Wake up to the ringing of church bells at 7:30 a.m. Ignore them and bury deeper under the covers. Hear the bells again after half an hour and give up on going back to sleep. Get out of bed, get dressed and head to the bakery on the corner for some fresh-baked bougatsa. Such is the morning routine for most denizens of Thessaloniki. 

Semolina custard between flaky sheets of filo, served warm and topped with powdered sugar and cinnamon, bougatsa is the essential breakfast staple of the city. From the independently-owned bakeries abundant on every block to the most famous patisseries or chain establishments, every store offers its own version of bougatsa and its many variants, including savory cheese or meat-filled options. Plenty focus solely on serving the popular breakfast treat, preparing a large batch in the morning and selling until stock runs out. 

Anoteron Bougatsa is my family’s specialty shop of choice, exemplifying the principle of “do one thing and do it well.” The small storefront, wedged between a barbershop and plant nursery, is a long-standing neighborhood establishment, selling bougatsa since before my grandparents moved into their apartment. From the tiny bell that chimes when you walk through the door to the old pappous that sit outside to drink coffee together, even in the winter, it’s stayed the same for as long as my family has known it, even as other bougatsa bakeries morphed into pharmacies or gyro restaurants.

I’m not sure why we settled on Anoteron as our go-to breakfast spot when there are dozens of different options within the same walking distance. My dad insists that their bougatsa is the best in town — I wouldn’t know, as I’ve never had the opportunity to try other places. But after all these years of the same routine, I can’t imagine getting breakfast anywhere else. At Anoteron, the filo is filled not just with sweet custard, but with nostalgia as well. 

Every time I bite into their bougatsa, I’m 4 years old again, my head barely peeking over the dining table. Already sliced into squares, the pieces of pastry are the perfect size for my toddler fists. I’m making a mess, powdered sugar flying into the air and coating the table in a snowy white blanket. 

Then I’m 8, old enough to make the morning trip with my dad. The summer sun shines down and I chase after the pigeons that obliviously cross my path on the sidewalk. We arrive at the store window, and I gaze up in awe at the man behind the glass counter as he cuts and chops at lightning speed, serving up perfectly-weighted portions by eye.

Another bite and I’m 16, familiar enough with this routine that I can find my way to the shop on my own. I never learned Greek, but I know our order by heart: “τρία κομμάτια, παρακαλώ.” The wax paper crinkles as he deftly wraps each piece, tucking in the corners like a baby’s blanket. I’m so eager to tear it open again, I can barely wait the five minutes it takes to walk to the apartment. 

And so every visit to Anoteron is like a homecoming, a return to comfort and familiarity. When I went this year (three times — as I said, bougatsa is basically a food group of the Thessaloniki diet), I stuck to the classic cream-filled pie and allowed a generous amount of cinnamon and sugar to be sprinkled on top. After wandering the city for an hour, the brisk morning air making my nose and ears flush a vivid pink, the gently warm pastry felt like a prize I earned, along with a hot cup of my grandfather’s drip coffee. 

Despite the rich filling, I find that I always finish my slice wanting more, as the airy layers of filo are easy to bite through and the custard isn’t cloyingly sweet. Thankfully, I know that I can satisfy my cravings at any time: there’s bound to be a bougatsa shop right around the corner.