Day 1: 2025.03.14
Back in Žižkov, Praha 3
Survived the trip! But what an ordeal! Uncomfortable seats and horrible food! Nice crew of flight attendants, but otherwise, this Lufthansa flight was 7.5 hours of overnight purgatory, if not quite hell! But … we made it, and the Prague Transport driver, David, a crabby but funny and entertaining English ex-pat, met us with a sign with my name on it at the designated airport door, and brought us to the apartment in good style, arriving here at about 2:30 pm local time.
Mary, whose night in the airplane was even less satisfactory than mine, took a little nap in the afternoon yesterday, while I visited the Fiobank Credomatic to get korunas, then bought a quarter-kilo of embarrassingly expensive Ethiopian coffee, picked up a few little baguettes along with a truly delicious kolache … one of the best I ever had, made with black currants … and milk, before trodding back up the hill to make reservations (reservations are de rigeur for even modest eating establishments) for dinner at Porke's Tapas, a half block from the house. Before they remembered me from last year they said they didn't have any reservations, but then the waiter said “Oh yes, I recall you and your wife!,” prompting the owner, a big, burly reportedly famous ex-futbol player whose ripped and turn gray athletic t-shirt pushed the bounds of acceptable casualness, to reexamine the reservation book and announce that he could squeeze us in between 5 and 6:30. So that was perfect.
I went back to the apartment and got Mary out of bed, then we went on down to Porke's. She got a Scotch and water, and I got the first of two glasses of an ale they didn't have last year. Then I ordered steak tartar, because in Italy and here I really like raw beef, and the tartar at Porke's is awfully good, with olive oil and whole mustard seeds and tiny pepper corns and some unidentifiable spice and little pieces of lemon peel … and Mary got hamburgers … which were awfully good. Two sliders, with perfectly toasted brioche buns, and a mild pork sausage of some sort (don't think Jimmy Dean or Italian. Very different). Next time we go we'll get it again … and the lovely couple next to us, who ordered a half-dozen different plates, ordered the sliders after seeing ours and how we enjoyed it.
After dinner, with a bit of alcohol, the 36 hours without sleep finally caught up to us, but we couldn't resist going a half-block the other direction from our apartment to Kavárnička Biograf for a dessert.
This little place is amazing, and a prime exemplar of the kind of establishment that makes much of Europe in general so much more livable and imbued with pedestrian elegance than the US. It's a hole in the wall place, just four little tables and maybe a dozen wooden chairs crowded along one wall. There are only a few offerings each day of various desserts, then behind the counter there's a coffee maker, with a small selection of mostly local Moravian wines and a few bottles of liquor for cocktails. But the merchandise is not what makes it special.
Rather, it's the clientele and mood. A local hangout for civilized adults … and their dogs. Last night there were two older ladies … younger than us, but maybe in their mid-50s to early 60s – and a couple other women who were maybe about 40? All were dressed in workaday clothes, like they had recently gotten off work at the grocery store (Alberts) down the street, or any of the local retail establishments close by. Both couples had a dog, the older women with a really cute terrier looking dog that I didn't get a good look at, and the younger couple with a bridle pit bull mix, just a big happy puppy, who was as friendly as he could be, and a quite professional beggar for snacks from everyone there … going from one table to the other with expectant stares.
Then, all of a sudden, the pit bull started howling, whoooo whoooo whoooo, very loudly for such a little establishment, and within a couple seconds it became apparent what that was about as a 50ish guy, in camo pants and work jacket, like a truck driver fresh off the job, walked. The dog was all over him, skittering and jumping with boundless joy, and it was clear that this man was the dog's owner. The guy, with a wrinkled face that I interpreted as the scars of hard living, sat down with the younger women, and it became clear he was the partner of one of them. The three of them sat there, the women ordering another glass of wine, and the man ordering a little open-faced sandwich thing that they serve there, which he ate as he sat working a puzzle in a magazine.
Meanwhile, I ordered a mango cheesecake and Mary ordered a tiramisu cake. Both were excellent, but only 'suggestive' of conventional cheesecake or tiramisu. Top shelf stuff. The cheesecake was a fluffy and tart affair with a thin sort of graham cracker crust with a bit of snap to it, and Mary's with a more moist crust covered with a barely cooked fresh strawberry base and a notable but still subtle coffee flavor to the cream filling. Neither was very sweet. One bite of each was enough to know we needed coffee, so not wanting any caffeine we ordered a decaf … like espresso, but the owner called it something else. About the size of a double espresso, served elegantly on little plates with a 3 oz glass of water.
We both really love this place, because it's such a fine and fun blend of upscale elegance in a setting and with clientele being an outstanding cross-section of proletarian high class. Just the local workaday folks. They meet there, let their dogs romp around in the little restaurant, and are perfectly in place in their work clothes, yet still somehow culturally consistent with the nice four-foot statue of Anubis, the Eqyptian dog god, in the corner; and a few lovely little plants here and there in the shop, and elegant old B&W photos of Sophia Loren smoking a cigarette next to Charlie Chaplin's face on another large poster, and any number of other old photos of people I assume are Czech cinematic heroes of yesteryear. And not to mention a large glossy photo of Marilyn behind the counter.
THIS is what life should be about … quotidian unpretentiousness imbued with casual but deep elegance. Kavárnička Biograf, and the quiet and modest gentleman who runs it (his daughter is the baker) are perfect in this little environment they created. And the whole ambience is just … so … authentic.
Anyway, after our cakes and coffee, we went home, where it suddenly occurred to me … was impressed on me by my thoroughly worn-out physical self … that I really needed to drag myself to bed. So, after spending a half hour making sure all the astonishing number of lithium battery powered devices we’re carrying were hooked to electricity to recharge overnight, I did my personal chores and went to bed with the idea of starting my Elmore Leonard book. I got as far as the cover, and told Mary I didn't have the physical or intellectual strength to even over the cover. So, I laid the book aside, and noticed that it was about 8:45 pm as I turned out the light and immediate lost consciousness.
At 3 a.m. I awoke with a full bladder, and a very crickety-rachety and sore body. After relieving myself, I debated about getting up for the day, but just laid there for a bit, before deciding that the only reason I wasn’t still sleepy was because of my vague but abiding whole body soreness. So, I took a half of a Tylenol 3, thinking that if the vague but deep pain subsided and I was still awake in a half-hour, I'd get up and have a cup of the Ethiopian medium roast I bought yesterday. But alas, the pain subsided, and I went right back to sleep until 6:30.
So here I am, three cups of coffee later … having had a nice conversation with my partner in life, her reading a section out of one of my favorite novels ever that I encouraged her to read and she seems to be thoroughly enjoying (Sudden Death, by Alvaro Enrigue). And me sitting here reflecting and typing out the thoughts and memories from the first afternoon of our Return to Prague trip.
Yay! We’re here!