Soaking in Budapest: Thermal tradition, Jewish legacy, and a city reborn after dark

As early as the 2nd Century CE, Jewish merchants, traders, and soldiers were moving across the Roman Empire, including the frontier province of Pannonia. In Aquincum – the Roman settlement that once stood in what is now northern Budapest – public baths formed part of daily life. It is not difficult to imagine those early Jewish sojourners entering the Thermae Maiores, stepping into heated pools, participating in a bathing culture that was as social as it was hygienic.

Margaret Island stretches for two and a half kilometers between Buda and Pest, a narrow green corridor in the middle of the Danube. Once known as the Island of Rabbits, it later took the name of Saint Margaret, a 13th-century princess who lived in a convent on the island. Today, it functions as parkland: running tracks, medieval ruins, trees, gardens, and spa hotels.

On the Pest side of town, the Jewish Quarter retains its historical core. Synagogues, community offices, and memorials stand within walking distance of kosher cafes and restaurants. The Dohány Street Synagogue anchors the area. Completed in 1859 in the Moorish Revival style, it has a striped façade and twin domes that reflect a 19th-century confidence. Inside, the sanctuary’s scale speaks to the prominence of Budapest’s Jewish community at the height of its growth, with a capacity for 6,000 worshipers.

Not far from the synagogue, in a nearby Jewish community building, Róbert Frölich, chief rabbi of Dohány, sits at the head of a long table, hands resting comfortably on his stomach. He speaks about the challenges of leading a Neolog congregation – a distinctly Hungarian stream of Judaism that developed in the 19th century. Neolog Judaism occupies a middle ground: committed to tradition yet shaped by modernity, liturgically conservative yet open to adaptation.

It does not always sit easily within the broader religious spectrum. More right-wing Orthodox voices sometimes question its legitimacy. The rabbi addresses such tensions directly, but without rancor. There is humor in his observations, a lightness that suggests confidence rather than defensiveness. Leadership, he explains, involves balancing continuity with relevance. His tone implies that sermons need not be heavy to be meaningful.

By evening, the same streets shift in tone. Kazinczy and Dob streets fill with conversation. Courtyards open. Music carries across the Jewish district. The so-called ruin bars occupy former apartment blocks and neglected buildings, repurposed rather than renovated.

Szimpla Kert helped define the genre. Inside, mismatched chairs, old bicycles, and layered décor create an atmosphere that feels assembled rather than designed. Multiple bars serve beer, cocktails, and pálinka. DJs and live bands rotate through small rooms. Other venues offer quieter corners, open-air courtyards, and shared tables.

The juxtaposition is clear. Synagogues and memorial plaques stand within walking distance of crowded bars. History is not erased; it is incorporated into a district that has chosen reinvention over stagnation. The energy is not defiant, nor is it careless. It is simply urban life unfolding.

Few Hungarian products carry as much symbolic weight as Unicum. Created around 1790 and produced by the Zwack family, the herbal liqueur became part of the national vocabulary. The Zwacks, a Jewish entrepreneurial family, built the company over generations. During World War II, some of the clan fled the Nazis. Under Communism, the factory was nationalized, and the original recipe was smuggled to the US. After 1989, the family returned and resumed control of the business.

At the Zwack Unicum Museum and Visitor Centre, exhibits trace both the evolution of the drink and the family’s history. Visitors walk through cellars lined with oak barrels before sampling the dark, bittersweet spirit. The flavor is herbal, medicinal to some palates, layered with herbs, spices, and roots. Served as a digestif, it is part ritual, part taste. As tastes change, Unicum is now available in plum, orange, coffee, and special reserve versions.

The story mirrors the city’s broader trajectory: continuity interrupted, then resumed.

Across the river, Buda rises above the Danube. Buda Castle traces its origins to the 13th century, later expanded under Habsburg rule into a Baroque complex. Damaged during World War II and rebuilt, it remains central to the city’s outline. From its terraces, the view stretches across the Chain Bridge to the stunning façade of the parliament building.

On the Pest side, City Park – Városliget – offers open space and cultural institutions. Vajdahunyad Castle reflects architectural styles drawn from across Hungary’s past. Széchenyi Baths continues the city’s bathing tradition in Neo-Baroque surroundings. Museums, boating lakes, and seasonal ice skating draw residents year-round. The park is functional rather than theatrical. It is where the city relaxes. It now houses the architecturally superb House of Music and Museum of Ethnography.

In the end, water provides the most consistent narrative thread. The springs were here before Aquincum, before Ottoman domes, before the Dohány Street Synagogue. They continued through siege, war, deportation, and rebuilding. They do not distinguish between empires or ideologies.

Alongside them runs the Jewish story – one of presence, integration, loss, and renewal. A medieval synagogue, Neolog liturgy, ruin bars, herbal liqueur, spa treatments, and castle walls coexist within walking distance of one another.

Budapest does not present its history as a single arc. It layers it. One can spend the morning in thermal water first channeled by the Romans, the afternoon in conversation about contemporary Jewish identity, and the evening in a courtyard filled with music. The elements do not compete. They accumulate.

The city’s appeal lies not in spectacle but in continuity. The waters rise as they always have. People gather around them, in different languages and under different flags. Empires have come and gone. The steam remains.