Although Easter might be a reason to eat fish soup, the truth is I gorge on its unique flavor (paprika fieriness balanced with freshwater fish muddiness) at least once a month, as folk from my adoptive hometown of Szeged (175 km southeast of Budapest by road) have done for generations.

Like them, I take my halászlé with enormous hunks of white bread made specially for the Kiskőrössy by a bakery in the tiny village of Mórahalom, 20 km west of Szeged. I add a couple of slices of fiery fresh green Szeged pepper. Halászlé heaven.

In winter, my Hungarian wife and I sit in the cozy traditional part of the restaurant with a view of the river. When summer comes, we sit outside, linger over lunch and watch the river flow by. The air of tranquility and the unhurried waiters in their black waistcoats and white shirts always make me feel like I’ve gone back to simpler, more peaceful times.

One summer day, my wife told me a funny fish soup story that shows how important halászlé is to Hungarians. A friend of hers was at a Sunday lunch when the chandelier above the table fell into the fish soup pot. The friend was much more concerned about the soup than the damage to the chandelier.

I’d like to say that I’ve tried fish soup all over Hungary, and the halászlé at the Kiskőrössy is the best I’ve ever tasted. But the truth is I’ve only ever tried fish soup in a couple of other restaurants. I’m not a connoisseur. I’m a fan.

As was the great Hungarian cinematographer and son of Szeged Zsigmond Vilmos (“Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” “The Deer Hunter”), who ate at the Kiskőrössy on a 2014 visit to the city. Gerard Depardieu, a gourmand if not a gentleman, pronounced the fish soup magnifique.

Although we go to the Kiskőrössy so I can eat the soup (my wife is vegetarian), I also like the fact that the waiters know us. Until he was promoted to restaurant manager, our waiter was Zsolt Kiss, who has been at the restaurant for more than 20 years. A few days before Easter, I sat down with him to talk about fish soup and the Kiskőrössy.

A Family Affair

József Körössy built the restaurant in the 1930s. Chef Dezső Oláh managed it from the 1980s until his death in 2016, when his daughter, Krisztina Gréta Oláh Somogyváriné, and her husband, Péter Somogyvári, carried on the family tradition. They also continued to use Oláh’s fish soup recipe.

Kiss knew Oláh well. “He put all of his energy and passion into the restaurant,” the manager says of the late chef.

Kiss politely declines to answer any questions about the recipe, saying only that it’s essential to use old onions and the famous Szeged paprika powder.

Szeged fish soup differs from varieties in other parts of the country because the method involves mixing some of the fish into the liquid so the texture is thick. Fillets are added afterward. It takes four hours to make the soup, which should ideally be eaten fresh.

“I do know people who freeze halászlé for later,” Kiss admits. “Some even take it home to other countries. I’ve known people carry it in their luggage as far as Canada. Fresh tastes best.”

The Kiskőrössy serves three types of fish soup: “ponty” (carp), “harcsa” (catfish) and mixed, with soft and hard roe added. I only ever eat the catfish variety.

The Baja Method

Gábor Nemes was born in Kalocsa, close to the Danube. He lived in Baja (190 km south of the capital), where they make halászlé differently from Szeged, for 40 years before moving to Budapest. He learned to cook fish soup early on. Nemes was once a member of a society of fish soup makers in Baja who competed with other fish soup-making groups. Halászlé is a way of life in Baja.

“Everyone eats halászlé,” Nemes says, “Baja people eat more fish than they do in other parts of Hungary.” Funnily enough, Kiss of the Kiskőrössy Fish Csárda says the same is true of Szeged folk.

One difference between Baja and Szeged halászlé is that “in Szeged, they focus on the fish meat,” Nemes says. “In Baja, we focus on the liquid, and in Baja, we don’t remove the bones.”

Baja fish soup is also served differently. The liquid is ladled onto a bed of matchstick pasta. The fish is eaten afterwards.

When it comes to fish, Nemes primarily uses carp. If he’s making a mixed halászlé, he buys smaller amounts of catfish, pickerel (small pike) and crucian carp. He buys his fish from the Harcsa-Filé Kft. fishmongers in Budapest’s Lehel market.

Nemes is of a like mind with Kiss that you should only use old onions and that the quality of the powdered red paprika must be first-rate. He also agrees with Kiss that the secret to delicious soup is in the preparation and the order in which you add the ingredients.

Nemes only cooks halászlé outside in a special stewpot. It takes around one and a half hours. Speaking to Nemes, who says he used to eat each fish soup every week when he lived in Baja and now makes it at least once a month, I began to appreciate just how seriously Hungarians take the dish.

“For me, halászlé is a lifestyle,” Nemes explains. “It involves meeting people and deep friendship.”

The dish is a generational gift: Nemes’ father taught him how to make halászlé, and he’s already teaching his young grandson.

You can find Kiskőrössy Halászcsárda online at its Hungarian-language website, kiskorossyhalaszcsarda.hu

This article was first published in the Budapest Business Journal print issue of April 22, 2025.