From Salonika with Love: Recipes for Breaking Fast
How a Greek pastry and a year-long drink became perfect for ending Yom Kippur
Shalom from Israel,
Boy, did we need a vacation. August in Israel means half the country evacuates anyway, but this year - with everything going on and airlines canceling flights left and right - getting anywhere felt like winning the lottery.
Copenhagen, my wife suggested. I had visions of myself buried under a pile of rye bread with enough Danish butter to commit multiple mortal sins, wandering from bakery to bakery like Marcus in that episode of The Bear where he's having his pastry awakening across the city, tasting everything with that look of pure reverence. The perfect escape.
Then Porto whispered seductively with promises of pastel de nata so perfectly flaky that crumbs would sail directly from my beard into the Douro River below.
By the time we finished debating the merits of Scandinavian versus Iberian carbs and actually tried to book, both were gone. Completely booked. My wife announced our last remaining option: "Thessaloniki."
"Salonika?" I asked hopefully, perking up.
"No," she said firmly, "Thessaloniki."
I smirked. "Oh, I’m sorry, I only know the Ladino name."1
She rolled her eyes, which let me know immediately that she was onto my bit of being intentionally insufferable.
My sense of Thessaloniki comes mostly from Tel Aviv’s Florentin neighborhood which was founded by Jews from the city. They shaped Levinsky Market with the flavors they carried - Balkan preserves, cured fish, and spice blends that still define many of its stalls today, where I now guide visitors through delis and shops that echo that legacy. Albert’s Confectionary, the last of Tel Aviv’s Saloniki bakeries and one of my favorite places of all time, closed several years ago. What I didn't expect was that this trip would connect all those dots, taking me back to the city that had created the very culture I'd been guiding people through.
Thessaloniki used to be called the "Jerusalem of the Balkans," and was referred to as "La madre de Israel" by Sephardic Jews. It might sound like ancient marketing copy but it was actually true. The city had been home to a small Romaniote Jewish community for centuries, but after Spain kicked out its Jews in 1492 (Bye, Isabella), Thessaloniki transformed completely.
Thessaloniki grew so Jewish that the city itself paused for Shabbat - even the port stood still without its Jewish workers. Ironically, decades later, a son of that community, the underworld figure Shmuel Ataiya, would rise to control port operations across Israel.
By the 16th century, Jews comprised a formidable and majority presence of the city. Even the Ottoman Empire basically outsourced their military uniforms to Jewish wool spinners who later became the exclusive manufacturers of uniforms for the Ottoman Janissary troops. The community established sophisticated institutions like the Talmud Torah Hagadol, which offered a broad curriculum including humanities, sciences, and religious studies, and contributed to remarkably high literacy rates among Salonican Jews.
The thing about golden ages is that they're always golden in hindsight and precarious in real time.
Fire, Then Hell
Fast forward to 1917: the Great Fire of Thessaloniki. Not exactly great for anyone living through it, but that's what they called it. The fire reportedly started when a spark flew from a kitchen fire while someone was cooking eggplant. Eggplant. A city that had survived empires, plagues, and political upheavals was brought to its knees by a cooking accident. The fire destroyed the Jewish neighborhoods, the Grand Rabbinate, and countless synagogues, and left 52,000 Jews homeless. It also sparked a sharp rise in antisemitism as the city regrouped and rebuilt.
If you think a city-wide fire was bad, wait until you hear about the Nazis. During World War II, over 90% of Thessaloniki's 72,000 Jews were murdered. Today, about 1,300 Jews remain in a city where they were once the majority. You wouldn’t know it. The ancient Jewish cemetery with over 350,000 graves was destroyed by the Nazis, the gravestones repurposed for construction projects, a practice that continued into the 1950s under Greek administration. Even now, Jewish headstones occasionally surface during construction, ghostly reminders of the community that once was.
Standing in modern Thessaloniki this summer, I kept thinking: what survives when almost everything else is annihilated? Sometimes it's a recipe. Sometimes it's two recipes that happen to be perfect for breaking the most solemn fast of our year.
The Pastry That Earned Its Place in Jewish History
I had my list of all the pastries I wanted to eat and where I wanted to eat them. Bougatsa was on the top of my list. More specifically, bougatsa me krema - crispy phyllo dough laminated with clarified butter and filled with a vanilla infused semolina cream. The first two places on my list were a bust, both were closed for summer vacation. But sometimes, the food finds you. Or, your wife finds it for you.
After a disappointing and humid visit to Kapani Market, where instead of interacting with the vendors and perusing the goods, I spent most of my energy steering my sweet, animal-loving son away from the skinned goat heads on display, my spirits were lagging. But my wife, Ziva, saved the day, as she often does.
She led me to Cardamo, a ninety year old spice store, where the shopkeeper and I locked into a perfect rhythm: he couldn’t stop talking about spices, and I couldn’t stop giving him reasons not to. Sampling blends and comparing dried oregano from Pieria, Crete, and Mavrouda did something close to miraculous for my spirits - each unmistakably oregano, yet each speaking in its own distinct dialect.
I came home with bags of oregano and house blends for chicken, meat, and potatoes - then proceeded to use them with the kind of enthusiasm that can only end one way. We’re now officially on a Greek spice ban until after November, which tells you everything you need to know about my restraint.
My spirits were slowly coming back when Ziva handed me a carbonated beverage called Mastiqua, soda water infused with what tasted like confusion with a touch of forest floor. Still processing.
We settled in with our cold drinks and sandwiches and things took an unexpected turn for the best: Ziva stood up, pointed across the street, and asked, “Isn’t that the pastry you’ve been wanting to try?” “Eureka!” I screamed, exhausting my complete knowledge of ancient Greek in one enthusiastic outburst.
It wasn’t just any bougatsa place Ziva had noticed, it was Serraikon Boutgatsa, a legendary joint that was established in 1952. Eating bougatsa me krema is biting into a crisp golden shell only to be hit with a wave of warm, velvety vanilla custard, the top dusted with powdered sugar in that deceptively modest way that still gets everywhere. That first bite was everything I’d hoped for. But bougatsa, which every Greek will swear is as authentically Greek as the Parthenon, has a more complex story. It's not exactly wrong, but it's not exactly right either.
The name comes from Byzantine Greek "pogátsa" (hearth bread) because it was originally conceived as a bread. The phyllo-wrapped custard version that defines modern bougatsa appears to have been an innovation of Thessaloniki. The Ottomans brought their pogaca and bogaca - yeasted breads with fillings - but local bakers had the brilliant idea to swap out bread dough for phyllo. Bougatsa was born.
When Thessaloniki's first bougatsa makers' union was founded in 1914, city records show that among its 42 founding members, many were from Ioannina, with "several Jewish names" among them.2 The ancient Romaniote Jewish community in Ioannina, long renowned as a hub of Jewish life and craftsmanship in northwestern Greece, had brought their baking expertise north to Thessaloniki. While bougatsa isn't Jewish, it was common enough among Jews that it appears in Gil Marks's Encyclopedia of Jewish Food, Joyce Goldstein's The New Mediterranean Jewish Table, and Nicholas Stavroulakis's Cookbook of the Jews of Greece. When a non-Jewish dish makes it into that triumvirate of Jewish food authorities, you know it transcended mere popularity to become part of our culinary DNA.
For Sephardic families, bougatsa transcended its role as morning pastry - it was the star of Shavuot celebrations and the centerpiece of desayuno, their elaborate weekend brunch.3 Standing there with phyllo crumbs on my shirt, I couldn't help thinking it would be perfect for breaking the Yom Kippur fast. Why limit such comfort to Shavuot? You’ll find the recipe just below.
The Distinctly Jewish Drink That Takes All Year to Make
Now, pepitada - this is the real deal. This isn't a borrowed recipe that became Jewish; this is Jewish, through and through. A Sephardic creation that traveled from Spain to Thessaloniki and throughout the Eastern Mediterranean, carrying centuries of tradition in every sip.
Pepitada, from the Ladino "pepita" (little seed), is made from melon seeds. Not melon juice, not melon purée. Seeds. The white, milky drink was traditionally the very first thing Sephardic families consumed after Yom Kippur, and the preparation process is either deeply spiritual or mildly obsessive, depending on your perspective.
Here's how it works: starting the day after Yom Kippur ends, you begin collecting seeds from every melon your family eats for the entire year. You save the seeds, wash them meticulously, dry them in the sun for days, and store them in jars like some kind of Jewish squirrel preparing for the winter.
By the time Yom Kippur approaches the following year, you've assembled what amounts to a small museum collection of melon seeds. Then comes the real work: grinding the seeds, wrapping them in muslin, steeping them in water for hours, squeezing the bundle repeatedly to extract the precious white liquid that will become pepitada.
The symbolism is perfect: the white color represents purity, making it ideal for the Day of Atonement. The practical wisdom is even better: pepitada coats the stomach, providing gentle reintroduction to food after 25 hours of fasting. It's like Jewish science met Jewish ritual and decided to make the world's most elaborate recovery drink.
Some traditional recipes even included a splash of arak for adults. I respect this approach.
As we approach Yom Kippur, may these flavors connect us to the thousands of Sephardic families who once filled Thessaloniki with Ladino conversations and Shabbat preparations. Their city may be gone, but their kitchen wisdom lives on in anyone willing to spend a year collecting melon seeds and an afternoon layering phyllo.
G'mar chatima tova - may you be sealed for a good year, and usher it in with bougatsa on the table.
Harry
Bougatsa Me Krema (Custard Bougatsa)
This classic Greek pastry features layers of crispy phyllo wrapped around a rich, creamy semolina custard - best enjoyed warm with a generous dusting of sugar and cinnamon.
Total Time: 1 hour 30 minutes
Yield: Serves 8-10
Ingredients
For the custard filling:
4 cups whole milk
⅔ cup granulated sugar
⅔ cup fine semolina (preferably durum semolina)
3 large eggs
3 ½ Tbsp unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 tsp vanilla extract
A pinch of salt
Zest of ½ lemon
For assembly and baking:
10-12 sheets phyllo dough
¾ cup unsalted butter (to yield ⅔ cup clarified butter), for brushing
icing sugar, for dusting
ground cinnamon, for dusting
Instructions
Make the clarified butter: In a small saucepan, melt the ¾ cup butter over low heat. Let it simmer gently without stirring for 5-8 minutes. The milk solids will sink to the bottom and foam will rise to the top. Skim off and discard the foam. Carefully pour the clear golden liquid into a bowl, leaving the white milk solids behind in the pan. This clarified butter has a higher smoke point than regular butter, creating crispier, more evenly golden phyllo layers without burning. Set aside and keep warm.
Make the custard: In a medium saucepan, combine milk, sugar and semolina. Place over medium heat and stir occasionally. In a separate bowl, beat the eggs.
When the milk mixture is hot but not boiling, remove from heat. Gradually pour about ½ cup of the hot milk into the beaten eggs while whisking continuously to temper them.
Pour the tempered egg mixture back into the saucepan. Return to medium-low heat and stir constantly until the mixture thickens to a creamy, pudding-like consistency, 5-7 minutes.
Remove from heat and whisk in the 3 ½ Tbsp butter until melted and smooth. Stir in vanilla extract (and lemon zest or salt, if using). Cover the surface directly with plastic wrap to prevent a skin from forming. Let cool to room temperature, or refrigerate until ready to use.
Assemble the bougatsa: Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease a 9x13-inch rectangular baking pan.
Lay one sheet of phyllo in the prepared pan, allowing edges to overhang. Brush lightly with clarified butter. Repeat with 3-5 more sheets, brushing each with butter.
Pour the cooled custard over the phyllo base and spread evenly.
Layer the remaining phyllo sheets on top, brushing each with clarified butter. Fold or tuck in any overhanging edges. Brush the top generously with butter.
Using a sharp knife, lightly score the top phyllo into squares or diamonds to mark portions.
Bake: Bake for 30-40 minutes, until the phyllo is golden brown and crisp. Remove from oven and let rest 10-15 minutes to allow the custard to set.
Serve: Dust generously with icing sugar and sprinkle with cinnamon. Serve warm for the best contrast between crispy phyllo and creamy filling.
Pepitada / Melon-Seed Drink
This Sephardic drink turns dried melon seeds into something silky and refreshing—part horchata, part almond milk, entirely its own thing. The seeds get ground into a fine powder, steeped overnight in water, and transformed into a pale, creamy beverage that’s subtly nutty with a whisper of orange blossom. Adapted from Flavors of Jerusalem by Rina Valero.
Ingredients
2 cups dried melon seeds
8 cups water
4 tablespoons sugar or 3 tablespoons of honey
A few drops orange blossom or rose water
Instructions
Grind the melon seeds into a fine powder using a food processor or spice grinder. Transfer the powder to a thin cloth bag (cheesecloth or a nut milk bag works well).
Submerge the bag in a container filled with the 8 cups of water. Every so often, give the bag a squeeze to help release the milky liquid from the ground seeds into the water. Let it steep overnight at room temperature.
The next day, remove and discard the bag. Stir in the sugar until dissolved, then add a few drops of orange blossom water (start conservatively, it’s potent). Chill thoroughly and serve cold in glasses. The drink will have a pale, cloudy appearance and a delicate, slightly creamy texture. Add a splash of Arak for fun.
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Ladino: The Judeo-Spanish language of Sephardic Jews, rooted in Old Spanish and enriched with Hebrew, Turkish, Greek, and other influences.
Ioannina: The city in northwestern Greece long hosted a Romaniote Jewish community, whose presence dates back nearly two thousand years. Distinct from Sephardic Jews, the Romaniotes preserved unique liturgical traditions and spoke Greek. Ioannina’s Jewish life was devastated in March 1944, when most of the community was deported to Auschwitz; only a small number survived, and a modest community remains today.
On Shabbat morning, after synagogue, Sephardic Jews traditionally sit down to a meal called a desayuno (Spanish and Ladino for “breakfast”).
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Shana Tovah and G’mar Chatima Tovah. Thank you for such a wonderful story and piece of our history! Your writing is fantastic, so richly detailed (and usually entertaining.) It’s a must read for me.
This is food porn and history at its best. I will be making bougatsa today, and start collecting the seeds for pepitada on Friday. Thank you for this. Shana tova.