Duvshanit Café & Bakery: Jerusalem’s Old Katamon’s Time-Capsule on HaPalmach Street
- Mark Vogel
- Jun 4
- 6 min read
Kosher Café & Bakery in Jerusalem, Israel ✈
I arrived at Duvshanit Café & Bakery at 42 HaPalmach Street early in the day, halfway along the gentle bend of Old Katamon’s main commercial corridor in Jerusalem, Israel. The façade is modest—gold Hebrew lettering on a charcoal awning and Israeli flag bunting fluttering above the window. Turquoise-and-pink woven chairs and a few green rattan seats spill onto the sidewalk under broad beige umbrellas, turning the block’s narrow traffic island into an improvised patio. Early risers sip coffee in the shade while buses and delivery vans lumber past limestone apartment blocks that date back to the 1930s, when this neighborhood emerged as a quieter alternative to nearby Rehavia.
Inside, time feels paused. The ceiling is a low grid of acoustic tiles lit by simple bulbs and fluorescent strips. Strings of miniature Israeli flags crisscross overhead, giving the room a celebratory air even on an ordinary weekday. Burgundy vinyl chairs with chrome frames flank compact Formica tables; each tabletop holds a gray Hausbrandt sugar caddy that matches the espresso brand served behind the counter. The terrazzo floor shows decades of foot traffic, and the walls are packed to the edges with framed black-and-white portraits and vintage coffee ads. A small neon script reading “Coffee” flickers near the window, competing with daylight that pours through the front glass.
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“I stepped back onto HaPalmach Street carrying a cardboard box of pastries. The outdoor chairs were now full, and a light breeze rustled the flag bunting above the awning.”
The pastry counter dominates the room. It is a two-tiered wooden case with sliding glass panes that the staff polish every hour or so. Handwritten Hebrew labels—orange for sweet items, pink for savory—identify each tray. Vanilla-chocolate spirals glisten beside poppy-seed croissants, cinnamon-sugar rugelach, fruit-filled hamantaschen, and rows of lightly powdered apple turnovers. Beneath the main display sits a cooler compartment stacked with plastic boxes of shortbread thumbprint cookies topped with bright red cherry jam. Above the counter, shelves sag under an eclectic collection of radios, accordions, silver teapots, and brass kettles collected at flea markets across the country.
HaPalmach Street itself slices west to east between the German Colony and Rehavia, but its personality belongs squarely to Old Katamon. The quarter grew around stone villas and small synagogues built during the British Mandate; today students from Hebrew University rent flats beside retirees who remember the battles of 1948. Mid-morning traffic rarely becomes heavy. Children wobble by on bicycles, and the corner grocery still closes for a long lunch break. A five-minute walk east brings you to the Museum for Islamic Art, while a shorter stroll west ends at a pocket park shaded by pines.
Duvshanit opened in 1970, when Yosef and Miriam Zarifi decided that the neighborhood needed a place to buy challah without trekking to Mahane Yehuda. They installed German deck ovens that still run today and rolled out a vanilla-scented babka the city had never tasted. The family never replaced the furniture, and hardly a nail has shifted since. Their son Amir now runs day-to-day operations with help from his own children, but he keeps a laminated copy of the original price list taped to the refrigerator door near the espresso machine.
By seven a.m. the first batch of crusty sourdough loaves and knot-shaped challot stands ready on metal cooling racks behind the counter. Trays of burekas—filled with potato, cheese, or spinach—emerge next, followed closely by the café’s signature spirals. The staff delivered my order on a well-worn metal tray, accompanied by a petite stainless-steel pitcher of steamed milk. The pastry was still warm enough to release a faint cinnamon aroma, the outer layers crackling while the center stayed tender.
Breakfast remains intentionally simple. The menu lists an Israeli plate that pairs a sesame-coated Jerusalem bagel with two eggs, chopped salad, feta, labaneh, and tahini. A lesser-known item is the “bagel toast,” a local twist on a panini that melts cheese, olives, and harif sauce inside the ring before pressing it flat. French toast made from yesterday’s challah appears on Fridays, and a single soup kettle at the back of the room produces lentil or pumpkin purée depending on the season. The drink board covers the basics—including espresso and Americano—and nothing tastes mass-produced. Hausbrandt beans arrive weekly, and oranges for juice sit in a pyramid beside the bar. A full meal with coffee rarely crosses forty shekels, a point of pride for Amir, who insists he would rather see repeat customers than chase tourist traffic.
Late morning is the lull. Retirees debate politics at the corner table, folding newspapers beside their cups, while university students claim the outdoor seats to review class notes. The interior soundtrack is a low buzz of Hebrew, English, and French, punctuated by the hiss of the steam wand and the clink of tongs lifting another croissant. I watched a baker carry out vanilla-chocolate spirals and arrange them beside trays of sugar-dusted apple croissants and poppy-topped savory crescents. Each pastry moved quickly; within minutes, entire boards were half empty and staff were already sliding fresh sheets onto the racks behind the counter.
The lunchtime rush builds without warning. Neighborhood office workers arrive for sandwiches—bourekas split and stuffed with hard-boiled egg, pickles, and matboucha—or wedge-shaped quiche served with cucumber ribbons and a slick of labaneh. Locals who grew up on HaPalmach often take dessert home: kilo bags of almond cookies that freeze well or clear boxes of date-filled hamentaschen perfect for a Friday afternoon visit to relatives. The room grows animated but never loud; on most days you can still hear the soft whir of an ancient ceiling fan rotating over the pastry case.
Décor purists may call the interior dated, yet every element serves as a living scrapbook. A 1986 poster for the Jerusalem Jazz Festival hangs beside a portrait of David Ben-Gurion pouring coffee for a soldier. Near the service bar, a neon script announces “Café,” its glow reflecting off stacked white plates and metal jugs ready for fresh juice.
Duvshanit closes earlier than many Jerusalem cafés. The shutters come down an hour before Shabbat candles, and on weekdays the last pull of espresso usually happens by seven p.m. The family could stretch hours to capture late-night foot traffic from Emek Refaim, but they prefer to keep the rhythm that has worked for half a century. That decision has fostered loyalty: nearby restaurants order pita, event planners reserve sufganiyot by the hundred each Hanukkah, and Israeli television crews have filmed pre-election interviews at the window table because they know the backdrop will never change.
Duvshanit has a second Jerusalem outpost which sits at 22 Mahane Yehuda Street, wedged between produce stalls and spice vendors inside the city’s main market. Unlike the HaPalmach branch’s sleepy neighborhood pace, this counter-only bakery trades in the market’s constant motion: trays of sufganiyot, chocolate-chip spirals, and cheese-filled bourekas disappear almost as quickly as the staff can slide fresh sheets into the display, especially on Fridays when shoppers stock up for Shabbat. The space is little more than a glass case, a coffee station, and a narrow aisle where regulars queue two-deep, but the menu mirrors the original shop—same family recipes, same kosher dairy supervision—giving Mahane Yehuda’s crowds a taste of Old Katamon tradition without leaving the shuk.
I stepped back onto HaPalmach Street carrying a cardboard box of pastries. The outdoor chairs were now full, and a light breeze rustled the flag bunting above the awning. In a city that often rewrites itself, Duvshanit holds its ground, not because it tries to capture nostalgia, but because it never surrendered the qualities that made it indispensable in the first place: sturdy furniture, reliable pastry, and coffee poured without fuss into clear glass mugs. Next time I return, I will arrive even earlier, claim a turquoise chair under the umbrella, and watch the spiral pastries come out of the oven while the acoustic tiles overhead glow in the first stretch of morning light.
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