Tag: Pastries

Apple strudel is one of the great achievements of Ashkenazi Jewish baking—a paper-thin sheet of hand-stretched dough rolled around a filling of spiced, caramelized apples and toasted breadcrumbs, then baked until the pastry shatters into a thousand golden, flaky layers. It’s the kind of baking that requires skill, patience, and a clean kitchen towel, and the result is something that no store-bought version can approach.

The strudel tradition came to Jewish bakeries through the Austro-Hungarian Empire, where Viennese Apfelstrudel was the queen of pastries. Jewish bakers adapted it by replacing butter with oil, creating a pareve version that could be served after meat meals. The hand-stretched dough—pulled so thin you can read a newspaper through it—became a point of pride among Jewish grandmothers, a skill passed down through generations and demonstrated with theatrical flair at family gatherings.

Making strudel dough from scratch is an exercise in trust. The high-gluten dough, rested until relaxed and extensible, is stretched by hand over a tablecloth until it becomes nearly transparent. Rolled around a fragrant filling of tart apples, sugar, cinnamon, golden raisins, and toasted breadcrumbs (which absorb the apple juices and prevent sogginess), the strudel bakes into a pastry that crackles at the touch and reveals layer upon delicate layer within.

The black and white cookie is as New York as the Brooklyn Bridge and as Jewish as a Sunday morning at Zabar’s. Half-moon of vanilla fondant, half-moon of chocolate—this oversized, cake-like cookie has been a fixture in Jewish bakeries, delis, and appetizing shops across the five boroughs since the early 20th century. It’s the cookie that launched a thousand Seinfeld references, the one Jerry called “the symbol of racial harmony”—two colors coming together on a single cookie.

The origins of the black and white trace back to the German and Eastern European Jewish bakers who established themselves in New York in the late 1800s. Known as Halbmonde (half-moons) in German baking tradition, these cookies were adapted by Jewish bakeries like Glaser’s, Zabar’s, and William Greenberg to become something distinctly New York. The key is in the base: not a crunchy cookie but a soft, cakey round that’s really more of an individually portioned sponge—tender, lemony, and yielding.

A truly great black and white cookie has three non-negotiable qualities: the base must be soft and cake-like (never crunchy), the fondant icing must be smooth and just-set (not dry or chalky), and the dividing line between black and white must be crisp and clean. This recipe delivers all three, with a pareve formula that makes these cookies suitable for any occasion—from a Shabbat kiddush spread to a weeknight treat.

Schnecken — the word means “snails” in German and Yiddish — are the Jewish answer to the cinnamon roll, and they are infinitely better. Where a cinnamon roll is merely sweet, schnecken are complex: a rich, buttery yeast dough rolled with cinnamon sugar, nestled over a layer of caramelized pecan topping that becomes sticky, golden, and irresistible when the pan is inverted after baking.

Schnecken were a staple of every Jewish bakery in America from the 1920s through the 1970s — the golden age of Jewish baking. They were displayed in the window alongside babka and rugelach, their glossy caramel tops glistening under the bakery lights. They were the special-occasion breakfast, the treat brought to a bris, the indulgence that made Sunday morning worth waking up for.

This recipe uses a classic enriched dairy dough — butter, eggs, and milk create a tender, brioche-like crumb. The caramel topping is a simple mixture of butter, brown sugar, and pecans that goes into the pan first and transforms during baking into a gorgeous, sticky glaze.

For the chocolate version of Jewish enriched dough, try our Babka Buns or Chocolate Babka.

The knish is Jewish comfort food in its purest form — a thin, golden shell of pastry wrapped around a filling so creamy and savory that one bite can transport you to a Lower East Side pushcart in 1920. For more than a century, the potato knish has been the street food of Jewish New York: sold hot from carts on Houston Street, steaming in deli windows on the Upper West Side, and piled on platters at every kiddush and shiva from Brooklyn to the Bronx.

The word knish comes from the Ukrainian or Polish word for a dumpling or filled pastry. Eastern European Jews brought the concept to America, where it evolved into something distinctly their own: a larger, more substantial pastry with a flaky, golden crust and a filling of mashed potatoes enriched with deeply caramelized onions, salt, and pepper. Nothing more. The genius of the knish is its simplicity — and the quality of its execution.

This recipe produces baked knishes, not the fried version you might find at a hot dog stand. Baking creates a lighter, flakier pastry with a golden exterior that crackles when you bite through it. The filling is smooth, creamy, and loaded with sweet caramelized onions. These are the knishes you remember from your grandmother’s kitchen — or wish you did.

Knishes pair beautifully with our Bialys and Corn Rye Bread for a complete Jewish deli spread.

Kokosh cake is babka’s quieter, denser, more intensely chocolatey cousin. Where babka is braided and dramatic, kokosh is a simple roll — enriched yeast dough spread thick with a cocoa-sugar-butter filling, rolled up tightly, and baked until the exterior is golden and the interior is a swirl of dark chocolate layers. It is less showy than babka but, many would argue, more satisfying to eat: denser, moister, with a higher filling-to-dough ratio that means every bite delivers a hit of chocolate.

Kokosh cake (also called kokosh, kokush, or simply “chocolate roll”) traces its origins to the Jewish communities of Hungary and the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Hungarian Jewish bakers, renowned for their pastry skills, created an entire repertoire of rolled and filled cakes — and kokosh was among the most beloved. When Hungarian Jews emigrated to America, particularly to Brooklyn, they brought kokosh with them. Today, it is a staple of Jewish bakeries throughout Borough Park, Williamsburg, and Flatbush.

The filling is the heart of kokosh cake: a generous layer of cocoa powder, sugar, and melted butter, sometimes enriched with chocolate chips or a splash of espresso. Unlike babka, which often uses a nutella-style spread, kokosh filling is grittier, more intensely cocoa-forward, and less sweet. The dough is soft and enriched — similar to babka dough but rolled rather than braided, which means the filling stays in distinct layers rather than getting swirled and mixed.

If you love our Chocolate Babka, kokosh cake is the next step in your Jewish chocolate bread education. Same family, different personality.

Mandelbrot — “almond bread” in Yiddish — is the twice-baked cookie that every Jewish grandmother made better than anyone else’s. Long before Italian biscotti became fashionable in American coffee shops, Ashkenazi bakers were slicing logs of almond-studded dough and baking them twice until they achieved that perfect, shattering crunch. Mandelbrot was the cookie jar staple of every Eastern European Jewish home, the cookie you reached for with your afternoon glass of tea, the cookie that traveled in care packages and lasted for weeks.

The word itself tells you everything: mandel means almond, brot means bread. But mandelbrot is no bread — it is a cookie, crisp and golden, enriched with oil (never butter, always pareve), fragrant with vanilla and citrus zest, studded with toasted almonds and, in many family versions, chocolate chips. It is twice-baked for the same reason biscotti is: the first bake sets the structure, the second bake drives out moisture and creates that dry, crunchy texture that makes the cookie a perfect companion for dunking.

Unlike Italian biscotti, which tends to be tooth-breakingly hard, mandelbrot strikes a gentler balance — crisp on the outside, with a slightly tender interior that yields without requiring you to soak it in coffee first. This is because mandelbrot dough contains more fat (from oil and eggs) than traditional biscotti. The result is a cookie that is firm enough to dunk but forgiving enough to eat on its own.

Mandelbrot is the perfect pareve dessert — serve it after any meal, meat or dairy. Pair it with our Rugelach for a complete Jewish cookie platter that will disappear in minutes.