Prague is one of those places where there is genuinely, honestly so much to do and see. In addition to things like Charles Bridge, the castle, the Jewish Quarter and Old Town (yes, I totally bossed being a predictable tourist), the whole place seems to pour with this old, creepy, wonderfully wintery feeling, especially in late December, when I visited for the first time with Mumsie, on a much-needed break after what could have been a much better year.
The downside to Prague in December is that it is colder than Katie Hopkins’ heart. The mini-break was spent alternating between wandering outdoors, getting smitten with the architecture and atmosphere, and fattening up indoors, getting smitten(er) with fatty, oily pork-ridden breakfasts which usually culminated with two courses of pastries and espresso. There was also a general tendency to lunch on nothing more than red wine and chocolate tart. A quirky little café in the Jewish Quarter, called Kafka Snob Food, was one such place, where the smoking section was eight times larger than non-smoking, and you could sit and suck back over-sized glasses of Montepulciano and devour choco-meringue cake and Christmas lattes, optimistically, enveloped in thick cigar smoke or pessimistically, working on a nice dose of lung cancer, but either way cosied up, next to clunky and old but piping hot radiators. A twenty-minute snap-snack in Kafka floored us for over an hour, but we were ready to head outside and brace the elements once more, as the sky darkened. At three in the afternoon.
Dinners were exceptional. You are ready for a good feed, come nightfall. The first night, fresh off the airplane and faced with not only freezing temperatures but rain as well (I was loving it, having returned from Dubai only a day earlier), we checked into the imposing Boscolo Carlo IV hotel and necked a round of dark beer, goblets of Hendrick’s and tonic and — somewhat predictably — schnitzel and potato salad.
The final night was the result of much research — me asking my Czech friends, colleagues, Google and the concierge at Carlo IV — where the best steak in Prague could be found. The result was almost unanimous - George Prime, right in the heart of Prague’s historic Old Town. Walking there from the hotel took us through three or four literally perfect Christmas markets, where the smell and sight of stalls selling yet more schnitzel, Bramboracky pancakes, cheesy Lángos and of course varieties of mulled alcohol. It was difficult not to stop.
The thronging evening crowds quickly fall away the moment you dive down any side street away from Old Town Square. One such lane is where George Prime can be found; essentially it’s the restaurant belonging to the Emblem, a rather smart and modern boutique hotel done to the nines in white walls, black floors and dark woods , therefore a fine example of the well-done (no pun intended) steakhouse design that I have now seen in three continents. Inside, surrounded by Prague’s finest, suited and heeled Saturdaynighters, I could be in New York, or London, or Dubai, which is a shame as outside the restaurant, Prague looks better than any of these places.
Almost looking as good as Prague itself is George Prime’s steak trolley, shoved into view by our brash-but-benign waitress. There is a sole choice of USDA Black Angus beef here, beautifully cooked to temperature (as long as it’s not well-done, which, according to the menu, is ‘not recommended’) by the Czech Republic’s first and only Montague Legend Broiler. I don’t know much about steak cookery other than that a hot pan can burn your arm, but places with one these broilers always seem to be, well, better. Our sirloin and Porterhouse cuts were both oversized, tender and well-cooked, though outdone with lubriciously* fatty, fantastic sides such as a dirty wedge of fois-gras butter, black truffle mac’n’cheese, and hand-cut chips. A predictable but welcome main course, but thankfully starters were a little more adventurous, a generous plate of carpaccio was awarded a surprise twist of Manchego cheese, and lobster and mascarpone agnolotti made richer than Bill Gates with hazelnut butter sauce. Desserts were less successful, ‘The Ultimate Chocolate Cake’ being a little dry and way too small to be worthy of any title even close to ‘Ultimate’, and a Baked Alaska, despite being lovingly flambéd with Grand Mariner, having a feeling of being cowboyed together, with rock-hard base and not nearly enough ice cream. And while we’re being critical, what kind of steak house these days serves cold bread? But this may just be a ‘Mike Problem’.
To be honest, by the time the desserts arrived we were too drunk to care. When it comes to drinking in Prague, volume is the word — both in terms of a.b.v. and outright size (my dark beer on the first night was pushing 12%, and I swear G&Ts are served in those comedy wine glasses here).
So with that in mind, a glass of wine with the steaks and two round of cocktails were more than enough, but I lamented being able to try more from the bar here. The Pear Sazerac — of which mum struggled through two of — was incredible, the pear liquor complimenting the smokiness of the brandy and rye. George Prime also offers a Old Fashioned with smoke bitters and Buffalo Trace. Imaginatively, it’s called the Smokey Old-Fashioned, but luckily that’s where the crappiness ends. The Lavender Whisky Sour was a smart idea, the house-made lavender syrup adding a lightness to an otherwise crowded classic. By the end of the meal we were well-warmed, ready for the short-but-bracing walk back to the hotel.
Despite cheap eats being easy to find in Prague, George Prime is not one of them, Prime in name and, like its international brethren, prime in price. It’s worth it, but only if you’re pretty much addicted to cows and cocktails, and even then you could debate heading home and finding somewhere similar in any town with a healthy compliment of restaurants. But hey, after a bang-on steak, great drinking and a general aura of chilled out fuzziness, who was I to complain? I wanted quality, and quality was what I got.
It wasn't like I had avoided Czech food entirely. As well as vetting good quality steak restaurants through my sources, I had also searched for high end Czech cuisine, and one had stood out amongst all others, garnering almost universal praise for its Michelin-starred, local fare in the same enthusiasm as George Prime had been lauded for beef. That restaurant was called La Degustation Bohême Bourgeoise, and by the time we reached George Prime, twenty four hours later, we had just recovered from its fourteen courses of magnificence, with only a trace of cow during the entire experience.
*I intended to write ‘ludicrously’ but enjoyed the above auto-correct so much I decided to keep it.
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