Restaurant Review: Maitrea

There are no right angles at Maitrea. The solid-wood tables and chairs all have rounded edges, the doorways are arched, and the lamps are elongated and ethereal, like jellyfish in mid-swim. Even the point where the walls meet the ceiling has been softened with a tube-like rim and a neat row of colored stones.

Maitrea happens to be a vegetarian restaurant, but it is, first and foremost, beautiful. This has to be emphasized, because when a lot of people (myself included) think of vegetarian restaurants, we conjure up images of either unembellished, harshly lit cafeteria-style eateries or the kind of place where hippies sit on grotty carpets with their dogs and talk about marijuana marches.

Neither of these categories applies to Maitrea, which is creative but uncluttered, cozy but not dirty. It's actually spotlessly clean and, it has to be said, expensive-looking. All of the details – the sculptural fountains and custom-made furniture and mosaic tiles – couldn't have been cheap to put together.

And it didn't come quickly, either. The reconstruction of the restaurant and the building in which it is located was done in accordance with feng shui principles and took nearly three years to complete. The whole of the building is called Maitrea, too (a Sanskrit term that can be translated as "loving kindness") and is referred to by its proprietors as a "house of personal development." It hosts tons of vaguely Buddhistic gatherings: meditation seminars, spiritually-oriented lectures, and free-form dance classes. So it only seems appropriate to have a vegetarian-friendly eatery on the premises.

The Maitrea restaurant is run by Václav Stanislav and Martin Dobeš, who founded the veg hideaway Lehká Hlava three years ago. For fans of the original restaurant – which is fully booked on most evenings – the opening of Maitrea just off Old Town Square comes as a welcome expansion. The new place has two floors and seats ninety people, almost double the capacity of Lehká Hlava. Its upstairs space is airy, with high ceilings and large windows; the downstairs section is more intimate and features a couple of couches on a raised platform next to a modern-style fireplace.

Maitrea's menu is similar to that of its sister restaurant: a jumble of veggie-only dishes, from pasta and stir-fries to burgers and burritos. There's even a Czech option, a version of vepřo knedlo zelo (pork with dumplings and sauerkraut) – dumplings with sauerkraut and tofu pork. Sounds fascinating, but somehow I haven't felt the urge to try it.

I'm not crazy about meat substitutions, all those seitans and soy bacons; I generally find them weird and not particularly tasty. I'd rather just have a bunch of vegetables, with some beans or something to make up for the lack of protein. So I'm not sure why I ordered an okara burger (125 CZK), really (okara is a type of soybean pulp common in traditional Asian cooking). For a regular eater of real cow burgers like me, I could have expected that the non-cow version wasn't going to impress me much.

But for a veggie burger, it wasn't too bad. The bun was homemade, fluffy and dotted with sesame seeds. The toppings were decent – a nice slice of tomato, crunchy lettuce, and a garlic yogurt sauce. Turns out (surprise, surprise) it was the soy part that bothered me most. The patty was fried to crispiness on the outside, but kind of runny on the inside, like mashed potatoes that have too much cream in them. Coupled with the drippy yogurt sauce, the patty made the burger incredibly messy to eat. It actually did taste good, but because most of the dish was running down my arms and dropping onto my plate, I had to put it down pretty quickly.

The Mexican dishes seem to be better. I had a red bean chili (130 CZK) that came wrapped up with cheddar cheese in a cone-shaped tortilla. This wasn't especially authentic Mexican food – the chili was a little too sweet and lacked any sort of spicy seasoning – but it was beautifully presented and made with fresh ingredients. On the side was a scoop each of sour cream and red pepper salsa, along with a leafy mesclun salad. The guacamole (70 CZK) is listed as an appetizer and comes with a homemade brioche, but I ordered it as an accompaniment to my chili. It was tangy and made with real avocados, not from the bottle. Yay!

They're big on the homemade stuff at Maitrea, which is one reason why I like it so much. They have their own fizzy lemonade (mint or ginger flavor, 45 CZK) and bake their own chocolate chip cookies to go with mashed-up strawberries as a dessert (the cookies were a little on the tough side, actually, but you have to appreciate the effort).

Another reason to like the restaurant is that it's super-affordable, especially considering its location. There's nothing nearby like it – well, there is Beas, the vegetarian dhaba around the corner, but since they decided to change their system to self-service, it isn't what it used to be. Maitrea charges a comparable price for a lunch menu, 105 CZK, which includes the soup of the day (on my visit, a simple carrot soup with dill and yogurt) and an entrée (chickpea and peanut "perkelt" with bulghur wheat and rice). If you happen to have devoted your life to the spiritual side of things, you can do one better: monks, ordained clergy members, and "enlightened people" eat at Maitrea for free.

The expressed goal of Maitrea is to be "a pleasant place to meet people who are open to inspiration." I'm not sure exactly what that means, but I do find Maitrea to be a pretty inspiring place. Maybe next time I visit, I'll meet some inspiring people there, too.

Maitrea
Týnská ulička 6
Praha 1 - Old Town
map
Tel: 221 711 631

photographs Tomáš Krist for Lidové noviny; all others restaurace-maitrea.cz

This review originally appeared in Czech translation in the 07/11/09 edition of Lidové Noviny.

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Restaurant Review: Kampa Park

Kampa Park's best asset is still its location. Positioned atop the Vltava in the shadow of the Charles Bridge, with sweeping views across Old Town and just a short distance from Malá Strana's storybook streets, it is hard to imagine a more attractive locale for a Prague restaurant.

But everybody knows that already – especially the hordes of tourists death-marching across the Bridge who spot Kampa Park's shiny terraces and decide to head on down for a classy meal. In recent years, in fact, the name Kampa Park has become so affiliated with its tourist clientele that few locals even consider it as a dining option. No one, it seems, plans a big dinner out at Kampa.

It wasn't always that way. When it first opened, and for quite a few years afterward, Kampa Park was the fancy restaurant; foreign movie stars who rolled through town always seemed to make pit stops there. A wall of faded celebrity photographs, taken with Kampa's owners, reads like a scrapbook of 1990s action heroes: Arnold Schwarzenegger, Sylvester Stallone, Bill Clinton.

Kampa Park was the brainchild of partners Nils Jebens and Tommy Sjöö, who used to be the city's reigning restaurateurs. Their seemingly indomitable rule began in the early '90s, when Sjöö owned a restaurant in Obecní Dům called Brasserie Mozart (now the location of Francouzská Restaurace). Brasserie Mozart was among the first places in Prague to have a salad bar – a revolutionary concept, apparently, and enough to convince Jebens to partner up with Sjöö to open Kampa Park and the now-defunct Italian restaurant Segafredo on Na Příkopě.

Kampa Group, as the company was called, cycled through various ventures, some more successful than others. Eventually, the company split into competing fiefdoms: Pravda Group, lorded over by Sjöö and encompassing the Old Town restaurants Pravda, Barock, and (while they lasted) Aqua and Hot. Jebens, meanwhile, ruled the Malá Strana side of the river, developing Hergetová Cihelna, Cowboys, and Square (now replaced by Starbucks).

Jebens's flagship restaurant, of course, is still Kampa Park, even if it lacks the luster it had ten or fifteen years ago. The cuisine is in the French style, influenced slightly by Scandinavia and Asia, and sometimes by cliché – one of the starters is a beef carpaccio with arugula, Parmesan, and olive oil (395 CZK), the same dish you'd find in a Modrá Zahrada pizzeria, or almost anywhere nowadays.

But Kampa can also be pleasantly surprising, as in the case of their scallop appetizer. For two small scallops, 545 CZK is a bit on the steep side, but this dish was unique: the mollusks perfectly seared, served in a buttery lemon dill sauce with tiny niblets of cauliflower. Norwegian flavors, French technique.

The same description could apply to my king crab salad (645 CZK), a flavorful mayonnaise-based treat of fresh crab, chopped chives, and a mysterious spice I had trouble identifying. It was served atop a slick of tomato jelly (which was good but tasted a little like canned tomato paste) next to a small frisee salad with sprouts; some crispy fried bread sticks; and a little bit of salmon roe. The presence of dill was palpable here, too, which I appreciated – dill is common in Northern and Slavic cuisines, but I wish we could see more of it in French and Mediterranean cooking.

I had been skeptical of the place before I'd revisited it, but by the time the appetizers had been cleared away, I was beginning to think I'd judged Kampa Park all wrong. Maybe this was still one of the top few restaurants in Prague. Maybe, for all these years, miracles had been happening in its kitchen, and we'd all been too blinded by the flashy new establishments to notice.

Even the service, you see, had been exceptional up until that point. Our waitress had this amazing knack for glancing over at our table every time she walked by (something that should be second nature to every waiter, but I've found that most of them actually like to turn their heads away from your table when they approach, so as to avoid accidental eye contact with their customers). She never took away any plates before we were all finished, and she didn't pour water mercilessly into our cups. It seemed to me, as a matter of fact, that she had actually been trained.

So I was disappointed when the wait between our first two courses stretched into uncomfortable-silence territory. You know what I'm talking about – when you get so preoccupied with where your entrée might be that instead of talking to your dining companion, you repeatedly check your watch and look towards the kitchen doors. Our waitress, angel that she was, came to apologize. It was the soufflé, she said, that was taking so long.

I wish it had been worth the wait. Unfortunately, it was cheese overkill – cheesy black truffle soufflé (495 CZK) in a cheesy white sauce with cheesy parmesan chips, and the whole thing was very salty. I was happier with my lamb entrée (895 CZK); the meat was super tender and I liked the baby vegetables and sweet pea puree on the side, but the red wine sauce was one-dimensional and the little bits of sweetbread seemed more like an afterthought than an integrated part of the dish. Dessert, on the other hand, a strawberry cappuccino (295 CZK), served in a glass with meringue, vanilla ice cream, strawberry coulis and an edible forest berries skewer, was summery and divine.

So would I recommend Kampa Park now? Yes, with some hesitation. The outdoor seating is wonderful, the service is wonderful, the food is occasionally wonderful. You could definitely find better value for money; the water – some absurd Norwegian brand – costs 165 CZK for a 0.8l bottle. But keep Kampa in mind next time you’re in the mood to pay for a fancy dinner. You could do a whole lot worse.

Kampa Park
Na Kampě 8b
Praha 1 - Malá Strana
Tel.: 296 826 112

photographs 2, 4, 6 Jindřich Mynařík for Lidové noviny; all others kampagroup.com

This review originally appeared in Czech translation in the 19/09/09 edition of Lidové Noviny.

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Restaurant Review: The Sushi Bar

I almost gave The Sushi Bar four spoons.

As my regular readers know, I don't give full marks very often. That's not because I'm trying to be difficult, or because I don't think this country has any great restaurants. I guess it's just that my standards are pretty high, and I haven't been met with a lot of perfect dining experiences lately.

Until, that is, I went to The Sushi Bar. Or so I thought. Then I looked at my receipt.

The Sushi Bar's been around since 1999, when it was, according to its website, the only sushi place in the Czech Republic. The little restaurant gets its most important ingredients from the partner shop next door called Seafood Shop, which also provides high-quality fresh fish to many local dining establishments.

The first, and still the best: that is The Sushi Bar's motto, and after eating their precisely crafted, unforgettable food – and comparing it to some of the more pathetic renditions of sushi available in this town – I can't argue otherwise. I would, however, add the qualifier that The Sushi Bar's sushi is not only The First and The Best, but also The Most Expensive. An eight-piece "exclusive" maki roll can run you as high as 1190 CZK, although you can also get a cucumber roll for 150 CZK or a salmon roll for 290 CZK. So if you're on a budget, order wisely.

But do order something here, at least once. They take the art of sushi-making seriously at The Sushi Bar. They're not doing it because it's trendy; they don't throw in a few maki rolls as an afterthought to a menu loaded with spaghetti and knedlík. They don't think, "most of our customers won't know the difference between good and bad sushi, so who cares if we use this borderline-rancid tuna fish?" And they don't offer Thai spring rolls and tom kha gai soups to appease people who aren't sushi-lovers – they do have a kimchi salad, but at least the menu makes it clear that the dish is Korean.

The menu, by the way, is a work of art in itself. An appetizing photograph of each dish is set against a background of matte white paper, next to loving descriptions typed in crisp fonts. Picking the right kind and amount of sushi can sometimes be tricky, but thanks to their carefully-compiled 'boat' sets and a clever graph system for the nigiri, it's easy to choose a well-rounded meal.

My table chose the nigiri sushi menu number 1 (990 CZK), a fairly straightforward six-piece combination that included salmon, tuna, and red snapper. But it also featured the less-common freshwater shrimp, as well as toro, or tuna belly, a highly-prized, fatty delicacy that melts upon contact with the tongue (only restaurants that order large whole tuna fish can offer toro, since the belly makes up such a small percentage of the flesh). Each piece of nigiri was just as it should be: small and easy to eat in one bite, with only a modest amount of vinegared rice covered by a cleanly-cut slice of raw fish. And it goes without saying that the fish was as fresh as fresh can be.

What's so exclusive about an 'exclusive maki,' besides the price? None of the sakana ura maki's (1190 CZK) ingredients – salmon, cucumber, seaweed, mango, and avocado – seemed especially luxurious. But bundled up together in a tight inside-out roll and draped with elegant slivers of salmon and cucumber, each bite was a gorgeous medley of tastes and textures: the cool, smooth salmon; the creamy avocado; the crunch of cucumber and the fragrant mango. The roll was not only sublime, but huge. I would order it again.

Throughout the meal, the service was fantastic – attentive, but unpretentious. Our table was wiped down after each course, and the waiters were happy to make suggestions. One of the fish that was supposed to be part of our nigiri set was unavailable that night, so it was replaced with two pieces of a different kind. We were also given full portions of tuna and avocado sashimi on the house, and each female customer got a red rose when she left. We felt like we were really being looked after.

I was especially impressed by what happened when my companion asked if they had any Czech beer. "We do," our waiter said, "but only bottled. If you like, though, I can bring you freshly-tapped beer from next door."

This was fabulous news. Next door, you see, is the gastropub Olympia, where they serve tanked Plzeň – that meant some first-rate beer to go with the first-rate sushi. The waiter promptly returned clutching a frosty mug of the good stuff, and set it down on a paper coaster in front of my friend.

Now comes the part with the receipt. When we paid the bill, I noticed that it seemed a little high. But it was only after I got home that I took a closer look and realized that the two next-door Plzeňs – the very same ones that cost 39 CZK at Olympia – had cost us 150 CZK each.

What. The. Hell. This was truly an outrage. Yes, charging a little extra – maybe even double – for the additional trouble is understandable. But charging four times the original price? Without any warning at all? Who's ever even heard of a 150 CZK beer in this town?

I posed that last question to my beer-loving brother. He thought it over for some time. "Once," he said, slowly. "When I was at a stag party at this strip club, Goldfingers. They charged us 150 CZK there." He shook his head, apparently distressed by the memory.

And I shake my head, too. Because I really wanted to give The Sushi Bar four spoons. But see? I can't go around saying the service is perfect and then have you dip into your savings fund to pay for a glass of beer.

The sushi, on the other hand – that might be worth going bankrupt for.

The Sushi Bar
Zborovská 49
Prague 5 – Malá Strana
Tel.: 603 244 882

Open Mon-Sun 12:00-22:00

photographs 1, 3 Lidové Noviny; all others sushi.cz

This review originally appeared in Czech translation in the 05/09/09 edition of Lidové Noviny.

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Restaurant Review: Mirellie

It's not hard to see why the most-asked question about Mirellie is whether or not it's affiliated with the popular restaurant chain Kogo. All you have to do is open their menu.

Anyone familiar with Kogo's offerings will experience a little déjà vu at Mirellie. The divisions between dishes are the same and in the same order – starters, fish starters, soups, pastas, risottos, etc. – and many of the dishes themselves are word-for-word copies. Plus, just like at Kogo, the selection is enormous.

The difference is in the prices. At Kogo Slovanský Dům, the grilled roast beef with arugula and parmesan cheese goes for 310 CZK. The same dish at Mirellie costs 135 CZK. At Kogo, a simple plate of linguine with olive oil, garlic and shrimps will set you back 295 CZK. Mirellie charges 165 CZK. A fish soup at Kogo? 210 CZK. Mirellie's is priced at 90 CZK.

No, Mirellie is not affiliated with Kogo. At least some of its owners, however, are former Kogo employees, and it seems they've decided to beat their fellow countrymen-restaurateurs at their own game (both Kogo's and Mirellie's proprietors are from the former Yugoslavia): serving a large range of Mediterranean classics in a modestly upscale atmosphere.

Mirellie's location on a quiet Bubeneč street used to be home to the Asian fusion restaurant Monsoon, and not much has changed in terms of the décor. The dining area is separated into upstairs and downstairs sections, the walls and furniture various shades of brown, grey and beige. The upper space has a bar, a couple of leather couches, and a flat-screen TV; the tables down below are adjacent to the kitchen and toilets. Unfortunately, the non-smoking section is in the far less pleasant downstairs area – a decision that makes sense in terms of its proximity to the kitchen, but continues the city's depressing trend of giving priority to smokers.

Since it opened at the beginning of this year, Mirellie has gained quite a few regular customers. Some of them might be neighborhood diners looking for a decent place to eat – Bubeneč and Dejvice are still low on quality restaurants, and one of the few comparable upper-scale Italian options, Da Emanuel, is very much on the expensive side. Other patrons are former fans of Kogo who have become disillusioned with its constant price hikes and are willing to travel out of the center to get their Yugo-pasta fix.

I count myself as one of the latter. I don't want to mislead anybody; I'm still a big fan of Kogo's, and for years, their restaurants have been some of the most consistently high-quality spots in town. But Kogo is now the kind of place I can't eat in very often without feeling guilty about the money I'm spending.

So on my first visit to Mirellie, naturally, I ordered my favorite Kogo dish: the tagliatelle with arugula and shrimp. At Kogo, this would have set me back 285 CZK; here, it was a mere 170 CZK. But the Mirellie version wasn't as good as Kogo's. The pasta seemed a little dry, as if there wasn't enough sauce or the sauce wasn't especially flavorful. The shrimp, however, were plentiful and perfectly cooked (on a recent Kogo Slovanský Dům visit, the shrimp had been way too soft), as was the pasta, so I was pretty happy overall.

And there were some real delights: a huge portion of bean soup (60 CZK), loaded with the musky aroma of smoked bacon; a small grilled sea bass (290 CZK), so fresh it still tasted of the ocean, served whole but deboned. One of the weekly specials, a lobster salad (260 CZK), could only be described as a fabulous deal. Almost anywhere else, you don't even get to smell a lobster for under 300 CZK. Here, there was a solid half-lobster, several shrimp, and a generous amount of garden salad in a creamy, Russian-style dressing (I didn't get to taste another intriguing special, the polenta with porcini mushrooms, because it wasn't available on either of my visits).

It's certainly not the quantity of food that Mirellie's saving its money on; my pizza Vegetariana (129 CZK) was so big it spilled over the edges of a large dinner plate. It had a thin, cripsy crust and was topped with marinated bell peppers, (undercooked) eggplant, zucchini, mushrooms, and kalamata olives. I got half of it wrapped up to go. The grilled octopus with beans and leek (160 CZK) was another large dish, even for an appetizer, with lots of gently browned octopus. I suspected the beans had come out of the can, but they still tasted good. When you've got over two hundred dishes on the menu, I guess you have to cut corners somewhere.

I didn't have any dessert on either of my visits – I was too full, and besides, the dessert options seemed to be limited to the frozen Bindi cakes and profiteroles that so many other restaurants and cafés carry.

The service at Mirellie can be a little slow and forgetful sometimes (on one evening, two of us never got any napkins), and, at other times, a little too eager to clean up plates and pour out Mattoni bottles. I also didn't like that we were charged for bread (10 CZK each for a pizza dough-type roll) even if we didn't eat it. Were we expected to take it home?

Mirellie is destined to be compared to Kogo. People like me will come in and order their usual Kogo dish and will end up either disappointed or pleasantly surprised. But for all the similarities between the two restaurants, the newer one really is doing its own thing, and doing it well. Soon enough, perhaps, guests won't even think to ask about the connection. They'll just appreciate Mirellie for what it is.

Mirellie
V.P. Čkalova 14
Praha 6 – Bubeneč
Tel.: 222 959 999

Open Mon-Sun 11:00-23:00

photographs 1, 2, 4, 5, 6 Tomáš Krist for Lidové noviny; all others mirellie.cz

This review originally appeared in Czech translation in the 22/08/09 edition of Lidové Noviny.

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Restaurant Review: Café de Paris

This review originally appeared in Czech translation in the 13/06/09 edition of Lidové Noviny.

There's only one reason to go to Café de Paris: the beef entrecôte.

The menu doesn't leave its patrons with too many other options. The choices are as follows: French onion soup, a foie gras terrine, the beef entrecôte, a vegetarian version of the beef entrecôte, and a goat cheese salad. Two appetizers, two entrees, and a salad. That's it. Pretty ballsy, if you ask me.

Well, there are the daily specials, which seem to be more of a fixed menu than they first appear. Those give you a little more breathing room, although they hardly seem necessary, given the quality of Café de Paris's star entrée.

The entrecôte (279 CZK) comes with a green salad, drenched in a deliciously mustard-y French vinaigrette. The salad is brought out first, and they recommend that you eat half of it immediately and the other half with your meat. Your table is then presented with two miniature grills, lit from below with candles to keep the food warm. On one goes a platter of French fries; the other is reserved for the entrecôte. Some slices of fresh baguette come with all this, too, in case the fries don't fill you up.

The beef is cooked medium rare (unless you specify otherwise) and is sliced into thin strips. You can choose whether you want it with Béarnaise sauce, red wine Parisienne sauce, or the special Café de Paris sauce, which is made according to a "secret family recipe" that has been around for seventy-five years.

My best guess is that the secret sauce contains butter, tarragon, and Dijon mustard – not entirely dissimilar to the Béarnaise, which is usually made with butter, tarragon, egg yolks, and vinegar. It is herb-laden and wonderful, a perfect accompaniment to the juicy grilled meat. On occasion, the beef can be a little chewy, but that is pretty typical of an entrecôte, which is a fattier cut of meat than some others. I would challenge anyone to show me a better example of steak frites in Prague.

Now lest you think that this whole delicious setup is a homegrown invention, I'm going to regale you with a little history (of which I myself was not aware until my faithful friend Wikipedia spelled it out for me while doing my research). The original Café de Paris is located in Geneva, where in the 1930s a certain Mr. Boubier developed a buttery sauce to accompany his restaurant's entrecôte. The sauce came to be known as "Café de Paris sauce" and the dish became the only dish on the restaurant's menu. Today, the name and the secret sauce recipe have been licensed to various restaurants around the world, one of which is the Café de Paris in Prague.

A similar concept – with a similar sauce – has been espoused by the unaffiliated L'Entrecôte chain of restaurants in France, the first of which opened in 1959 and was modeled after the original Café de Paris. Two years ago, a reporter from the magazine Le Monde claimed to have chemically analyzed L'Entrecôte's secret sauce and discovered its ingredients: a combination, he says, of fresh thyme, thyme flowers, full cream, white Dijon mustard, butter, and strained chicken livers. L'Entrecôte insists that this analysis is incorrect.

Prague's Café de Paris is understandably tight-lipped about their sauce's makeup. And even if their other dishes are less mysterious, they are often just as good. The French onion soup (45 CZK) was made from a delicate white wine broth and not broiled in a ramekin, but decorated with a single slice of crispy baguette and a modest amount of melted cheese. This made the soup much lighter and more appropriate for the summer season than the cheese-encrusted versions we are more used to seeing.

The foie gras terrine (159 CZK), too, was small but satisfying – a buttery slice of foie topped with toasted sesame seeds and surrounded by a potent sour cherry and plum coulis. Unfortunately, the special soup they had on offer, a lukewarm chicken broth "strengthened with gin" (65 CZK) and served in a martini glass with a wedge of lime, was as salty as seawater. I was also a little underwhelmed by the vegetarian version of the entrecôte platter (259 CZK), with its slightly overcooked eggplant and zucchini drenched in a goopy Béarnaise sauce. But the smoky tofu fritters that came with it were surprisingly tasty, if not quite as good as the beef my companion was tucking into.

A good part of Café de Paris's charm comes from its atmosphere – its quiet location on Maltézské náměstí, the small tables out front and in the courtyard, and the two tiny rooms decorated with red leather seats and postcards from happy customers. It's also nice to have your food served at the table by the waiters, who come around to fill up your plates with meat and French fries once you've polished off your first helping. The general feeling is of a homey little family-run place, where they don't pretend to be anything they're not.

And because this is a French restaurant, they have a thoughtful selection of wines from the home country – reasonably-priced – as well as some delicious sparkling cranberry, ginger, and elderflower lemonades (a little less reasonably-priced at 69 CZK for a small bottle).

I've written before that crème brulée is a bit of a cheap trick, but the one at Café de Paris (95 CZK) is worth ordering anyway. It was crusty on top, super-creamy below, and served with a scoop of mango ice cream and a dusting of salted cayenne pepper. It's a perfect finish to a meal at this soulful little restaurant.

Café de Paris
Maltézské náměstí 4
Praha 1 – Malá Strana
map
Tel: 603 160 718

Open Mon-Sun 12:00-24:00

photographs: 1, 4, 5, 7 Tomáš Krist for Lidové Noviny; all others cafedeparis.cz

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Restaurant Review: U Koně

This review originally appeared in Czech translation in the 04/07/09 edition of Lidové Noviny.

In Central Bohemia, between Prague and the Sazava river, is a so-called "micro-region" called Ladův Kraj. It was given the name after Hrusice-born painter, illustrator, and author Josef Lada, who used the area's rolling hills and picturesque villages as inspiration for his well-known children's books.

Four years ago, a pair of tourist trails was developed to honor the famous Czech personality and his homeland. The first, called "Pohádkové Hrusice" (Fairytale Hrusice) tours through Lada's hometown. The "Cesta kocoura Mikeše" (Tomcat Mikeš's Trail) is a considerably longer route and follows the supposed footsteps of one of Lada's most famous characters as he sets off on his worldly adventures with his dear friend, Pašík. At each of the twelve stops is a signpost with illustrations and an excerpt from "Mikeš."

The road from Hrusice to Říčany is 20 kilometers long, so if you decide to undertake the journey, you're probably going to make a few rest stops. Which brings me to this week's restaurant: Hostinec U Koně, located in Klokočná, the ninth stop on the Cesta kocoura Mikeše (titled on the signpost as "Mikeš straší," or "Scary Mikeš") and a very worthy place to fill your stomach, regardless of whether you've just trekked 15 kilometers or pulled up directly in front of it with your car.

U Koně has been around considerably longer than the Lada trails, or even Lada himself – the hotel and restaurant have been in operation since the 17th century. Currently helming U Koně's kitchen is Jaroslav Sapík, a former cook at the Prague Castle and, for a time, Václav Havel's personal chef. Sapík comes from a centuries-old family line of gastronomers, and at U Koně he has upheld his predecessors' commitment to serving high-quality Czech food made with fresh ingredients.

It's not a fancy place, but it attracts many of the well-heeled local families with cottages in the area. On a recent Sunday afternoon, U Koně was brimming with people; my companions and I were lucky to score a seat, even if we had to share the table with another party. We were in the front room, which is small and bedecked with antique kitchenware, faded family photographs, and old-fashioned radios.

Despite the clutter, the place felt clean and well-cared-for. A bouquet of fresh wallflowers in five different colors sat on a side table, and the scent of newly-cut jasmine blossoms graced the entranceway. Nearby was a family with several children, a rambunctious dog, and a human-sized teddy bear that required his own seat. Waiters bustled in from the kitchen, balancing plates headed for the much larger back room. Karel Gott and Hana Zagorová crooned in the background.

Because the menu is divided into two sections – one called "Jídla ze selských dvorů dle rodinných receptů" ("Family recipes from the farmyard"), the other "Rodinné recepty ze zámecké kuchyně"("Family recipes from the castle kitchen") – both of which have appetizers, main courses, and desserts, picking what to order can be mildly confusing. But once you do, you probably won't go wrong.

On the fancier (castle recipe) side of the menu is the Czech crayfish cream soup (165 CZK), a thick, deep red bisque that brimmed with the flavor of crayfish and had lots of chunks of the freshwater lobster's flesh. This was better and less expensive than the crayfish bisque at Café Savoy, which is also very good, but a little heavy on the cream for my liking – U Koně's version of the soup seemed purer, more honest. They serve it with a piece of toast that is decorated with a slice each of lemon, tomato, and hard-boiled egg (its yolk removed and replaced with black caviar).

The most famous dish at U Koně is probably the roasted wild boar piglet (360 CZK), not least because it is also its oldest. As the menu explains, the dish is "a specialty first prepared, according to our ancestral grandmother's documentation, in 1784 during the hunt at the Rájec-Jestřabí castle." Good thing the recipe was handed down over so many years, because it's definitely a keeper. Served over a sauce of wild garlic, with spinach, sauteed mushrooms, and round potato dumplings, the tender young boar meat had been larded to keep it moist and flavorful.

Although the boar was a hearty-sized portion, the roast duck with potato dumplings and red cabbage (285 CZK) was so large that we had it wrapped up with us for dinner at home later. This, apparently, is standard procedure at U Koně; we witnessed a parade of people (mostly women) wielding styrofoam boxes of leftovers on their way out the door. So even if the prices are somewhat higher than at other restaurants in those parts, you can be sure you're getting your money's worth.

Dessert was another pleasure: hot plum-filled dumplings (125 CZK), smothered in chopped walnuts, powdered sugar, and homemade whipped cream. And while the service was a little brusque (and a little quick to take away plates), I appreciated the waiters' promptness and no-nonsense attitude.

Mr. Sapík is known to be a a die-hard defender of Czech cuisine; he has said in the past that it can rival even the gastronomy of the French. And although I'm skeptical of that particular point, his restaurant has distinguished itself as a key propagator of good, wholesome local food – whether it comes from the castle or the farm.

We need more restaurants like U Koně. If I had my way, I'd place a couple of them in the city where I live, but the charms of Klokočná add a lot to the experience: just in front of the restaurant is a placid square, where there is a pond, an old scale, and a pretty World War I memorial.

You might even see Mikeš scampering across the grass.

Restaurace a penzion U koně
Klokočná č.p. 8
Praha - Východ
map
Tel: 323 641 186

Open Wed – Fri 16:00 – 23:00, Sat 11:30 – 23:00, Sun 11:30 – 21:00. Closed Mon-Tues.

photographs: 1, 4, 5 Tomáš Krist for Lidové Noviny; 2 laduvkraj.cz; all others ukone.cz

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Restaurant Review: Peking

This review originally appeared in Czech translation in the 27/06/09 edition of Lidové Noviny.

Stop what you're doing, everybody. Put your pencils down. Turn off your mobile phones. I have a very important announcement to make.

I have discovered a good Chinese restaurant. Here. In Prague. Isn't today a wonderful day?

I actually can't take credit for finding it myself. There has been some debate among local foodies lately about where to get good, reasonably authentic Chinese food – something other than the slop served at the endless slew of sleazy bufety around town. Then a reader of my blog recommended Peking.

Thanks to a carefully-composed email laden with tempting quotes pulled from Peking's website ("you will find comfortable surroundings and enjoy unbelievable gourmet feasts"), I managed to recruit eight people to join me on a culinary expedition to Pankrác. Peking, as it happens, is in the middle of a Prague 4 sidliště, right next to a clump of paneláky and a discount grocery store. By way of sheer contrast, the setting made our destination seem all the more impressive.

Flanking Peking's entrance way are two stone lions and a massive Chinese gate that leads to a flight of steps with a marble railing. Up top is a large dining room, ornately decorated with red tassels, a big Buddha statue, and a pool of goldfish. Behind the live lobster tank is a children's play room.

But it's in the back of the restaurant that the real magic happens. There are ten numbered private salonky of varying sizes, all equipped with flat-screen TVs, WI-FI internet, individually controlled air-conditioning, buzzers for service and, naturally, karaoke machines. The largest room, simply labeled "VIP," seats twenty. A glimpse into a few of the salons revealed large groups of Chinese people. Apparently, Peking is where all the Chinese expats go when they want to have a nice meal that reminds them of home (several of my well-traveled friends confirmed, too, that the interior is very similar to that of a fancy restaurant in China).

So much so, in fact, that the restaurant even relegates non-Chinese customers to their own section. When I called to make a reservation, I was asked whether our group was Czech. On a second visit, my two friends and I were ushered past the main dining room, which was full of local Chinese, to an isolated, windowless room in the back. At first, we were alone, but the room slowly filled up with Czech, French, German people…

In Peking, segregation rules. But I was willing to accept it for the food. The menu, as at many Chinese restaurants, is extensive, and has helpful, true-to-life photographs. What is more unusual is that it includes dim sum, the variation of steamed and fried filled dumplings that is a staple of Cantonese cuisine.

In Guangdong, China's Cantonese province, dim sum (literally, "close to the heart") is typically served with tea for breakfast or lunch in special eateries. Up to several dozen different types are wheeled around the restaurants on trolleys for the patrons to pick and choose; most of the treats are savory, but there are sweet dessert versions, too. Peking serves both, although with an understandably more limited selection.

Among the dim sum varieties we tasted was cha siu baau (roast pork buns; 80 CZK for three pieces), a steamed bun, similar in appearance and texture to an ovocný knedlík (Czech fruit dumpling), filled with barbecued pork in a red sauce. Although their filling was moist and sweet, the buns themselves were disappointingly dry. But the guotie (potstickers; 70 CZK for five pieces) – a pan-fried dumpling stuffed with minced pork meat and chopped vegetables – had a perfect chewy exterior and a kick of ginger on the inside.

The har kau (shrimp dumpling; 90 CZK for four pieces) were a hit too, with their translucent rice wrapper and simple stuffing of a whole prawn and bamboo shoots. And I was happy to discover that the spring rolls (55 CZK for two pieces) were more like what is known in North America as egg rolls – larger, and with a fluffy, crunchy crust.

Peking's main courses are more typical of what you would find in a regular Chinese restaurant: stir-fried meats and vegetables in thick, sometimes gloopy sauces. But here, the quality of those meats and vegetables is higher, and the sauces aren't doused in toxic MSG. The prawns with mango (420 CZK) came with butterflied shrimp, fresh pieces of ripe mango, and lightly-cooked pieces of red bell pepper and cucumber. Beautiful to look at, and an unusual, sophisticated combination. I would have preferred the sweet and sour chicken (139 CZK) a little more crispy, but the fresh snow peas sauteed with garlic (159 CZK) were irresistibly green and crunchy.

Appropriately enough, Peking serves Peking duck, and does it very well. A single portion is a fairly pricey 599 CZK, but it comes with lots of fragrant duck meat lined with crisp, browned skin. Included in the price are paper-thin pancakes, hoi sin sauce, and raw spring onions and cucumbers, just as it is meant to be served. If you come in a big group, you can pre-order a whole duck, which they will carry out ceremoniously on a platter.

And come in a big group you should. That way, you get to try more dishes and spin them around on the Lazy Susans that sit on each of the large tables. You also get the added bonus of having your drinks brought to you on a special trolley (a fairly ingenious invention) and, if you have your own room, access to the many delights conferred by the karaoke machine.

Peking's original restaurant was closer to the city center, on Legerova in Prague 2, but they have made a grander home for themselves in Pankrác. Go and see it for yourself. I can't guarantee the best seat in the house, but you'll definitely have great food – and a lot of fun.

Čínská Restaurace Peking
Pujmanové 10
Praha 4 – Pankrác
map
Tel: 241 730 688

Open Mon-Sun 11:30-15:30, 17:30-23:00

photographs: Pavel Wellner for Lidové Noviny; all others pekingrestaurant.cz

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