Misha Bakhsoliani, it can be said, is the Georgian Tarantino. There is a lot of aggression, a lot of blood, scenes of violence in his stories, yet at the same time a lot of humour, sarcasm and, yet, romanticism. He depicts characters and situations comically. Often even poetically. In these stories (The Budapest Snack Bar consists of nineteen stories) reality and fiction, Georgia in the 1990s and post-apocalyptic Georgia, are all mixed together. The author likes to unfold his stories in provincial industrial towns, in a nameless, downtrodden environment. Often he sweeps aside all permissible boundaries in these stories. He switches between narrative portals and invents completely extraordinary characters: ancient Hittites who have invented television, or patients exhibited in museums as they are about to die. But whatever he writes about, however weird or grim the theme may be, a fleeting smile constantly flashes through his texts. It can be said, that Misha Bakhsoliani is one of the most distinct voices in the new generation of Georgian prose writers.

I occasionally need books which make me laugh out loud, freely, voluntarily when I read them, at times when you can’t hold out, when you don’t give a penny for anything that’s happening outside – for example, people in the metro, a bus which you’ve missed, a suddenly caught stern look in a silent office where everyone has their head buried in their computer, then you read something like this, like Misha Bakhsoliani’s kind of texts, and you clutch your belly with your hands.’ /E. Kevanishvili, poet, journalist/

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