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Introduction
Traditional Czech grub may still hold sway, but cosmopolitan cuisine is revitalising menus and American brunches abound.

When it comes to eating, Czechs are traditionalists. Any weekday lunchtime you'll see them lining up at the neighbourhood's last remaining jidelna – a style of cheap schnitzel and soup counter that dates back to the 1920s. Soup in fact inspires nationalist rhapsodies in the Czech lands – any proper meal must have it, you'll be told, and should also include at least one meat platter, plus knedliky, or dumplings, to stick to your ribs. It's telling that 'Neslan?, nemasn?' – 'Not salty, not fatty' – is a favourite Czech dis for an unsatisfying book or movie. Thus, the opening of the borders in 1989 precipitated more of a trickle than a flood of international cuisine – and it certainly didn't reform Prague's infamously rude waiters much. Nor did the boom times of the mid-1990s, really. But pioneers like Chez Marcel, Kampa Park and Sanjiv Suri's Circle Line have proved catalysts for change. They've inspired both Czech versions of more international concepts, like the Czech-Mex Azteca, and genuine imports like the exciting new French wine bar and high-concept bistro Trocadero. American-style brunches have been another hit in Prague, brought on by the American expat invasion – there are still more brunches on offer per capita in Prague than in any other city in Europe. But the upside of the preference for grandma's Bohemian recipes is that local restaurants do know what they're doing: sausage, gulii, sviikovi (beef in a zingy cream sauce of veggie broth and lemon), and roast pork with zeli (sauerkraut) truly excel. Game is another classic local tradition, served up in sauces of rowanberry and wine with rosehips by places like U modr? kachni?ky . Even pubs do a respectable, if scaled-down job with duck and venison. Heavy? To be sure. But Czechs don't seem to mind shaving years off their life expectancy for another tasty morsel of staro?eski baita, or 'Old Czech Grub' (a platter of at least three meats). They have a point, after all: Is there anything on earth that goes better with a half-litre of Pilseneri

Service with a snarl

Communist-era service problems are in slow, but sure decline.
Comically surly and/or glacial service is still not unusual, nor is a kitchen that closes at 9pm when the posted restaurant closing hour is midnight. Tables are often shared with other patrons who, like you, should ask 'Je tu volno?' ('Is it free?') and may also wish each other 'dobrou chu?' before tucking in. The national toast is 'na zdrav?'. Prague dines with an extremely relaxed dress code and reservations are necessary at only the fanciest spots in town. When it comes to paying the bill, suspect maths skills remain pervasive at some places – or worse, two sets of menus, one reasonable, in Czech, and a much higher-priced one in English or German. Waiters record your tab on a slip of paper, which translates at leaving time into a bill. Pay the guy with the folding wallet in his waistband, not your waiter ('Zaplaim, prosimi'– 'May I pay, pleasei'). A small cover charge and extra charges for milk, bread and frightful accordion-playing are usual, as is tipping by rounding the tab up to the nearest ten crowns. You should have little trouble making a phone reservation in English at swankier establishments, but elsewhere it may be easier to book in person.