Newsroom
By Michalis Michaelides
George Chrysanthou reached nearly 90 before deciding to close the doors of his small shop on Sina Street in Engomi, its faded retro sign a quiet witness to decades of dedication. Every morning at 7, he would arrive to craft one of the island’s most celebrated desserts: galaktoboureko.
A life devoted to pastry. From the age of 14, when he left his village of Kampi in Famagusta, to just recently, George never stopped sweetening the world, not just in Nicosia.
I first met him two years ago, one morning while passing by. Seeing the sign and hearing of his desserts, I didn’t hesitate. I parked outside and stepped in, finding him at the back, a mask hanging loosely on his chin. I introduced myself and asked for a quick chat, hoping to shine a light on the work he had been doing for decades.
At first, he was hesitant, even negative. At his age, he said, interviews felt meaningless, and he felt disappointed by how much society had changed. But as I asked about the sweets before us, his stories of Nicosia’s old days, and the reputation he had earned across the island, he began to soften. I realized his initial reaction was likely a form of self-protection; the awareness of age and fading memory can bring insecurity.
Yet here was a strong man, approaching his ninth decade, still rising at 6:30 a.m. to open the shop at 7, serving early-morning customers on their way to work.
“I’ve been at this shop on Sina Street for 27 years,” he said. “Before that, I worked in two other places in Nicosia. Coming here, even though my son Theodoros now handles the work, keeps me alive. As long as I exist, I won’t stop making galaktoboureko—the dessert that made us famous across Cyprus. It’s not an exaggeration to say people know me everywhere. Wherever Nicosians went—Limassol or Larnaca—they had to stop here first for kataifi and galaktoboureko.
Today, the shop’s selection is smaller than in the past: a few syrup-soaked sweets, some savory snacks, cookies, petits fours, and meringues, many bought to bake at home.
“My range has shrunk over the years,” he admitted, “but the secret to the perfect galaktoboureko? I can’t give you a recipe. You have to love it. You have to pour your heart into it. If you don’t love it, you can’t make it right.”
I asked if all his recipes were his own. “Where would I get them? In the village, we grew potatoes and onions, not sweets! I made them myself, without a book, and once you make it the first time, you never forget it.”
He recounted leaving his village at 14 to learn the craft and the legacy of Kampi bakers. “Poverty drove us to the city. If I remember correctly, the first to start was Chalepis on Makridorou Street, followed by others like Panagiotis. Many Nicosian pastry shops were founded by people from Kampi.”
George remembers the past fondly but with a hint of bitterness about the present. “Today, people don’t show respect. They park outside your shop and leave without thinking about how it affects your work. What’s missing is respect and love...for your craft, for life itself. We all need that.”
As I left, he handed me a tray of warm galaktoboureko to share with my colleagues. I walked away touched by his generosity and by the delight it sparked in everyone who tasted it.
*Read the original Greek version here.
