Filter by region or category and discover the sweets of the whole country.
Fine wheat threads simmered in milk and yolk, scored with cinnamon.
Sugar and molasses pulled by hand until they lighten.
Not a chestnut in sight: egg yolks and sugar shaped to look like one.
Little towers of almond and egg yolk, wrapped in white wafer, browned on top.
A sweet remembered by name, yet unconfirmed by the record.
A triangle of puff pastry and egg cream beneath a cloak of white icing.
A fish that is no fish: eggs and sugar sculpted into a lamprey.
Portugal's richest pudding: egg yolks, Port and — quietly — a piece of pork fat.
A thin sponge rolled around an egg-yolk cream, inherited from the Poor Clares of Viana.
A dense block of almond and yolk, named for the pork fat it no longer contains.
Heads of elderflower dipped in batter and fried, scented with the end of spring.
Beaten so long that the name comes from the cook who forgot what she was doing.
The flaky half-moon of Chaves, this time with a sweet filling.
The little dough bundle of pumpkin jam that you give on Saint Lucy's Day.
Coimbra's light, fragrant sweet bread, given by godparents at Easter.
Leiria's little kiss that changed its name: almond, yolk and sugar, baked in a bain-marie.
The festival biscuit made from whatever was at home — sugar the only thing you had to buy.
Egg yolks in sugar syrup, sealed in wafer and moulded into shells, fish and the lagoon's barrels.
Coimbra's golden half-moon, crisp pastry hiding almond and egg yolk.
An almost-transparent, shatteringly crisp pastry filled with egg sweet — a feat of hand.
A wafer-thin, crackling pastry of egg cream, folded by hand in Vouzela.
The little fresh-cheese queijada with seven creases, sealed by hand one by one.
The butter biscuit so fiddly to shape it drives bakers to fury.
The marzipan dome of the banquets of the Ducal Palace of Vila Viçosa.
Eggs and milk in a clay bowl, gilded in the heat of a wood-fired oven.
Hollow, crackly shells dressed in glossy white sugar.
White beans and almond in a wafer-thin crust — a tart that tastes of anything but beans.
The unlikely marriage of white beans, almonds and egg yolk in a thin pastry shell.
Sheets of egg yolk poached in syrup and rolled into glossy little golden bundles.
Tiny fresh-cheese-and-cinnamon tarts with a rim pinched by hand.
A golden, crisp puff-pastry 'pillow' with an egg-and-almond cream filling.
The honey-and-aniseed cookie that smells of bonfires and autumn.
A cylindrical pão de ló, split and filled with pastry cream — the sweet pride of Belas.
A pillowy milk bun crowned with toasted coconut and sugar.
The crackling shell and scorched custard that conquered the world.
A maize-sponge roll wrapped around golden egg cream, dusted with cinnamon.
Crystallised greengage that has crossed borders since the convents of Elvas.
Crisp fried half-moons stuffed with cinnamon-scented chickpea or sweet potato.
The olive-oil-and-honey cake that darkens, deepens and keeps for weeks.
Ribbons of dough fried until they shatter, dusted with sugar and cinnamon or bathed in honey.
Egg yolks and sugar taken to the limit, the surface scorched and dusted with cinnamon.
The herdsman's staff, rolled in pastry and brimming with ovos moles.
A golden coin of sheep's cheese, egg yolk and cinnamon, thin as a wafer.
A glassy sugar shell guarding a soft heart of egg yolk.
Elvas's cracked, cinnamon-dusted custard, sworn partner of plums in syrup.
Egg threads and almond twisted into a shimmering foil bonbon.
A piece of almond paste packed with egg sweets — the Algarve's grand celebration cake.
No cheese at all: dried figs and almonds, pressed into a dark wheel.
The Algarve's own "chocolate", born from the pods hanging on carob trees.
A golden tart of flaked almond and egg-rich cream — the Algarve's almond groves in a slice.
A sheet of cake, almost all egg and orange juice, rolled into a tight spiral.
Madeira's dark Christmas cake, broken by hand and good for months.
The little cousin of bolo de mel: spice and cane honey in a Christmas biscuit.
Hollow, golden choux puffs split open and loaded with cream and chantilly.
The goat's-curd queijada born in Funchal.
Soft little balls of egg and sugar, scented with lemon — the sweet of Penafiel's São Martinho fair.
The Azorean Carnival fry-up: airy yeast dough, crackling oil and sugar on your fingers.
Coated in coconut as white as island snow.
The cheeseless Azorean queijada: milk cooked for hours until it turns amber.
The Sunday dessert of the whole country, signed in cinnamon.
Egg yolk, almond and bread in a golden cream that tastes of convent abundance.
Little mouthfuls of coconut and egg, golden-tipped and sweet enough to kiss.
The golden ball that roams Portugal's beaches to the cry of 'olha a bolinha!'.
The golden, paper-skirted cylinder that lives on every counter in Portugal.
Maria biscuits soaked in coffee and butter cream — no oven required.
Everyone's Sunday cake: airy, orange-scented and still warm from the oven.
Bolo-rei's sister, minus the candied fruit: just soft brioche, nuts and dried fruit.
A crown of soft brioche and candied fruit that reigns over the Christmas table.
The little cakes that smell of Christmas before they even leave the oven.
A crisp pastry horn brimming with ovos-moles, the sweetest emblem of plenty.
A crisp pastry crescent with a serrated edge and a sweet almond-and-egg heart.
Cloud-soft meringues poached in milk, afloat on a cinnamon-scented egg custard.
The Christmas fry-up: stretched dough, crackling oil and cinnamon sugar.
Hair-thin strands of golden yolk, simmered in syrup into edible silk.
A stovetop custard finished with a crackling lid of burnt sugar.
The pale sweet that began with shredded chicken and crossed half a millennium.
Shatter-crisp pastry and cream beneath a sugar glaze marbled with chocolate.
A caramel-glazed cloud of egg whites that seems to hover on the plate.
A crisp puff-pastry heart, glazed with caramelised sugar.
Egg yolk, sugar, flour — and three towns that argue over how done it should be.
Little pillows of egg yolk baked in the oven — and, in Mirandela, filled with fruit jam instead of soaked in syrup.
The dessert every grandmother makes, and no two make alike.
Day-old bread reborn in gold, egg, and cinnamon on Christmas Eve.
A "sausage" you slice into rounds that tastes of chocolate and childhood.
Hollow, pillowy fritters, fried golden and tumbled in sugar and cinnamon.
Clouds of egg white and sugar that crackle lightly and melt on the tongue.
A rolled sponge dressed in chocolate, shaped like the log that once burned in the hearth.
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