In the heart of Prague, a city cobbled together with towns as diverse as the architectural symphony that spans centuries, there exists an irony as bitter as the coffee I encountered. From the breathtaking grandeur of the Baroque to the scarred remnants of socialist functionalism, this city echoes stories of beauty sacrificed at the altar of necessity.
Here, standing like an unexpected paradox, is the main train station. A two-headed creature birthed in different eras - the old building, a beautiful maiden untouched by time, and the new building, a brutish monster, an ode to the brutalism that once reigned supreme.
Most travelers, like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, get whisked away from the metro station, through the underpass of the brutalist nightmare, never witnessing the grandeur that lies just above their heads. But for the curious souls willing to wander off the beaten path, an elevator journey to the surface brings one face-to-face with the elegant dame that is the old building.
Within her ornate bosom resides Fantova Kavarna, an establishment that seems to have sprung from a romantic past. Sitting here, surrounded by sculptures and bathed in the diffused hues of stained glass, one could almost hear the echo of chitter-chatter of bygone days when coffee was sipped in beautiful, artistic surroundings.
But alas, like the deceptive appearance of the Red Queen, Fantova Kavarna proves to be a cruel jest. A place where the promise of sublime coffee is butchered with the same brutalist approach that marred the train station. One wonders if it's by design or ignorance, the selection of lowly beans, the merciless roasting and extraction, all leading to an assault on the palate.
Sipping coffee here is akin to a visit to the Mad Hatter's tea party, an exercise in whimsy and disillusionment. On one hand, the heart yearns to match the grandeur of the surroundings with a beverage of equal distinction. On the other, the concoction served is as unpalatable as any draught from the Dormouse's teapot.
Yet, akin to a peculiar sort of masochism, I find myself drawn to return, like Alice tumbling back into Wonderland. Perhaps it's the hope of a change, a longing for a sip that might match the beauty of the place. But I know, as surely as the Queen knows her croquet, that the outcome would be as dreadful as any edifice from the era of socialist brutalism.
In an age when the appreciation for the aesthetic was eclipsed by the urgency of function, as seen in North Korea or Prague, the essence of beauty was lost. A plight that extends to coffee, where the richness of taste succumbs to the potency of caffeine. A sad testimony to a time when just about anything would do, a sentiment as bitter as the brew I encountered.