Matza do About Nothing

Behind a small, brown street-level door in New York City, cousins Aron Gross and Aron Yagoda direct Streit’s Matzo factory, a family operation nearly 100 years old.

Gross and Yagoda’s office is rather humble, with stacks of loose paper piled high on the desk and black and white portraits of their ancestors hanging from the walls. Being so close to Passover, there are some 10 opened boxes of competitors’ matza on a side table.

Yagoda runs through each one, labeling some too light, some burnt, some too easily breakable and others tasting too much like the plastic they were sealed in.

He holds up the Streit’s sample. “Good perforations, lightly browned, the sheets are intact,” Yagoda notes.


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