Bakalar na Bijelo or Brudet? Why Zagreb and Dalmatia Don't Agree on Christmas Eve

One dried fish, two camps, and a table where negotiations start anew every year. What is bakalar na bijelo, what is brudet, and where does the divide come from?

"Mom, tomatoes don't go in bakalar." "In this house, they do." This conversation takes place on December 24th in thousands of Croatian kitchens, usually where someone from Split or Šibenik married someone from Zagreb, Varaždin, or Sisak. The fish is the same—dried, pounded, and soaked for days. The only difference is what happens in the pot during the final hour, and families divide over that more sharply than over politics.

First, what is being soaked anyway?

The bakalar eaten on Christmas Eve isn't fresh fish, but air-dried Atlantic cod—hard as a board, with an aroma strong enough to relegate it to the balcony. Most of it comes from Norway, along centuries-old trade routes via Venice and Trieste. It's sold whole with bones or pre-cleaned in pieces, and the price per kilogram in greenmarkets and fish markets in December routinely tops twenty euros, reaching thirty for prime cuts. A one-kilogram dry fish nearly doubles in weight once rehydrated, so it's not quite as expensive as it sounds—though it certainly isn’t cheap.

Prep starts two to three days in advance. First comes the pounding—which in Dalmatia literally means using a wooden mallet on stone until the fibers split and the fish softens. In city apartments, this happens on a chopping board with a meat mallet, accompanied by complaints from neighbors. Next comes soaking in cold water, changed at least twice daily for forty-eight to seventy-two hours, depending on thickness. Skip the pounding and you get tough fish; cut the soaking short and you get salty fish. On this point, both camps agree—it’s still shared ground.

Na bijelo: the southern argument

Dalmatian bakalar na bijelo isn't complex, but it forgives very little. The soaked fish is boiled, skinned, deboned, and whipped with boiled potatoes using a wooden spoon until it turns into a coarse cream. Olive oil goes in—far more than common sense might dictate—followed by garlic and parsley. Done right, bakalar na bijelo is pale, fibrous, and rich in the way a good aioli is rich. It is eaten lukewarm or cold with bread; in Dalmatia, it's the only acceptable Christmas Eve dish, paired perhaps with fried cod or dried figs afterward.

Variations exist from island to island. On some, a splash of milk is added; elsewhere, potatoes are left in chunks, making the dish "na lešo", unwhipped. There are households that insist on bakalar without a single flake of garlic, and others that throw in a whole head. They share one absolute rule: no tomatoes. A Dalmatian seeing red in Christmas Eve bakalar reacts roughly like a Neapolitan seeing pineapple on pizza.

Na brudet: the Zagreb response

In Zagreb and across the broader mainland, Christmas Eve bakalar is generally prepared "na crveno" (in red sauce), referred to variously as na brudet, na lešo with sauce, or simply "our bakalar". After soaking, the fish is boiled, cleaned, and simmered with onions, garlic, tomatoes or tomato paste, bay leaves, and white wine, with potato chunks cooked right in the same pot. The result is a thick, deep-red stew served hot with plenty of bread or palenta. The Zagreb version needs no wooden mallet—just thorough soaking and patience.

Dalmatians will argue it isn't bakalar at all, but fish goulash. Zagreb locals will reply that bakalar na bijelo is just pate. The truth is that the continental version arose out of adaptation: people who didn't grow up by the sea, confronted with an intensely pungent dried fish, turned to what they knew—simmering it with vegetables in a rich sauce, as they would meat. Tomatoes soften the smell, potatoes stretch the portions, and wine adds acidity. It is no less authentic, just authentically different.

Where the divide comes from

Bakalar originally arrived in Croatia as Lenten fare. Catholic Christmas Eve is a day of fasting and abstinence, and dried fish—capable of keeping for months—was an ideal solution for homes far from the coast. Dalmatia acquired it through Venetian trade and preserved the Italian style of preparation, closely linked to Venice’s baccalà mantecato. The inland regions got it later, via Trieste and Austro-Hungarian trade routes, adapting it through a culinary tradition accustomed to goulash and paprikaš.

Zagreb is a unique case: for over a century, people from both traditions moved to the city. As a result, in the very same apartment building in Trešnjevka, one family is pounding bakalar with a mallet on their balcony while another is stewing it with tomatoes—both convinced theirs is the authentic way. Around the holidays, Zagreb fish markets sell dried cod in quantities that would surprise anyone who assumes it's purely a Dalmatian tradition.

If you're making it for the first time this year

Buying

Look for thick, light-colored pieces with no yellow spots on the flesh. Pre-cleaned, cut cod costs more per kilo, but saves an hour of labor and creates less smell in the apartment. If buying whole, remember that bones and skin account for a significant portion of the weight. In our experience, 600 to 800 grams of dried cod is enough for four people, yielding a generous pot once rehydrated.

Preparation

Start the Sunday before Christmas Eve. Pound it, soak it for three days, changing the water morning and evening. Simmer slowly, never over high heat, or it will break down into stringy fibers. Pick out the bones by hand with patience, accepting that you'll probably miss one. If making na bijelo, add olive oil gradually while whipping, not all at once. If making na crveno, don't overdo the tomatoes—bakalar should remain the dominant flavor.

Truce at the table

We know a family that resolved the debate by making both, each person eating from their own bowl while secretly sampling from the other. The kids—who are neither from Dalmatia nor Zagreb, but from that very kitchen—usually prefer the red version because it's milder. The adults, after their third glass of wine, admit that white, when done well, is something they wouldn't trade for anything. Bakalar, like Christmas Eve itself, isn't remembered by the recipe, but by who was sitting around the table. Just don't bring up tomatoes before dinner.