Imagine spending 24 hours every single week without touching your phone. No driving, no scrolling, no writing, no working. Instead, you gather around a table for a massive home-cooked feast — the same elaborate dishes, the same songs, the same rituals — again and again, week after week.

That’s the Hasidic version of Shabbos, the Jewish day of rest. And in this video, I’ve been invited by my host @mimiroseyiddish to experience an authentic Hasidic Shabbos feast: the laughter, the warmth, the singing, and the deep sense of rhythm that defines it.

I’m Frieda Vizel, and my channel explores Jewish life in New York — with rare behind-the-scenes glimpses into Hasidic homes, clothing, holidays, and everyday culture. After four years of building trust in this community, I finally get to show you what a true Hasidic Shabbos seuda (meal) feels like from the inside.

It all begins with a simple sound — a bell — marking the shift from the workweek to sacred rest. Married women light candles, one for each child, ushering in peace. The men don their Shabbos hats and walk to synagogue; driving is forbidden. In the kitchen, the women fuss over dishes that were cooked before sunset, since cooking is not allowed on Shabbos. By the time everyone gathers, the hunger is real.

The men return in a joyful burst, often singing a song welcoming the Shabbos, then serenading the women with “Eshes Chayil,” Woman of Valor. Then comes Kiddush, the blessing over wine — no one can eat before that — followed by ritual handwashing for bread. Between washing and eating, no one may speak… but a muttered “nu nu” slips through, meaning “hurry up, we’re starving.”

And then — the challah. Two loaves, covered with a dekel (cloth), symbolizing abundance. Hasidic challah is soft, airy, crispy on the outside, and dangerously addictive. The first course leans heavily on it: gefilte fish, salmon, spicy dips like chreyn (beets and horseradish), and tomato charif.

Next comes chicken soup, the eternal Friday night classic. Every family has its own touches — noodles, carrots, kneidlach, chickpeas, even lima beans. Around the table, conversation flows about Torah and tradition, punctuated by laughter and interruptions. Politics and business are “nisht im Shabbos geredt” — not to be spoken of — though that rule bends often.

Then the singing begins. Sometimes the men lead, sometimes the women join — even though traditional law frowns on that. At this table, we sing anyway. One song tells of a poor man who spends his last coins on a Shabbos meal and finds a diamond in his fish. Others are old Yiddish zemiros (songs of praise), worn soft from centuries of repetition.

As the night stretches on, the food keeps coming: chicken, potato kugel, noodle kugel, tzimmes (sweet carrots), ferfel, even modern charcuterie boards. There’s chatting in the kitchen, sneaking bites, dozing off at the table. Finally, compote — fruit soup — ends the meal, and we wash our hands again for mayim achroynim, the final blessing.

Hours later, full and drowsy, guests begin their long walks home through the quiet Shabbos streets — no cars, no phones, just the sound of footsteps and the lingering smell of challah.

And then it all begins again next week. And the next. And again.

After the meal, I’ll tell you how we made this video happen. I’ve wanted to film a Shabbos feast for years, but filming on Shabbos itself is strictly forbidden. So Mimi, ever resourceful, recreated the evening for us on another night. We put away our phones, got dressed in our Shabbos best, and entered the mood as if it were real. The effect was uncanny — a taste of sacred stillness in the middle of the week.

It reminded me why this ancient rhythm still holds people in its spell: the discipline, the joy, the surrender to rest. Shabbos comes and goes — and yet, it always returns.

Watch till the end to see the full behind-the-scenes story — and the laughter, music, and food that make this tradition so alive.

📍Filmed in Brooklyn

🎥 Hosted by: @mimiroseyiddish

🍷 Featured: authentic Hasidic Shabbos meal

👒 Channel: Frieda Vizel