The Czechs in a Nutshell

Yet the fuss was rather wasted energy, because any Czech town with some self-respect boasts at least one hospoda where a pint of beer costs less than a bottle of soft drink. But even in the humblest establishment you have to respect a set of hospoda rules.

Firstly, every hospoda has its štamgasts — regular guests. This is a group of local drunkards, who enjoy certain privileges, such as keeping their personal tankards on the shelf over the bar, a reserved chair at a table far from the door to the toilet, and — most importantly — the right to be served prior to other guests. This is one of the few areas where Czech society still respect nobility, and there is no way you can escape this “beer-apartheid”. If your ego is too provoked by this discrimination, you have two options: either switch to wine and start frequenting vinárnas, or visit your local hospoda so often that you acquire the štamgast status yourself.

Secondly, the hospoda is a profoundly democratic institution, where (at least theoretically) people of all layers of society meet to drink and discuss. Consequently, you can sit down by any table where there are unoccupied seats as long as you formally ask the people that already are sitting there if it’s okay! Similarly, if you are sitting in a hospoda and there are unoccupied seats next to you, be prepared for a group of strangers to suddenly clump down next to you and start a heated discussion about academic subjects such as football referees, female anatomy or the latest trends in modern Mongolian poetry. This is the charm and the intention of the hospoda. If you want quiet contemplation, try a walk in the forest!

Photo © Terje B. Englund

Thirdly, the hospodas have always been a man’s world. True, the number of women frequenting hospodas, especially the new and trendy establishments where beer is served in 33 centilitres glasses with stems, has been growing after the Velvet Revolution. But the real hospodas, dives where drinking beer from glasses with stems would be considered something between heresy and a perversion, are still a male dominion and a sanctuary where men can seek refuge and understanding. Logically, many hospodas have introduced at least one day in the week when the waitresses are serving beer topless.

The atmosphere of male solidarity has even been ritualised: after pouring down four-five half litres, all the men sitting round the same table may suddenly march off to the toilet to perform a collective urination. To the diehard beer drinkers, this is the ultimate expression of brother-hood. To most other people, it’s an unambiguous sign that the hospodas make fertile soil for hidden homosexuality.

Needless to say, not all Czechs are fans of the hospoda culture. To a disgusted minority of the population, the hospodas represent everything that’s vulgar, smelly, loud and lazy. This view is hard to reject completely. The army of Czech alcoholics (according to some estimates, 10 percent of the male population!) would no doubt have had a more troubled life without a watering hole on every other corner. And yes, the common hospoda humour tends to smell of armpits. Yet nobody can deny that some of Czech literature’s greatest names, be it Karel Hynek Mácha, Jaroslav Hašek, Bohumil Hrabal or Jaroslav Seifert, all were dosely linked to the hospoda, and some of them even worked there.

In essence, the hospoda reflects both the best and the worst sides of Czech society. On the one hand, they offer an abundance of joviality, friendliness, creativity, communicativeness, playfulness and a flair for grotesque humour and egalitarianism. On the other, they richly nourish the habit of complaining about everything and everybody without making the slightest practical effort to change things for the better.

However, nobody can dispute that the hospoda is a uniquely Czech institution. In what other country can you pop in at a pub with a large mug, have it filled with foaming beer and then carry it happily home to dinner?

Hungarians

The sapper Vodička, one of the colourful characters in the book about The Good Soldier Švejk, has earned himself eternal fame among the Czechs for one single remark: “Every Hungarian can be blamed for being a Hungarian!” Despite its chauvinistic punch, it quite adequately reflects the way in which many Czechs still regard their Hungarian ex-neighbours. Czech language even operates with the unbelievable expression Seš Maďar? (Are you Hungarian?) meaning “Are you a complete idiot?”