The Czech Tea House

I've got two hours before the curtain rises on Otello.  The jerkskis at the Czech pub have managed to send me away well fed, but I still need someplace to rest my feet.  European cobblestones kill me!  Also, I think I might die of thirst.  As luck would have it, I see a sign that says "Tea House" not far from the Opera House.  This is the perfect place to hide out until the show begins.

I cross a narrow courtyard to find the tea house in the back.  Suddenly, I feel like I've stepped into the 70s.  There's a Hendrix riff playing from invisible speakers, smoky incense rising from sticks planted in the greenery, and there's a man in an African print daishiki behind the counter.

It seems like I've found the only person under thirty years old in the Czech Republic who doesn't speak English.  Oh well.

He hands me the English menu and a bell.  He gestures towards the bell, and then the menu.  It doesn't take me long to figure out I'm supposed to ring when I know what I want.

I walk through a beaded curtain (are these folks for real?!) and find a moodlit room with cushions on the floor and everyone's shoes in a rack.  I can sit on the floor.  I think.  There are probably twenty other patrons in the tea house, most of them wearing black.  Men and women talk earnestly in Czech.  Solitary students read philosophy. This would be a stellar venue for a poetry reading!

The English menu is the same as the Czech one, only with a few hand printed words at the bottom of each entry.  The first page has three inches of small font description in Czech per tea.  The English translation says, "Golden Monkey Fingers Te."

I ring the bell and point to the chai tea.  I'm not sure if I want golden monkey fingers going near my mouth.

Mr. Daishiki Tea man brings the tea to my cushion as proudly as if he had spent the past few months lovingly growing the tea leaves, and the past hour lovingly drying each leaf individually with a tiny hairdryer.  I make happy noises, and smile and nod.  (Note:  this is my standard response to crazy people.)

The chai is served deconstructed.  A ceramic pot holds the tea, a silver dish holds honey, and a small pitcher holds the thick, buttery cream.

I've been wandering around the Jewish Quarter all day.  I am parched.

So, I mix my first cup of tea.  Three quarters tea, one quarter cream, and a generous spoonful of honey.  It is DELICIOUS.  And gone.  The second cup disappears just as quickly as the first.  Pretty soon, the whole pot of tea is gone.  It's taken less than five minutes for me to scarf the whole thing down.  With the utmost restraint, I stop myself from licking the rest of the honey off the silver dish.

At this point, I notice that Mr. Daishiki Tea Man is positively glaring at me.  I'm not sure what I've done, but it must be very, very bad.

He stomps over to me.  "The tea is meant to be fucking SAVORED!" he snaps, then snatches my bell away.  After a few minutes, I realize it's not coming back.  No more tea for me.

There's a second tea man (this one has a Czech type afro, but no daishiki), and I give him my money.  Using a technique perfected in the guesthouses of Germany, I try my best to apologize using feeble but grand gestures.  (Think hula, only with the half of the grace of a duck having a seizure.)  Afro Man shakes his head slowly.  Daishiki Tea Man watches the two of us with his arms tightly folded and his fists clenched.  Under his breath, he is mumbling something in Czech.  I try to fool myself into thinking that he's wishing me a pleasant day.

A few minutes away, there's a Starbucks with ample seating.  I order something cool, and take out my notepad and begin to write.