A dish that no one quite anticipated is emerging somewhere between a pajeon and a potato pancake, and it’s becoming more and more common on food blogs, Instagram reels, and holiday tables. One of the most talked-about Hanukkah innovations in recent memory is the Korean-Jewish fusion latke, a crispy marriage of grated potato, kimchi, and scallions fried in copious amounts of oil. It sounds like something new. It tastes like something that ought to have been around decades ago.
This fusion has deeper roots than any algorithm. Brooklyn-based rabbinical student Becky Jaye grew up eating what she refers to as “paj-kes”—a term she created for the hybrid her Korean-American mother prepared each Hanukkah. Her mother’s recipe combined the Ashkenazi latke tradition with pajeon, a Korean potato pancake stuffed with scallions, until the two dishes came together in the middle. Jaye recalls the point at which the recipes ceased to be distinct. They were no longer latkes or pajeon. Both of them were. According to her, that merging symbolizes the blending of two cultures united by a love of food and one another.
Then there is Miya Libman, a mixed-race Korean-American Jewish college student who encountered Hanukkah away from her typical kitchen while studying abroad in Seoul. Kimchi latkes, which are grated potatoes bound with egg and flour, studded with chopped kimchi, and fried until the edges turn a dark, crackling gold, were her solution. The dish wasn’t a gimmick to Libman. It provided an answer to a question she had been pondering for years: how to reconcile her Jewish and Korean identities. From the challah she learned to braid in kindergarten to the kimbap offered at Korean school cafeterias, she has written that food has always been her strongest cultural connection. The first recipe that didn’t require anything to be set aside was the kimchi latke.
Pausing on the timing is worthwhile. We are living in what Rob Eshman of The Forward has dubbed “Peak Latke”—a time when every imaginable culinary experiment can be made on a potato pancake. Dirty martini latkes filled with sliced olives are fried by Carolina Gelen. Spicy tuna latkes are posted by Dan Seidman. The onion ring latkes made by Mandy Silverman went viral. Every December, the variations of latke boards, latke sheet pans, and latke burgers proliferate like a fried, starchy arms race. The Korean-Jewish fusion latke, however, has a distinct flavor. It’s more about responding to a personal question than it is about getting clicks.
In a time when public identity seems precarious, there is a feeling that food has emerged as the safest arena for Jewish cultural expression. According to surveys, an increasing number of Jewish Americans find it awkward to publicly display religious symbols. Social media is a contentious area. But a recipe for lattes? According to Eshman, a latke recipe is community without security guards. Additionally, that latke becomes more than just a holiday side dish when it incorporates the flavors of Korean heritage, such as the fermented tang of kimchi, the bite of scallion, or perhaps a drizzle of sweet chili sauce instead of applesauce. It turns into a succinct, palatable statement: identity is multifaceted.
Practical details are also important. In order to distinguish between crispy and soggy kimchi latkes, it is necessary to wring out the moisture from both the potatoes and the kimchi. The majority of Asian grocery stores carry Korean pajeon flour, which some cooks use to give their pancakes a slightly chewier texture than all-purpose flour. Others stick with traditional latke technique and simply fold kimchi into the batter. Libman suggests skipping the usual sour cream and applesauce entirely, reaching instead for Thai sweet chili sauce and a runny fried egg on top. It sounds unconventional. It works.
What makes this particular fusion endure, beyond the novelty cycle, is that it wasn’t invented for content. It came from kitchens where two traditions already coexisted, where someone’s mother or grandmother was already reaching for both the box grater and the gochugaru. The food blogs discovered it, but they didn’t create it. And that distinction — between a dish born from lived experience and one engineered for engagement — is probably why the Korean-Jewish fusion latke keeps showing up, year after year, long after the dirty martini latke has been forgotten.