We review Radisson Collection Hotel, Basilica Budapest
The heartbeat of the Hungarian capital.
In the shadow of St. Stephen’s Basilica, a stay at the Radisson Collection Hotel, Basilica Budapest reveals the real heartbeat of the city, shaped by the people who bring it to life. From a hotelier inspired by Gundel’s century-old warmth to a young Georgian finding a new beginning in the city, this is luxury told through human stories.
While this stay was complimentary, all thoughts and opinions are our own.
We review Radisson Collection Hotel, Basilica Budapest
The Basilica’s bells rang out forty-two times as I walked into the Radisson Collection Hotel, Basilica Budapest. Outside, St. Stephen’s Square buzzed with energy, café tables spilling across the street, footsteps echoing off the stone buildings. Once the doors closed behind me, the city grew quiet. A faint floral scent lingered in the air, and soft light streamed through tall arched windows onto pale stone walls that hinted at the building’s past as a school.
What struck me most was the intimacy of the space, the sense that I’d stepped into a place that belonged to Budapest, not apart from it. That feeling was reinforced when I met Norbert, the man who helped shape it.
The essence of Hungarian hospitality
Norbert, the General Manager, greeted me with the calm assurance of someone who has built something from the ground up. He’d overseen the hotel’s opening in June, shaping the old building into something simple and elegant, a space designed to sit comfortably beside the Basilica opposite.
“We wanted every guest to feel the Basilica with them,” he said, pausing under a mural painted to mirror the church’s artwork. “Even if your room doesn’t face the dome, you’ll wake up with it somewhere in your line of sight.”
He smiled as he spoke about his years at Gundel, Budapest’s famous restaurant once visited by royalty and generations of locals. “At Gundel, we welcomed everyone,” he said. “That inclusivity is part of Hungarian hospitality, and I wanted to bring that here. This hotel should feel special for Budapest residents as much as for visitors.”
Later that week, I dined at Gundel myself. The experience felt like stepping back in time: white tablecloths, a violinist moving gently between tables, a pianist filling the room with soft, familiar melodies. The food was proudly traditional, veal paprikash and crepes suzette flamed tableside, but the atmosphere was what stayed with me. There was an old-fashioned warmth to it, the same quiet generosity I could feel at the Radisson.
At reception, I met Giorgi, who had moved from Georgia just before the hotel opened. “I came for this,” he said with a grin, nodding toward the Basilica. “Back home, opportunities were limited. Here, Radisson was building something new, and I wanted to grow with it.”
He showed me a photo from the hotel’s rooftop taken during Budapest’s national holiday in August: fireworks exploding over the city, the Basilica glowing in the center, the Danube lit up like a mirror. “This,” he said, “is why people come here. For moments when the city feels bigger than you imagined.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “If you want something different, there’s a Georgian restaurant just around the corner. It tastes like home.” It wasn’t rehearsed. It was personal, a small piece of his story folded into the city he now calls his own.
That mix of belonging and curiosity stayed with me. Budapest is a blend of old and new, grand 19th-century buildings next to glassy modern ones, family-run cafés beside ruin bars, and thermal baths filled with both locals and visitors. Giorgi’s story wasn’t just his. It was Budapest’s mix of influences that somehow works perfectly.
The rooms
From my Collection Premium Room – Basilica View, the Basilica filled the window, close enough to feel like a neighbour. Inside, the décor stayed understated with pale woods, soft fabrics, and muted colors that let the view do the talking.
In the bathroom, marble gleamed, Radisson’s classic touch, cool and polished, a peaceful contrast to the golden light of the square below.
Food and drink
That evening, I had dinner at ISSEI, the hotel’s rooftop restaurant, where Japanese and Peruvian flavours meet in a way that feels completely natural here. Budapest has always been a city of crossings, Roman, Turkish, Austrian, and ISSEI seems to understand that. To sit across from the Basilica, eating sushi and fried chicken with Korean spice was to taste that same spirit of collision. The waiter called Budapest “a crossroads,” but I didn’t need the words. The food, the view, the gentle hum of languages from every table, they said enough.
In the morning, breakfast at the hotel’s The Arc restaurant carried that same sense of quiet luxury. Morning light poured through the skylight and brushed across the mural inspired by the Basilica, making it feel almost like part of the view. The buffet celebrated Hungarian flavours: thick rounds of local cheese, honey from nearby producers, Hungarian sausages, cured meats, and warm pastries like pogácsa, a soft, savoury scone made with cheese. Staff moved attentively between tables, speaking with the same gentle pride I’d come to associate with the hotel. I was told they’d soon be adding a traditional meat slicer to showcase freshly cut cold meats, another touch of local craft that felt completely at home here.
A few nights later, I wandered past the Opera House, glowing like a jewellery box, and found myself minutes later in a ruin bar where fairy lights hung over crumbling walls. The contrast wasn’t strange. It was the city’s rhythm, elegant, rough-edged, and alive all at once.
Back at the hotel, St. Stephen’s Square had its own kind of stage. By day, it was full of life and camera flashes. By night, it slowed, the Basilica glowing gold, voices dropping to a murmur, the square turning into a peaceful gathering place.
On my last night, I returned to the rooftop for one more drink. The bells rang again, no longer startling but steady, part of the city’s heartbeat. Below, Budapest glittered, the Danube catching slivers of light, domes and rooftops stretching toward the dark.
Over a pálinka cocktail, I thought about the layers of the hotel itself, Hungarian staff like Norbert shaping its character, international voices like Giorgi giving it breadth, and spaces designed not to distract but to frame the city’s most loved landmark. Later, as I drifted along the Danube on a boat, the same skyline unfolded again, mirrored on the water, as if to remind me that Budapest is never just one thing.
That, I realised, is the Radisson Basilica’s quiet kind of luxury. Not only in its views or design, but in the way it reflects the city around it: layered, generous, and full of life.
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