There are cities you visit for their landmarks, and then there are cities you visit for their food. Copenhagen belongs firmly in the second category. Known for its amazing culinary scene, minimalist cafés, and some of the world’s most influential restaurants, Copenhagen has become a culinary capital that attracts food lovers from across the globe. For most first-time visitors, narrowing down where to eat can feel overwhelming. Michelin stars, viral bakeries, experimental tasting menus, the options are endless. But for me, this trip came with a clear mission: to visit two Albanian-owned food spots in Copenhagen, run by different owners, and explore how food and language can preserve culture far from home.
Part of this journey began years before I ever booked my flight.
In 2022, while doomscrolling through Instagram’s Explore page, I came across a photo of a pastry that looked almost unreal, glossy, and undeniably mouthwatering. What caught my attention just as much as the pastry itself was the name of the bakery: BUKA. In my native language, Albanian, buka means “bread.” It’s a word that carries the weight of hospitality, tradition, and home. When an Albanian asks, “Do you want bread?” (A don bukë?), they’re really asking if you’re hungry, if you want to eat, if you’re cared for. Bread is central to every meal, a quiet symbol of respect and welcome in Albanian culture.
As I continued scrolling through BUKA’s Instagram page, I got curious to learn more. Curiosity and a sense of recognition won out. I finally messaged the bakery:
So in my native language, which is Albanian, “buka” means bread. I was wondering if your bakery’s name has anything to do with Albania, or was it just random?
The reply was instant and warm: “In our language it also means bread. We are Kosovo-Albanians.” We exchanged a few more messages, ending with a mutual hope to meet one day. That “one day” finally arrived three years later, in November 2025, during a trip through Germany, the Netherlands, and finally, Denmark.
BUKA: More Than Just Flour and Water
When we talk about the soul of a city’s food scene, we cannot go on without mentioning pastry. At BUKA, pastry isn’t just a product; it’s an art form used to bridge cultures.
Upon entering, I was greeted by the bakery’s pastry supervisor, Benedickte. The owner, Mr. Zeqir Haziri, was not present during my visit, as he was in Prishtina working on his new restaurant, Jardin. Still, his vision was unmistakable. I started my visit with a double-shot espresso, the most intense I’ve ever tasted. Bold, rich, and tasty, it set the tone for what was to come. Alongside it came the bakery’s famous pistachio croissant and a classic Danish custard pastry.
The pistachio croissant was everything it promised to be: flaky, nutty, and balanced. Not overly sweet, intentionally so. Benedikte, the pastry supervisor who guided me through my visit, explained that the chef does not like excessive sweetness. “Pastries shouldn’t overwhelm,” she said. “They should leave room for more.”
Behind the counter, BUKA operates with quiet precision. Benedikte introduced me to the team and explained that the bakery currently has four locations. We even visited the second one, where I saw bakers at work, shaping sourdough, laminating croissants, and preparing bread with a calm intensity that comes from years of passion and discipline. Watching them work made me reflect on the honest beauty of the craft. It was a rare glimpse into a world governed by touch and timing rather than metrics.
Sustainability is not a buzzword at BUKA; it’s a practice. Unsold butter croissants are never wasted, they’re transformed into sandwiches or turned into the bakery’s well-loved crumble pie. Every step reflects intention, responsibility, and respect for ingredients. Another defining aspect of BUKA is its role as a helping hand. The bakery hires both beginners and experienced professionals, offering training and growth. Benedikte proudly shared that one of their now-best bakers started with no experience at all, proving that BUKA grows people as much as it grows dough.
Për Ty: More Than a Restaurant, a Community
After a few hours, I headed to my next destination: “Për Ty”. The moment I walked in, I felt a wave of relief. It had been three days since I had spoken my native tongue, and my simple greeting of “Përshendetje” (Hello) was met with immediate, glowing warmth.
The name “Për Ty” means “For You,” and the restaurant lives up to that promise. I was served petlla, or llokuma, traditional fried dough, with by white cheese, honey, and a rich coffee. Sitting there on a Sunday morning, the atmosphere felt deeply nostalgic, like being back in my own family’s kitchen. Për Ty is owned by Irda Vogli and Ganimete Berisha, whose partnership has grown over the years into a friendship they describe as family. Together, they built Për Ty from the ground up, quite literally, renovating the space themselves.
“This place is my baby,” Irda told me. She had seen it grow from an idea into a living, breathing community. The name of the restaurant was suggested spontaneously by Ganimete and immediately approved by Irda. It attracts non-Albanians curious about its meaning, while also resonating deeply with Albanians who understand it instinctively. Për Ty is playing a significant role in bringing together the often invisible Albanian communities across Denmark, Sweden, and Norway, countries where the diaspora is smaller and more geographically dispersed than in Central Europe. Rather than emerging from invisibility, this sense of togetherness is the result of recent efforts to create a more visible and connected community. As Irda explained, the people were always there; what has changed is the space that finally brings them together.
Upstairs, the second floor opens into a visual tribute: a wall-sized display of Albanian couples dressed in traditional clothing, dancing and celebrating love, offering an immediate sense of Albanian authenticity. The owners give cards to children to fill with their thoughts and leave behind. It is an invitation to return years later and read the messages they once wrote to their future selves. On the wall hangs a poster that reads: “You are not a guest, you’re a part of our story.”
“Food fades,” Ganimete said, “but memories stay.”
As I prepared to leave, Irda insisted on cooking something for me to eat on my journey back to Hamburg. I declined, I had already eaten more than enough, but the gesture alone said everything. That kind of hospitality is unmistakably Albanian. It’s the kind that makes you come back.
Culture, Preserved in a Name
Sometimes, all it takes is a name.
Simple words, deeply rooted in language, memory, and belonging. Names are not just labels, they are cultural anchors. They preserve identity, signal community, and create instant emotional connections, especially in diaspora spaces.
My journey to Copenhagen began with curiosity and ended with connection. These places are not just worth visiting for their food, they are worth visiting for what they represent. They are proof that culture can travel, adapt, and thrive, one name at a time.
If you find yourself in Copenhagen, look past the Michelin stars or Google Maps reviews. Instead, look for the names that mean something more.
All photographs by the author
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