Our story

"Honey, breakfast is ready!"

It still rings in my ears today as my grandmother spoke into my room in the morning in her delicate, soft voice. I loved, as she said, I loved the mornings there.

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She smeared a milk-loaf with the inimitable peach jam, the smell of warm cocoa. She loved to cook for us, and we loved what she cooked. The confit meats, which were in fat, in a pan, were always there in the cold, or the carp, as she had prepared, with fresh sour cream, from fish from Lake Balaton. She didn’t waste it, she used everything she could. The remaining flesh and fat, as she called it, was made into a rilette, which we gladly stole from the refrigerator.

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Later, I noticed that our love for gastronomy also permeated us. One of the most anticipated events of my childhood has always been the big family lunch of the weekend. I was looking forward to those days feverishly. We were all there, small, big. Remembering, as a child, she had an atmosphere that I could no longer experience as an adult. When this restaurant opened, all she said was:

"cook with your heart, and give it with love"