for another thirty to forty-five seconds. The finished Strauben should be golden brown all over with a dry, crisp surface and lacy edges that shatter when you touch them. Lift it out with a slotted spoon and drain briefly on kitchen paper.
Transfer the Strauben to a plate or a paper cone if you want the full market experience. Dust it heavily with powdered sugar while it's still hot. The sugar melts slightly where it touches the warm surface and stays white and powdery on the cooler edges. Serve with a generous spoonful of Preiselbeeren on the side. The tart lingonberries cut right through the richness of the fried dough and the sweetness of the sugar. Eat it with your fingers. Pick it apart strand by strand. That is how it's done in Tyrol, and I've never seen a reason to improve on it. Mahlzeit!
1 serving (about 220g)
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