After a veritable Czech smorgasbord—pork, potato knedliky, sauerkraut, sausage, and a pint of Kozel each—at a restaurant near Wenceslas Square, we were revived from our jet-lagged stupor and ready for
more beer. We’d both read about U Fleku in numerous places while researching our trip, and it looked to be nearby on our map. Anyone who has visited or lived in Prague will know that it did not actually qualify as "nearby:" we spent half an hour wandering through Nove Mesto (below Old Town), taking pictures of striking sights we couldn’t identify along the way and hoping that we were reading that street name correctly, before finally stumbling upon this, reportedly the oldest beer hall in Prague.
U Fleku isn’t much from the outside, set down a small street near the river, but it was clearly the place to be at 8pm on a Saturday. Cars were pulled up all along the front, and we could hear cheerful traditional music emanating from within. Upon entrance, we saw an array of rooms anchored by a central bar area, which seemed to be turning out trays of pints with impressive speed. We steered ourselves into the room at left, packed with people and two roving musicians—one on the accordion, the other on a tuba with which he continued to play the exact same bass line on top of every song for the rest of the evening.
The interior was instantly likable—leaded glass windows, a wood-accented ceiling, and iron chandeliers hanging over a series of long communal tables filled with a mix of locals and tourists of all ages. It took a few minutes to figure out the ordering system—flag down the waiter carrying a huge tray of beers, and he’ll slam down two of them while making two slashes on a slip of paper next to you. Finish those and repeat. The beer, brewed on-premises, was a dangerously delicious dark, and we enjoyed several pints with a rotating group of neighbors that included a young Austrian couple, a large group of older German couples, and a healthy dose of Czechs. One of the highlights was enjoying an extremely drunken group of tourists—perhaps on an organized tour—sitting behind us, shrieking with laughter, knocking chairs over, and intermittently making out (no kidding).
Before we left, we decided to try one of the shots of clear liquid that kept passing us on trays; the German group next to us explained that it was
Becherovka, an herbal liquor originally formulated by—get this—a count, a doctor, and a pharmacist. The liquor had a strong cinnamon flavor and a pleasantly bitter aftertaste—a refreshing break from the
pivo we’d been enjoying in large quantities all night. When we finally tallied up our bill—about $6 (or about 140Kz), if I remember correctly—we stumbled into the balmy Czech evening and managed to find our way to the Charles Bridge, whose crossing, of course, deserved another beer.