BoHo Hotel

We open on a fairy-tale scene: Mr Smith and I stand in the snow-sprinkled square of Prague’s romantic Old Town, stuffing carb-laden treats into our mouths. ‘You know, 15 minutes of shivering burns 100 calories.’ I tell Mr Smith through a mouthful of traditional, cinnamon- and sugar-dusted Czech trdelnik (a large cone of dough slathered in Nutella and filled with whipped cream). ‘So, the calories in this don’t count.’ He raises an incredulous eyebrow; in just 24 hours, we have munched our way through huge bowls of steaming, paprika-spiked goulash, bread dumplings of frightening density, spicy kielbasa sausages and plates of haluski (potato dumplings covered in cheese and bacon) – all washed down with lashings of local beer, of course. Throughout our stay, the city with a prevalent gastronomic reputation for soggy cabbage and stodgy stews had surpassed itself.

On arrival, the day before, we had ooh-ed and ahh-ed at the thickly falling snow. As the taxi from the airport stopped outside boutique stay BoHo Hotel, we pressed our noses up against the window so we could admire the sleek mahogany façade of the former post office. First built in art deco style, the hotel had been given a glossy modern makeover, creating a sophisticated, polished feel; it sat in stark contrast to the decorous mediaeval castles and Baroque buildings with frilly spires in the Old Town close by. ‘It creates a curious juxtaposition.’ said Mr Smith loudly, looking around to see if anyone else had heard him use a big word. After a short tour of the hotel we headed up to our room, which was a very sleek affair (unlike its occupants that weekend): all floor-to-ceiling mirrors, restful shades of blue and grey, and a sultry ebony bathroom with an extra-deep bath tub.

After settling in we took a not-so-quick trip to the hotel spa, a space so soothing that Mr Smith fell asleep in the sauna. After waking him up and cooling off, we went downstairs, where we were greeted with the offer of a Czech wine tasting in the library. Perhaps no-one else knew about it; perhaps they were too busy outside exploring Prague’s more cultured enclaves; or maybe Czech wine’s reputation is superseded by its pivo: whatever the reason, there were no other guests in attendance. ‘We can try as much as we want, right?’ I asked our charmingly bemused waiter. ‘For free?’ added Mr Smith, eyes widening in disbelief. ‘Of course.’ said our waiter, ‘what will you start with?’

Feeling very jolly, a couple of hours later we trundled out into the cold in search of dinner. We'd heard myriad tales of an old tavern in the outskirts of the city called Klášterní šenk, famed to have the best traditional dishes around. So we hopped in an Uber – apologising profusely for our lack of Czech – and sped off into the night. Half an hour later, Mr Smith and I were standing foot-deep in slush by the side of the motorway, subsumed into a thick blanket of fog, with absolutely no idea where we were. Too British to risk insulting the driver by asking if he was sure this was the right place, we had waved him off cheerily. ‘Right. Hmm. Don't be annoyed, but I think it might be down there…’ said Mr Smith, gesturing to a dark, dingy pathway, that seemed to lead into a boggy field. ‘It's not your fault’ I said benevolently (even though it was). And so, holding hands tightly, we ventured down into the abyss.

Moments later, it was as if we had stepped into Narnia from a muddy wardrobe: a majestic old monastery loomed into view, surrounded by pristine snow-covered fields that sparkled under the moonlight. At the end of a cobbled, tree-lined path, we saw the warm orange light of the tavern. Inside, it was decorated like a set from Game of Thrones: a huge open fire roared in the centre of room; antique farming tools and horseshoes hung from the stone walls; each table was littered with tankards; and a delicious smell of grilled meat filled the air. Dissuaded from ordering three courses by the waiter (the reason for his reticence: large portions, apparently. We scoffed showily – had he met us?), we ordered roasted pork knee with sour cherries and apple-horseradish sauce, and duck breast with red and white cabbage, bacon dumplings and potatoes. ‘You're going to turn into a dumpling soon.’ said Mr Smith, romantically.

Our meal was superb, despite our waiter’s ‘I told you so’ smirk when he cleared our not-quite-empty plates. Bellies bulging and cheeks flushed, resolving to be ‘less British’ about things, we jumped in a taxi and headed back to BoHo. We were tempted to stop for a nightcap in the gleaming lobby bar, with its comfy sofas and rainbow assortment of liqueur bottles, but the draw of our cloud-soft bed prevailed, so we raced upstairs to flop, face-down on the crisp, cool sheets.

It was time to Czech-out (boom boom), so – not quite ready to say goodbye – we lingered over BoHo's breakfast for as long as possible. Over a delectable array of pastries, freshly-baked bread, home-made gravadlax, cheese, ham, eggs-every -way and more, we reminisced about our time in Prague: the food, the drink, the people and places we saw, the food – again – and vowed that we would be back.