KISPIAC Bisztró is the rare Budapest address that serious eaters and drinkers whisper about with the urgency usually reserved for grand cellars and three-star tables. Hidden in plain sight at Hold utca in the 5th district, it is the personal fiefdom of Csaba Szalanszki, a restaurateur who’s energy hosts, and pours with the conviction of someone who has nothing left to prove and everything left to share.
Walk in and the room wraps around you like a well-worn leather armchair: low amber light, shelves of bottles and eclectic kitchen decor, the faint crackle of the open-air kitchen, and a gentle hum of conversation. There is no pretense here, only the quiet confidence of a place that knows exactly what it is.
Csaba’s wine list is a masterclass in Hungarian terroir, heavy on small growers and idiosyncratic sites, with a by-the-glass selection that rivals many dedicated bars. Depth in Somló, Juhfark, Furmint, Hárslevelű; a small but deadly arsenal of Kékfrankos from Villány, Sopron, and the overlooked Vas region; and enough skin-contact oddities to keep even the most jaded orange-wine hunter happy.
Two glasses that stopped me in my wine tracks:
- Kófejtő Cuvée from Somló: a field blend dominated by Juhfark with whispers of Hárs and Furmint, fermented and aged in old wood. Volcanic tension, gunflint, preserved lemon, white peach pit, and a saline thrust that screams for fatty meat. Textbook Somló electricity.
- Vaskeresztesi Kékfrankos 2021: grown on iron-rich red clay just over the Austrian border. Cool, perfumed, and precise: sour cherry, wild raspberry, white pepper, and a graphite edge. Medium-bodied but with a haunting persistence that made every subsequent sip better than the last.
The food is built around fire and time. Csaba’s venison Wellington has achieved minor cult status for good reason: loin from wild red deer, seared, coated in forest-mushroom duxelles, wrapped in feather-light pastry and baked to a lacquered rose. Cut the dome and the juices run like a Bordelaise reduction having an identity crisis (in the best way).
The spare ribs, smoked low and slow over fruitwood, then finished in the oven until the meat threatens structural failure, are glazed with a lacquer that balances sweet, smoke, and gentle heat. They collapse at the suggestion of a fork.
The half duck is the dish we will still be dreaming about in ten years: confit legs pressed and re-crisped, breast roasted on the crown until the skin shatters like stained glass and the flesh remains obscenely juicy. Served with duck-fat potatoes and braised red cabbage sharpened with aged szamorodni vinegar. The Kófejtő from Somló cuts through the richness like a stiletto.
We ate here on a Wednesday night. We returned for lunch the next day. Same corner table, same grin from Csaba, same involuntary moan when the Wellington arrived. That is not hyperbole; it is simply what happens when obsession meets execution.
KISPIAC is not chasing trends or stars. It is the living room of a man who loves feeding people beautiful, soulful food and pouring them wines most of the country still hasn’t discovered. For anyone who measures a trip by the quality of its tables, this tiny bistrot is obligatory. Twice in 24 hours felt perfectly rational. Three times would have been restraint.
