Why you should visit Greece's 'city of gastronomy'

The sun has just popped over Thessaloniki’s jumbled rooftops but there’s already a queue out the door at Bougatsa Bantis. Inside, baker Philippos Bantis is handling the morning rush, bantering with his customers, many of whom he greets by name. It doesn’t take long to get through the orders, since they’re all for the same thing: bougatsa, the rich, crispy, buttery filo tart that’s a breakfast staple in Thessaloniki. Traditionally, it’s filled with creamy vanilla custard and dusted with icing sugar, but purists prefer it sketa, with no filling. Some scoff their bougatsa outside the shop, accompanied by chocolate milk or nuclear-strength Greek coffee, but most eat it on their way to work.

There’s a reason for Bantis’s popularity. Unlike some bakeries in the city, it still makes its filo by hand. Every morning, Philippos and his team roll, knead, stretch and throw their dough, using techniques learned from his grandfather, who founded the shop in 1969.

“Everyone has their favourite shops for bread, cheese, cakes and treats,” explains food guide Nana Zygoura, when we meet later that morning near the 15th-century White Tower, a landmark feature of Thessaloniki’s waterfront. “I still use the same ones my parents did. Traditions and relationships like that are very important here.” Dressed in a silk scarf, white shirt and oversized shades, Nana has spent most of her life in Thessaloniki, and knows the city’s food scene better than most.

For over 2,000 years, Thessaloniki has been a cultural and culinary crossroads. On the Mediterranean’s northeastern edge, it’s a natural meeting point between Europe, Africa and Asia. Since its foundation in 315 BCE, the city has been visited — and occupied — by successive empires: first Macedonians, then Romans, Byzantines and Ottomans, before becoming Greek in 1913. Caravanserais of traders, merchants, adventurers, immigrants and refugees came, bringing spices, herbs, wines and condiments from their homelands, all adding to the city’s gastronomic stew. Since 2021, Thessaloniki has been a UNESCO City of Gastronomy, partly in recognition of its long epicurean history.

One of the best places to experience its cosmopolitan cuisine is at a market, and Nana and I head for the oldest in the city: Kapani. Sheltered under a rickety glass roof, it feels closer to a North African souk than a Greek market, with dark lanes crammed with shops, illuminated by flickering strip lights. Crates of vegetables are stacked like Jenga blocks, filled with scarlet peppers, rose-purple aubergines and plump figs. Fishmongers holler prices for octopus, swordfish, skate and sardines, while butchers slice from carcasses suspended from meat hooks. Bakeries sell koulouria — chewy, sesame-encrusted bread rings, another popular Thessaloniki breakfast snack — and shopkeepers haggle with their clientele, filling bags with spices, nuts, olives and cheeses. It’s messy, noisy and chaotic.

We stop at Notis, a traditional delicatessen on the edge of the market, where I meet owner Giannis Xisis under dangling sausage strings and haunches of dried ham. In his gilet and sensible glasses, he looks more like an accountant than a market trader, but he’s serious when it comes to food. “We’re fortunate in Thessaloniki,” he says, as we taste his favourite local cheeses, which range from creamy and sweet to salty and sharp. “Everything is on our doorstep here: fantastic seafood, fruit, vegetables, cheese. I can find everything I need within 50 miles of the city.”

On Giannis’s recommendation, I hike up to the old town, Ano Poli, for lunch. Thessaloniki was ravaged by fire in 1917; the city’s blocky high-rises and grid-straight streets are largely a legacy of its hasty reconstruction. Ano Poli, spanning a ridge beside the city’s Byzantine walls, was one of the few areas to escape the blaze. Narrow streets meander up the hillside between tenement blocks and crayon-coloured mansions. Cats stalk the pavements and laundry hangs between buildings like bunting.

Lunch is at Tsinari, Ano Poli’s most venerable ouzeri — a neighbourhood diner serving mezedes (small plates). It’s full, but owner Lefteris Papadopoulos squeezes another table onto the overcrowded terrace, bringing out a banquet of fried peppers, courgette fritters, stuffed vine leaves, souvlaki and a Greek salad. The restaurant has been in business since the 1860s, Lefteris tells me proudly, and with its checked tablecloths, black-and-white photos and old paintings, it seems little has changed since.

“People come for a taste of the old days,” says waiter Giannis Kofidis, balancing plates with the precision of a circus juggler. “We keep things traditional.” While I settle up, Lefteris pours me a shot of tsipouro, a fiery, aniseed-flavoured spirit, similar to ouzo. Dating back to the days of the Byzantine empire, it was first distilled by the monks of Mount Athos seven centuries ago. Provenance aside, it’s potent stuff: the walk downhill feels distinctly unsteadier than I remember.

As dusk melts over the Mediterranean, I wander back into the lanes around the White Tower. Diners are crammed onto pavement patios, enjoying mezze and cocktails. Stopping for a quick aperitif at Prigipessa, one of the most popular music bars in the old town, I find Duo Themis Papaminas and Giannis Tsipos playing old folk tunes on a guitar and mandolin, their audience singing along with gusto. Before long, they’re linking arms and circling the bar in a traditional sirtaki dance. I join in for a toast, then detour along the seafront as the setting sun turns the sea bubblegum pink and, high above the city, swifts swirl over Ano Poli’s Byzantine battlements.

After dark, I join the throngs heading for Ladadika, a harbourside neighbourhood once notorious for its brothels, now the thrumming heart of Thessaloniki’s nightlife. It’s as chaotic as a street carnival. Buskers crank out old tunes on street corners, mopeds whine up and down alleys, chatter drifts out of doorways and bassy beats whump from backstreet clubs. There’s a quieter option: a corner taverna called To Kourbeti, where I meet Lazarus Vasiliou, a private chef on luxury yachts who’s recently returned to the city after years in Athens.

“Thessaloniki is changing,” he says, as he tucks into strips of honeyed pork and dakos (barley rusk topped by tomato and feta). “The city has been in Athens’ shadow for too long. Many young people are returning now. We’re learning to love what we have here. And for that, I say ‘yamas’!” He clinks my glass and suggests a dessert: kazan dipi, a caramelised milk pudding with crispy, burnt-sugar edges and a creamy centre. “This is a very old dish from Byzantine times,” he says. “Legend says it was invented by the chefs of the palaces in Constantinople [now Istanbul] a thousand years ago, and we’re still eating it here today.” Like so many dishes in Thessaloniki, it’s the past and the present on a plate.