The Real Deal?
Sometimes Praha can seem a very long way from London. Sometimes it appears that the two cities are separated by nothing thicker or more opaque than a highball glass of gin. Odd moments span the miles, like the girl passing sweets around at school and offering one to me. And so it was that I ate my first Werther's Original on this side of the old Iron Curtain. We won the war kiddo, and now we take the spoils. Or at least the toffees.
Eurovision has arrived in the Czech Republic, and over the weekend the nation excitedly voted for its tune of choice. They all sucked, but sadly none of them sucked quite enough to be a possible winner. I paid little attention to the music, being transfixed instead by the host; a sixty year old slapheaded bloke dressed like an Australian prostitute and scooting around the stage on a Segway. The Czechs may have a lot to learn about salad preparation but they have nailed the spirit of Eurovision at the first time of asking. I have no doubt that with the Eurovision Song Contest will come the Eurovision Party, although one can only hope that this phenomenon is halted before it crosses the border, in the same manner that a windshield halts a fly.
Another flick through the channels on my idiot-lantern threw up (I use this phrase deliberately) the post-hockey dessert of "Deal or No Deal" - Czech style! For those readers who are lucky enough to have never seen this mindless tripe, the show in the UK consists of an unemployed moronic fatso with a box sweating a lot, while some other unemployed moronic fatsos open more boxes. These boxes contain values of money, ranging from approximately bugger all to more money than the fatsos can understand because they ran out of body parts to count on after 21. Chief fatso has to decide whether to keep going in the hope that his own box contains mucho wonga, or quit when offered a tempting sum by some unseen puppeteer who communicates by telephone. It is good family entertainment, if your family is a bit simple.
At least a show that is terrible to start with is incapable of losing much in translation. The Czechs did their usual trick of improving upon the British version, replacing all the miscellaneous lard-bucket box-jockeys with hot chicks in black dresses. There was also a big red button, but I couldn't work out what it did. My secret hope that pressing it would nuke Russia is probably unfounded but maybe some TV executive can take the hint. "Reds or No Reds"? Where's the Gipper when you need him?
I can't complain, and I won't. For every unfortunate and undesirable dose of prattishness that seeps into this world of Central Europe there are a hundred good things. The freedom to criticise TV schedules is but one of them. And so to those who complain about the Golden Arches that occasionally span these streets, and the Kentucky Fried Mouse Sanders-shacks, I give no time or succour. I will not hang my head in shame at the global footprint of the Dollar nor will I wish it gone. Everything has a cost and the price that is paid now is far less than the tax on humanity that was levied when the Rouble shouted loudest.
The good cuts deeper than the bad. On Sunday we took a walk up to Hradčany, the elevated Castle District of Prague. The skies were blue in the way that they can only be in the first days of spring, when the Sun still hangs low but now brings warmth in its rays. Across the city the uneven red tiled roofs, that trademark vista of Central Europe, almost sparkled in the light. Trees showed signs of life, the first daisies popped up to pester the lawns, and the sight-seeing throng was gloriously moderate in its presence. Up on the hill there are plenty of tourist traps to take your Pounds, Crowns, Euros, Dollars, or whatever other bumwad that you choose to carry in your wallet. Hawking their wares and pushing menus into the hands of prospective punters they will no doubt do good trade.
Not my scene though, for amid these cash-supping "authentic" experiences sits U Černého Vola - "The Black Ox". A small and simple pub, that serves beer and snacks at genuinely authentic Prague prices, it sits in the shadow of the Castle and beautiful pilgrim magnet Loreta. It is the perfect place to guzzle cold mugs of Kozel and feast on fried cheese or cut meats. The long wooden benches are crowded and the waiter busily scuttles around delivering more cold ones where required. I couldn't find an English menu. I didn't want to.
Deal or No Deal? That is the question. A deal with the Dollar, the Pound, the Euro? Deal with the Devil, some would say. But amid the flashy imports on television, and the American fast food boulevards, the real authentic Praha survives. Ironically it survives mainly in places that do not tell you that they are "authentic". And so the Dealer can walk away from the table and go for a drink at U Černého Vola. The price is worth paying and he can be comforted by the cold thrill of the beer, and the reassuring snugness of an ace tucked inside his shoe.
