Clătite (Romanian Crepes)
Some recipes are written down. Others are learned by standing too close to the stove.
My Husband’s grandma Letty didn’t measure much, and she definitely didn’t explain herself.
She made crepes—clătite, as her family called them—the way you make something you’ve made a thousand times—quick, quiet, already knowing how it ends. Romanian by way of habit more than declaration. Just something you fed people.
By the time the recipe made it here, it had shifted a little.
More cinnamon than she probably used.
Avocado oil instead of butter.
A splash of beer— not hers, but one that stayed.
A few small corrections that keep things from going sideways in a modern kitchen.
Because crepes are unforgiving like that.
They’re either cooperative… or they humble you immediately.
And in this house, they don’t make it to the table in neat stacks.
They get eaten standing up.
Hot.
Rolled tight like a jam-filled cigar the second they hit the plate.
You have to actively defend the stack if you want one.
Ingredients
25 g all-purpose flour
3 large eggs
480 g whole milk (see note below)
120 g beer
36 g sugar (or vanilla sugar)
15–30 g water (as needed)
15 g avocado oil (plus more for the pan)
Pinch of salt
1–2 tsp cinnamon (or more, depending on the day)
Method
Build the batter
Whisk eggs, milk, beer, sugar, salt, cinnamon, and avocado oil until smooth.Add the flour
Whisk in the flour until fully incorporated. The batter should be thin—closer to cream than anything resembling pancake batter.
Adjust with a splash of water if needed.Let it sit (optional, but better)
20–30 minutes if you can manage it. If not, carry on.Heat the pan
Medium heat, nonstick or well-seasoned. Light coat of avocado oil.
(Skip the butter. Skip the coconut oil. They separate, they burn, and they will stick just when you think you’ve got it figured out.)Cook
Pour a small amount, swirl fast.
30–60 seconds until the edges lift, flip, another 20–30 seconds.Repeat
Stack them if you can.
Or try to.
At the stove
The first one is a throwaway.
Always has been.
After that, it turns into a rhythm—pour, swirl, flip, repeat—while someone hovers a little too close, waiting.
They’re best eaten immediately.
Spread with jam, rolled tight, gone in two bites.
If you manage to build a full stack, it’s only because you were willing to swat a few hands away.
A small note—
Sometimes I add a scoop of sourdough discard—leftover from something else, the way things often are in a kitchen.
It makes them a little softer, a little more forgiving.
You wouldn’t notice unless I told you.
Which I usually don’t.
(If you do: add 100 g discard and reduce the milk to 380 g.)
This is the kind of recipe that doesn’t live on paper for long.
It lives in repetition.
In the sound of batter hitting a hot pan.
In how thin you dare to pour it.
And eventually, in someone else’s kitchen—slightly changed, but still recognizable.
The same way most things find their way to the table here—passed along, adjusted slightly, and eaten before they ever really have a chance to settle.