Buchman’s Diner Brings 1950s America to Jerusalem: Sinfully Sweet Shakes and Slices
- Mark Vogel
- Jun 10
- 6 min read
Kosher American Style Retro Diner in Jerusalem, Israel ✈
I first noticed Buchman’s Diner earlier this year on a visit to Jerusalem, Israel, while walking on Emek Refaʾim Street in the German Colony. The bright chrome-framed windows and candy-red booths that peeked out from behind them looked like a still frame from a mid-century postcard, and the smell of dough in a wood-fired oven slipped through the doorway. On my most recent visit to the Holy Land, I finally stepped inside the place at No. 51, curious whether a kosher American 1950s diner theme could feel genuine in Jerusalem’s most walkable café corridor.
Emek Refaʾim, cuts straight through the German Colony, a neighborhood first laid out by German Templer settlers in the 1870s. Their basalt and limestone houses, set back behind low garden walls, survive today beside later British-Mandate buildings, small synagogues, and a string of cafés that rarely sit empty. In summer, English, Hebrew, and French mingle on the sidewalks, and late at night you can still hear the clatter of dishes coming from kitchens that keep kosher but stay open until the last tram back toward Jaffa Road has passed. That friction between Old-World stone and modern commerce makes the street a natural home for an eatery that trades on nostalgia while serving a thoroughly local clientele.
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“I plan to return with friends who miss counter stools and bottomless coffee. I will probably steal another bite of that caramel-drizzled cream on my way out.”
The diner itself is new by any measure. Founders Lior Buchman and his partner Matan opened the doors in the final weeks of 2024 after running several pop-up pizza stands under the Buchman’s name. They kept the dough recipe and the wood-burning deck oven that had earned them a steady following at street fairs, then wrapped the whole project in an American mid-century veneer. Their reasoning was practical: Jerusalem already had plenty of espresso bars and shakshuka counters but almost no place where a family could order milkshakes, fries, and a slice of pizza under one roof.
Before stepping inside, I paused in the shade of a mature chinaberry tree that hangs its branches over the entrance. Strings of café lights run from the trunk to the stone façade, ready to glow after sunset. The building itself is a handsome Jerusalem-stone block with a curved corner tower. One high window carries a decal that claims “Best Diner in Town,” while a neon pizza slice flickers in yellow and pink just below. At street level, tiny bistro table are available for outdoor dining. Cobbled paving stones lead to the threshold, lending the entrance an almost European courtyard feel even as the décor shouts Americana.
Crossing that threshold I hit a black-and-white checkered floor polished to a mirror shine. To the right, three red vinyl stools perch on white tubular pedestals in front of a slim counter. Their footrests are worn from use, and the sheen on each seat tells you exactly where most customers pivot to catch a glimpse of the oven. The wall behind the stools is sky blue with a white tile wainscot trimmed in lipstick-red. Old Coca-Cola ads, bottle caps, and enamel pins scatter the paint like confetti. A small “One Way” road sign, complete with weathered arrow, warns patrons not to backtrack into the prep station, and a dessert case shows off slices of cheesecake and pecan pie under glass domes.
Ahead, the main dining room breaks left into a mural-lined nook. Banquettes upholstered in red and cream vinyl hug the walls, and aluminum tabletops reflect overhead pendant lamps shaped like inverted era-appropriate saucers. A hand-painted mural fills the back wall: a pony-tailed waitress in a sky-blue uniform balances a milkshake and coffeepot above the word “DINER,” spelled out in block letters beneath a cartoon pizza slice and a curvy red mustache. Cheesecake wedges, double-deck grilled cheese, and a salad bowl round out the illustration, making the wall feel like a comic strip but with food as the storyline.
Across from the mural an entire corner of curved windows forms a miniature lounge. Here the banquette is horseshoe-shaped, perfect for small groups. Vinyl records run vertically along the window frames, and below each pane hangs framed copies of comic books sealed in crystal-clear plastic: Archie, Superman, Betty and Veronica, and more obscure titles from the Silver Age. A disco ball dangles from a crimson ring fixture rigged with LED strips—mid-century meets roller rink—and fairy lights snake across the ceiling on a simple black cord. During daylight hours, sunbeams bounce through the leaves outside and cast mottled shadows on those comics, making the corner simultaneously bright and cozy.
The record theme carries through the interior walls as well. Near the restrooms I counted sleeves for Bob Dylan, Blood Sweat & Tears, Glenn Gould playing Mozart, a Mary Poppins soundtrack, and even a battered copy of Beethoven’s Fifth. The records themselves are nailed beside the sleeves, showing off rainbow center labels.
I slid into a booth directly opposite the kitchen pass and ordered a vanilla caramel milkshake before I even cracked the menu. It arrived in a tall fluted glass drizzled with caramel, capped with a geyser of whipped cream heavy enough to threaten overflow. Crumbled chocolate cereal bits and a maraschino cherry topped the peak, and a broad straw plunged straight down the center. Even before the first sip the presentation convinced every child in the room to beg their parents for the same drink.
For lunch I kept it classic and asked for a New York-style pie, eight slices with nothing but tomato sauce and mozzarella. The staff serve pies on circular stainless-steel trays with a lip just high enough to catch stray cheese. My pizza arrived blistered at the edges, the crust left speckled but not charred. The slice folded easily, grease pooling in the crease, and the cheese stretched in gentle threads instead of snapping. A metal caddy in the center of the table held glass shakers of oregano, crushed red pepper, and granulated garlic—a detail lifted straight from Jersey boardwalk pizzerias.
Looking around I spotted diners sampling the “Mac and Cheese” pie, its elbow pasta bronzed on top, and the more regional “Oh My Goat,” which swaps conventional tomato for pesto and goat cheese. Fish appears in a white-sauce salmon pizza and again in linguine Alfredo with smoked trout flakes. A simple tomato-basil spaghetti caters to kids who recoil at anything green, and a separate children’s menu pares pizzas down to personal size with a scoop of ice cream as peace offering. On Fridays the French toast and shakshuka plates move fast before the doors close for Shabbat; weekdays see a steady run on croissant sandwiches, especially the one stuffed with pan-seared halloumi and a sunny-side egg.
Sweets get their own chalkboard. Brownie à la mode, apple pie, New York cheesecake, and a molten chocolate cake that arrives in a mini cast-iron skillet save many tables from leaving early. Milkshakes broaden far beyond vanilla caramel. A pistachio-date blend nods to local taste, while strawberry is built from a reduction the kitchen makes in-house so the drink stays thick rather than icy. For anyone completely avoiding dairy, soy-based ice cream can be swapped in without drama.
Service moves at an American pace, something not always guaranteed in Jerusalem. Server uniforms are plain white T-shirts printed with a jukebox on the back, and they manage the narrow aisles with surprising speed. Most staffers work handheld tablets that beam orders directly to the expo screen, yet customers who want to skip table service can use a self-service kiosk near the entrance. The touch screen toggles instantly between English and Hebrew, lets you build and pay for your meal by credit card, and prints a ticket that the kitchen calls out when your food is ready. My milkshake reached the table in just under four minutes, the pizza in eleven, and refills of filtered tap water came unprompted.
Prices match the German Colony’s middle-class profile without drifting into luxury brackets. The diner opens Sunday through Thursday from ten in the morning until ten at night, trims Friday hours, and closes entirely on Saturday.
After enjoying my meal, I stepped back outside. Afternoon light filtered through the leaves, and the neon slice in the window flickered against the stone. A single Mylar balloon shaped like a gold star bobbed against the bay-window frame, left over from someone’s birthday lunch.
I have no idea whether the young owners will still be spinning vinyl and pouring shakes in ten years, yet the concept already feels stitched into Emek Refaʾim’s fabric. Tourists craving a dose of Americana find solace in the red stools, while Jerusalemites who grew up on European pastries enjoy the novelty of metal condiment caddies and whipped-cream peaks. The dairy kosher certificate broadens the customer base, pulling in religious families who would hesitate at a meat-heavy diner. For me, the draw is simpler: consistent pizza, quick service, and the rare pleasure of sipping a properly thick milkshake under a gently rotating disco ball. I plan to return with friends who miss counter stools and bottomless coffee. I will probably steal another bite of that caramel-drizzled cream on my way out.
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