I take window shopping to a whole new level when I’m in Greece. But while Thessaloniki does have a street of high-end stores and luxury fashion boutiques, that’s not where I do most of my browsing. Rather, I spend most of my mornings walking around to gaze longingly at the display cases of the thousands of cafes, pastry shops and bakeries around the city.

I’m someone who can spend (and has spent) hours roaming the aisles of grocery stores, imagining the countless possibilities of flavor. But at least when I exit the building, it’s out of sight, out of mind. In Thessaloniki, there’s no way to escape the sight of sweets. Every bakery has giant clear windows and glass displays, making it incredibly easy for passersby to ogle their offerings. 

And nowhere has a more tempting exhibition of indulgence than Terkenlis. Their storefront is a smorgasbord of pastries and confectionery, rivaling even the finest French patisserie. Inside, shoppers wander among cases filled with traditional Greek sweets, elevated versions of quintessential desserts and simple chocolate or candy creations. I love to browse their collection and simply admire the craftsmanship from the perspective of an amateur baker, dreaming of the day when I can retire and dedicate the rest of my life to recreating their recipes at home.

Terkenlis is particularly famous for its tsoureki, a sweet holiday bread baked for Christmas and Easter. It’s widely accepted, not only in the city but across the entire country, that nowhere has better tsoureki than Terkenlis. During the winter holidays, Greeks flock to Thessaloniki from as far as Athens just to get their hands on a loaf.

And I understand their desperation completely. In my family, no Christmas celebration would be complete without tsoureki. My parents had set a rule when we were children that no one was allowed to go downstairs before everyone was up and ready to open presents. As the only early-riser in the family, I would wake up at 6 a.m., shaking from excitement and anticipation of tearing into wrapping paper, yes, but also the fresh loaf of tsoureki sitting on the dining table. And I figured our off-limits decree was meant to apply to the living room, but not the kitchen…

So I would tiptoe down the stairs, glad that the carpet cushioned my clumsy wobbles, and glide along the floor to the kitchen, hardly picking up my feet. Once I made it to the dining room, I would delicately remove the bread from its plastic casing, taking pains not to wrinkle the wrapping lest my parents heard and realized my transgressions. But all worries would be forgotten when my teeth sank into the soft, sweet bread, ripping off strands of the stringy dough. 

Tsoureki is similar to other enriched breads like brioche or challah, but has a unique profile of nutty and citrusy flavors given by the mahlab and mastic in the dough. It’s not saccharine, making it an ideal snack to enjoy with, say, a Christmas morning coffee or cocoa, but it’s sweet enough to stand on its own as a dessert — and it does. 

For New Year’s, we buy a special pie-shaped loaf of tsoureki called a vasilopita, named after Saint Basil’s feast, which falls on January 1. Inside this bread-cake is a hidden coin and whoever’s slice contains the coin is supposed to be granted good luck in the new year. It’s just a symbolic tradition, but I’ll admit, I’m a bit of a believer. I remember last year, I was crossing both my fingers and clenching every muscle in my body, hoping my piece of pie would reveal the golden glint of the coin: I wanted as much luck as I could get for college admissions. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in my slice, but my father, who ended up getting the lucky piece, was promoted later that year, so I really do trust the tsoureki’s power.

My family makes a point to include tsoureki in our holiday celebrations every year, stashing three to four loaves in our suitcases in addition to the myriad of other foodstuffs I like to stock up on. My dad and I undertake this Tetris-esque task, competing to see who can fit the most items in the most secure arrangement. We stumble through the airport with our hefty bags, laughing quietly at the look of confusion on the taxi driver’s face when he tries to load our luggage into his trunk. Back home, we joyously unpack our bounty, stacking them to create a Christmas tree made of tsoureki and holiday sweets.

When we can’t get it from Terkenlis, we instead travel to “the Greek store,” an independent grocer in a neighboring county that stocks products imported from Greece — we also get our instant coffee there, since my dad swears that Greek Nescafe is superior to all other blends — and has a small bakery that sells a selection of Greek sweets, such as baklava and tsoureki. 

The bread isn’t quite as good; it’s a little dry, less pillow-soft and it lacks the undertones of almond and orange signature to tsoureki. But it does the job in a pinch, and anyway, I’m not too picky. All I need for the holidays is my space heater, a good book to read and Greek food — that’s my very merry Christmas.