In Budapest, queues are a sign of devotion. Locals will wait patiently for flaky pogácsa or a perfectly pulled espresso. But only one address inspires visitors to line up before the doors even open, cameras poised, simply for the privilege of stepping inside.
The New York Café is less a café than an operatic flourish in marble, gold leaf and frescoed ceilings. Housed within the Anantara New York Palace Budapest, the 1894 landmark was conceived at the height of imperial ambition, built as the Hungarian headquarters of the New York Life Insurance Company. Architect Alajos Hauszmann who is also known for his work on Buda Castle collaborated with Flóris Korb and Kálmán Giergl to create a structure that announced prosperity in stone and stucco.
At the turn of the century, Budapest was alive with café culture; nearly 500 cafés animated the city’s literary and artistic life. New York Café quickly became its most glittering space. Writers edited newspapers over endless cups of coffee. Poets debated upstairs in what is now the Poet’s Bar. Down below, in a section ominously nicknamed “Deep Water,” struggling artists gathered in hope of commissions, or at least a warm meal. The café was not just a place to dine; it was a social ecosystem.
World War and Soviet rule dimmed its brilliance. At one point, the gilded rooms were repurposed to sell sporting goods—a surreal footnote in its long history. But in 2001, restoration began in earnest, reviving the café’s theatrical splendour. Italian Renaissance flourishes sweep toward ceilings alive with hand-painted frescoes; chandeliers cast a flattering glow; gilded cornices wink under careful lighting. Look closely and you might spot a whimsical detail added during restoration: a tiny Statue of Liberty tucked into the ceiling artwork. Calling it a café feels almost coy. It is, in truth, a Baroque reverie that happens to serve coffee and cake.
Today, the performance begins at breakfast. Hotel guests slip into a private corner of Deep Water—arguably one of the most beautiful “exclusive access” privileges in Europe. From a small balcony, the entire café unfolds like a stage set. A resident band drifts between classics; if you ask politely, they might even oblige with a familiar tune.
The breakfast itself is indulgent: hummus as smooth as silk, grilled vegetables, eggs benedict, smoked salmon, pastries arranged like jewels, and—should the mood strike—a celebratory pour of champagne. Later in the day, cakes gleam beneath glass domes and waiters glide through the hall with studied grace.
More than 2,500 visitors pass through on a good day; after all, how often do you take breakfast inside a palace that insists, with a wink, on calling itself a café?