Tags: Czech | International | pasta

To tell them nebo not to tell them? This be the question.

If you tell them, sure, they might show you more respect initially but it's bound to be a cheesy bullsh*tty kind of respect and there'll be all sorts of strange vibes floating around because they don't really know what to make of you.

If you don't tell them, and let them find out for themselves in couple of weeks when it appears, they might freak out but there's a good chance they might never know it was you.

It's a moral dilemma many of us must face.I speak of course of writing restaurant reviews in Prague. Many a lesser journalist has fallen victim to alerting the proprietors of the target establishment in hopes of winning their favor.

This tactic, more often than not, results in less-than-desirable repercussions and serves no real duty to the general public. I do pride myself in possessing this hard-earned wisdom. As a rule, I never t#øell them. I let them find out for themselves. It's better that way.It's realer. Recently, I ate at this swell little joint on the corner, across the street from some big old cemetery.

I walked in, sat down, ordered, waited, ate my food, waited, paid, then split. Folks, honestly, I've been beating myself up all morning trying to think of the words to illustrate the taste of the food in this restaurant and for the life of me all I can come up with is 'good' and 'really' and 'f*cking'.

The most appropriate order to put these three samples of my ever-growing vocabulary in does remain a bit foggy. I guess if someone held a gun to my head and told me to choose, I would have to say 'good f*cking really' but then again 'really good f*cking' doesn't sound half bad either.

Ultimately, my fair reader, the choice is yours. As far as what's on the menu - they got all sorts of sh*t. They got about 50 million different kinds of seafood dishes. They got steaks. They got chicken ten ways to Sunday. They got pasta coming out the ass. I'm talking spaghetti's, tortellinis, lasagnes, Ferraris - whatever you want. And it's real pasta too. None of that local crap.

And if it's pizza you're looking for, well, you can just forget about ever setting foot in pizza hut again because this place invented it back in 1459 and, unlike some places, they actually exercise a bit of discretion as to what they throw on top of their pies. They even got a bunch of vegetabletarian stuff. Basically they got everything you could want to shove into your eating hole that your mom was too dumb and lazy to make and they do it right.

There's a fully-stocked bar, an endless wine list, and Pilsner Urquell on tap so you can get wasted whilst you stare at all the crazy sh*t they got stuck all over the walls. It's like a wax museum of cool old junk but without the wax. And I don't know how often it happens but when I was there, there was a live person playing jazz on the piano.

And if all this is not enough to entice you to go, they even got this big tree growing out of the middle of the floor. So listen, whoever you are and whatever you want out of your pathetic, meaningless life, go to the Crazy Daisy. It's on Vinohradska right next to the Flora metro. Don't forget to make sure you tell them you're not a foreigner. You get better service that way. Dobrou chut!