Jacko’s Street Restaurant in Jerusalem: Kosher Cocktails and Charcoal Grills After Dark
- Mark Vogel
- Jun 16
- 7 min read
Kosher Meat Restaurant & Bar in Jerusalem, Israel ✈
I spent a recent evening on Agripas Street, the busy spine that flanks Jerusalem, Israel’s Machane Yehuda market, and followed the flow of shoppers and after-work drinkers toward the low façade at number 74 where Jacko’s Street Restaurant & Bar glows under a crisp white sign. Even before I stepped inside, the air smelled of charred meat, rosemary, and toasted bread drifting through an open window. The nearby market’s produce stalls were packing up for the night, but the restaurant doorway had a small crowd waiting for tables, proof that word of mouth still moves faster than any advertisement in this city.
Jacko’s Street opened in 2013, when three childhood friends—chef Zakai Huja, Rafi Revivo, and Yotam Nissim—decided to plant a kosher chef-driven enterprise on a block once known mainly for greengrocers and fishmongers. They named the venture after Huja’s father, Yaakov “Jacko” Huja, a respected fish seller whose shop, Avner Dagim, stands a short walk away. Their timing was bold: fine-dining kosher meat restaurants were rare in the neighborhood back then, yet the trio bet that residents and tourists wanted a place that treated kosher rules as a creative challenge instead of a constraint.
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“Jacko’s Street manages to feel rooted in decades-old shuk culture while steering it into the present. It is a place where a chef honors his father’s stall by treating each piece of produce or fish with respect and where kosher rules challenge the team to invent rather than imitate.”
Huja’s path to his own kitchen started in that fish shop, where he gutted mullet and tuna as a teenager while absorbing the rhythms of the shuk. Culinary school at Hadassah College and apprenticeships at Café Kadosh, Angelica, and Laura followed, but the chef never strayed far from the market’s clamor. His Kurdish roots surface in several dishes, and his fish-handling skills show in the precise way tuna and amberjack are sliced at the cold station. Revivo and Nissim steer the business side and the front of house, a division of labor that lets Huja focus on the stove.
Management closed the restaurant for three months in early 2024 to redo the interior and overhaul the menu. The new look kept the exposed Jerusalem-stone walls and reclaimed-wood tables, yet added a longer bar, fresh lighting, and double-paned windows that muffle the street noise without muting the din of diners. Since the reboot, reservations are essential on most nights, and the book fills especially fast before Jewish holidays when travelers descend on the city with set meal plans.
I claimed a seat at the corner of the polished concrete bar that faces the open kitchen. The counter is a single piece of dark brown marble whose glossy surface mirrors rows of stemware lined like a tiny skyline before service. Below, ribbed oak panels glow from concealed strip lights, casting a honeyed band of illumination onto the check-pattern terrazzo floor. Overhead, dozens of smoked-glass and amber pendants hang on black cords at staggered heights; their soft filaments break up the chatter while tinting everything beneath in sepia tones. Steel shelves hug a rough concrete pillar and hold neat rows of Macallan, Israeli craft gin, and jars of preserved citrus, giving the center of the room an industrial liquor-library feel. Toward the back, the ceiling’s exposed vents, projector, and sound speakers sit against charcoal panels, accentuating the raw surfaces without letting them feel unfinished. A lattice-pattern screen mounted on the far wall nods to Middle Eastern geometry, while a gallery of vintage enamel street signs ties the décor back to the neighborhood outside.
Pans hissed, plates clinked, and cooks in black aprons moved with the clipped confidence that only a well-rehearsed brigade possesses. The playlist leaned on Israeli pop, loud enough to energize the room but never drowning conversation. A chalkboard near the pass listed dry-aged cuts in Hebrew and English and credited each steak to a specific ranch in the Golan or the Negev. Edison bulbs hanging from iron rods cast a warm glow across tables packed so closely that I could read my neighbor’s check without leaning.
The menu is printed on sturdy card stock and reads like a travelogue through Mediterranean ports with detours to North Africa and the Levant. Starters include Kurdish ravioli—pockets of slow-cooked beef “siska” bobbing in a tangy hamusta broth flecked with spinach and chickpeas. A fricassee riff takes sushi-grade red-tuna cubes, spicy preserved-lemon aioli, potato, and capers, stacking them inside a pillowy bun that vanishes in three bites. Goose-liver brulé is torch-kissed tableside, while Moroccan cigars arrive as slim pastry rolls packed with lamb and pine nuts. The cooks dust each shell with fine semolina before frying, then slide the pair onto a vintage floral platter beside roasted olives, ribbons of pickled red pepper, and a ramekin of whipped tahini; every element on the plate earns its keep. A charred cabbage wedge—half a head blistered until the outer leaves curl—rests on smoky tahini streaks, its surface dotted with toasted pine nuts and crowned by an herb salsa that trickles into the layers.
Main courses skew carnivorous. A boneless short rib arrives after twelve hours in the oven, glazed with silan and pomegranate reduction beside smoked eggplant purée. Duck breast rests on focaccia soaked with rendered fat and balsamic. The kitchen grills rib-eye and entrecôte over charcoal, finishing each with rosemary butter that melts on contact. A sleeper hit is the asado bruschetta: slow-braised shoulder shredded into dark, glossy fibers and piled on thick challah toast slicked with garlic aioli. Coins of scallion scattered over the top add just enough bite to keep the richness in check. Fish lovers are not ignored; a “shawarma” of red mullet is shaved over freekeh with charred tomato salsa, and salmon chraime simmers in a tomato-chili bath thickened just enough to cling to couscous.
Side dishes show the kitchen’s care with produce sourced from stalls less than fifty yards away. Roasted baby carrots roll in harissa and date syrup, a plate of market greens changes daily according to what the foragers bring, and thick fries dusted with za’atar keep the bar crowd ordering second rounds of cocktails. Speaking of drinks, the bar program lists Israeli boutique gins, craft beers from Herzliya and the Golan, and wines mainly from Judea and the Galilee. One signature cocktail lands in a rocks glass packed with crushed ice; aquavit, pineapple, and house citrus cordial form a pale yellow base while a dehydrated black-lime “pinecone” sits on top, releasing smoky perfume every time the straw lifts. A shake made with arak, grapefruit, and mint has become the unofficial house aperitif; later in the meal many tables trade glasses for a carafe of local Cabernet to pair with steak.
Dessert is neither an afterthought nor sugar overload. A sphere of white chocolate cracks to reveal tahini parfait and carob-date crumble. The “Panthera” combines mascarpone panna cotta with passion-fruit gel, almond pastry shards, and basil oil, bridging dairy notes with the meat meal through non-milk components certified parve. Another plate sets a brûléed banana half on oat crumble beside a glossy swirl of parve meringue striped with salted caramel; the hot-cold, soft-crunch contrast disappears fast. Guests chasing chocolate gravitate to a dense slice anchored in warm ganache, finished with a dusting of cocoa powder, caramelized cereal crunch, and a chilled coconut-sorbet quenelle that melts into the sauce at just the right pace. Portions are sized for sharing, though couples on date night seem to have no trouble finishing each plate on their own.
Machane Yehuda’s character changes hourly, and dining at Jacko’s Street offers a front-row view of that rhythm. In early morning the alleys echo with shouts of vendors pitching persimmons and cumin, but by late evening metal shutters come down and graffiti-painted doors turn into ad-hoc canvases for street artists. Bars set reclaimed wooden planks over produce crates to form tabletops, neon signs flicker on, and sidewalk speakers pump music that blends Mizrahi folk with classic rock. The restaurant sits at the junction where that nocturnal energy begins, and its large windows frame a moving picture of young Jerusalemites sharing pitchers of Goldstar and travelers searching for open tables.
While the city center down Jaffa Road has its share of chain eateries, the market remains the culinary engine of Jerusalem because chefs like Huja keep sourcing directly from vendors they have known since childhood. The beef for the short rib comes from a butcher two stalls away, the cilantro in the ravioli broth was still wet from rinsing when it reached the pot, and the lemons in the tuna fricassee might have been cured in Jacko Senior’s own backyard. That immediacy translates into flavors that feel alive without relying on heavy seasoning.
Service at Jacko’s Street marries casual dress with disciplined timing. The staff knows the provenance of each cut and the preparation of every sauce, and when a guest asks for recommendations, they steer newcomers toward the dishes that made the restaurant famous rather than pushing the highest-priced steak.
On most nights the clientele is a mix of local couples celebrating birthdays, English-speaking tourists guided by Instagram reels, and families marking milestones on a kosher certificate recognized worldwide. Diners linger long after dessert, either ordering a final espresso poured into glass demitasses or migrating to nearby cocktail bars that thrive off the same foot traffic. By midnight the kitchen slows, but the bar stays open for another round, and the chefs in sight of the counter often hand out tastes of whatever they are testing for the next menu revision.
Leaving the restaurant, I stepped back onto Agripas Street and noticed how the market’s overhead arches framed the entrance like a private marquee. The night air carried both the scent of cooling charcoal and the hush that falls when music cuts off at closing time. Jacko’s Street manages to feel rooted in decades-old shuk culture while steering it into the present. It is a place where a chef honors his father’s stall by treating each piece of produce or fish with respect and where kosher rules challenge the team to invent rather than imitate. Visitors who carve out an evening here walk away with more than a good meal—they gain a snapshot of Jerusalem’s food scene at its most confident and curious.
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