Best Traditional Shakshuka,

Let me tell you somethin’ first.

If there’s one dish that feels like a warm hug in a skillet, it’s Shakshuka.

Not the Instagrammed, truffle-oil-drizzled version, nah. I mean the old-school, tomato-splashed, egg-poached kinda Shakshuka. The kinda dish that smells like someone’s grandma in a tiny kitchen with one good pan and no time for nonsense.

It’s North African. Or Middle Eastern. Or Jewish. Or all three. Depends who you ask, really. But don’t worry about that.

Just know this—Shakshuka is soul food. Not southern-style. But spirit-style. A dish that doesn’t care what time it is or how fancy your plate is. Shakshuka shows up, sits down, and feeds you like it means it.

So here we go.

Let’s dive in. No floaties needed.

What the heck is Shakshuka anyway?

Simple version: It’s eggs cooked in a spicy tomato sauce. That’s it.

But that’s like sayin’ pizza is just bread with stuff.

Real Shakshuka is this whole thing. Layers of flavor, spice, texture. One bite can make you pause mid-sentence and go, “Damn, that’s good.”

There’s the garlic—burnt just enough. The onions sweated down ’til they’re sweet like secrets. Tomatoes crushed with love or fists. Paprika, cumin, maybe even a rogue chili or two.

Then, eggs. Cracked right into the bubbling sauce like they belong there. Which they do.

Cover it. Let it simmer. Pray to whatever you pray to. Then eat it straight out the pan with some crusty bread like a savage.

That’s Shakshuka, baby.

But wait, before we go too fast—let’s get into the history, yeah?

It’s got roots. Deep ones.

You’ll hear people in Tunisia swear it started with them. And they might be right. Others’ll say it traveled through Libya, Algeria, Morocco. Then landed in Israel and never left.

Jews from North Africa brought it with them when they emigrated. It became a staple in Israeli cuisine, especially in the early kibbutzim, where tomatoes and eggs were cheap, and mouths were always hungry.

Over time, it became a breakfast food. But real ones know it ain’t limited like that. You can eat it for breakfast, lunch, dinner—or after a long night out when your brain cells are doing jazz hands.

Now, wanna make it?

You’re gonna need a few things.

Here’s the no-nonsense, best-ever, traditional Shakshuka recipe. No shortcuts. No weird twists. Just the good stuff.

Best Traditional Shakshuka Recipe

Ingredients
(Feeds 2 real hungry people or 3 polite ones)

• 2 tbsp olive oil (go for extra virgin if you’re feelin’ fancy)
• 1 medium onion, chopped fine-ish
• 1 red bell pepper, chopped
• 3 garlic cloves, minced like your ex’s soul
• 1 tsp ground cumin
• 1 tsp sweet paprika
• ½ tsp ground chili or cayenne (less if you scared, more if you dare)
• Salt & black pepper (like, to taste—but be generous)
• 5–6 ripe tomatoes, chopped OR one 14oz can crushed tomatoes
• 1 tsp sugar (if your tomatoes taste like the Sahara)
• 4 large eggs
• Fresh cilantro or parsley, chopped (for vibes)
• Feta cheese (optional but oof, amazing)
• Bread (the crustier the better—don’t argue)

How to do the thing

1. Grab your favorite skillet. Cast iron is king, but use what you got.
2. Heat the oil over medium heat. Add onions. Stir like you care. Cook ‘em until they start going all soft and golden—5ish minutes.
3. Toss in the bell peppers. Stir again. Keep it going for another 5–7 minutes ’til everything looks like it’s melting just a lil’.
4. Garlic goes in next. Stir fast. Don’t let it burn, or it’ll get all bitter and ruin your whole mood.
5. Add the spices—cumin, paprika, chili. Mix it good. Let it toast for like 30 seconds. Your kitchen should smell unreal right now.
6. Dump in your tomatoes. Fresh or canned, doesn’t matter. If they’re too chunky, smash ‘em a bit with a spoon.
7. Add salt, pepper, and sugar if needed. Let it bubble. Then lower the heat and simmer it. Lid on. Let it reduce and get thick and saucy. Like 10–15 mins. Stir now and then. Don’t let it stick.
8. Taste it. Adjust the spice. This is your sauce. Make it sing.
9. Once the sauce is thick and happy, use a spoon to make little wells in it. Crack your eggs into those wells. Be gentle. Don’t mess up the yolks.
10. Cover the pan. Let it cook for 5–8 minutes, depending on how runny you like your eggs. White should be set. Yolk should jiggle like a flirty smile.
11. Turn off the heat. Sprinkle chopped parsley or cilantro. Crumble feta if using. Maybe a tiny drizzle of olive oil for that glow.
12. Serve hot. No plates. Just forks and bread.

Boom. Shakshuka.

Now listen, I know people wanna fancy it up. Add kale. Or avocado. Or whatever.

I ain’t mad at it. But don’t call it “traditional” if you do that, alright?

Traditional Shakshuka is humble. It doesn’t need a degree or a Michelin star. It just needs love and heat and a skillet that can handle your truth.

Tips from the road

I’ve had Shakshuka in little cafés in Jaffa, where the tables wobble and the coffee’s stronger than your dad’s handshake.

I’ve had it on camping trips with tomatoes from a can and eggs stolen from a neighbor’s chickens (long story).

I’ve burned it. Oversalted it. Dropped it.

Still ate it.

Still loved it.

This dish forgives you.

The best part? It’s a one-pan wonder. You don’t gotta dirty your whole kitchen to eat like a king. Clean-up’s a joke. Leftovers? Even better the next day, cold, eaten out the fridge with one eye open.

Wanna make it vegan? Just skip the eggs. Add chickpeas. Maybe some spinach. Call it “Shakshou-faux-ka.” I don’t care. Live your life.

Wanna go extra traditional? Use harissa paste instead of ground chili. Gives it a deep smoky kick that hits like a slow jam.

Some folks add a little preserved lemon. I tried that once. Changed me.

When to eat it?

Anytime. But it hits different in the morning.

You’re bleary-eyed. Coffee’s brewing. You need food that says “You’ll be okay.” Shakshuka does that.

Or late night. You’ve got friends over. The music’s low. Someone brings out wine. You start cooking. The smell wakes everyone up. Suddenly you’re all in the kitchen with toast and jokes and tomato-stained mouths.

That’s Shakshuka.

It’s community in a pan.

It’s comfort food with an edge.

It’s messy and spicy and loud and quiet all at once.

Still not sold?

Okay, imagine this:

You’re in your pajamas. Rain’s tapping on the window like it knows you’re sad.

You go to the kitchen. You fry some onions. Add tomatoes. Smell hits you in the chest.

You crack eggs in like you know what you’re doing.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re eating something ancient and honest.

You feel good again.

That’s not food. That’s therapy.

Final thoughts?

Look, I could write sonnets about Shakshuka. I won’t. (Okay maybe later.)

But if you’ve never made it—make it. If you’ve made it before—make it again, slower this time.

And don’t forget the bread.

Seriously, get the good stuff. None of that floppy white supermarket nonsense. You need bread with a backbone. Something that’ll scrape the bottom of the pan and still come back for more.

And if you make too much? Congrats. Tomorrow’s breakfast is sorted.

Shakshuka don’t judge.

It just simmers.

It just waits.

It just feeds.