The streak of pleasant weather looks like it was going to last another day so I unlocked the fortress and headed out for breakfast. Felt like a good looking rooster at a school dance, there were too many options but I had to make a decision. Urban House is a popular meeting point amongst the movers and shakers of the town so I wasn’t allowed in and patroned it’s sister cafe instead, Urban Bistro. The English translation in case you’re wondering is “Urban Bistro”.
Was going to be all European make my way through the cake cabinet for breakfast but was horrified to see they had a human head in there. A cannibal friendly cafe?
The menu was more tourist orientated but given it is smack bang in the middle of the Old Town precinct it was to be expected. The “Melbourne Breakfast” was what I decided upon, if you could find this in Melbourne at these prices I would relocate in a heartbeat. Eggs, rye bread, avo, mushies, chilli, lime and enough spinach to bore a vegan.
Urban Bistro, a thumbs up from me.
Lunch was at a restaurant that apparently has beer brewed by monks. Research had suggested that the pork knuckle was the dish that the chefs hang their collective hats upon, so I got them to wheel it out. To wash it down and cut through the grease a litre of the blackest beer the monks could muster. The beer was impressive but it wouldn’t be described as a religious experience.
Best was to describe the knuckle is to say I was overmatched. While the pork meat was tasty the crackling wasn’t super crackly, rather rubbery. But realistically I wouldn’t have been able to polish it all off if the crackling was crunchy. A convenient excuse. Tried to wield the knife like a surgeon to capture as much pork as I could, separating the crackling from the meat like a serial killer but as a surgeon I make an excellent accountant. Once again no dinner tonight, another case of my tastebuds going too hard too early.
After walking through the backstreets for a number of hours in an effort to aid digestion I went in search of some replacement electronics. Left my travel adaptor in the socket of the train. In my haste to disembark it came dislodged from the charging unit. My umbilical cord to the wider world gone. They say that “necessity is the mother of invention” so I have taken this onboard, utilising the USB socket in the back of the apartment’s television to give the phone life. Slow and at least it achieves the desired result but this can only be a short term fix. Visits to Tesco and the neighbourhood stationery store came up empty-handed. However in Tesco I stumbled across the Slovakian (and Czech Republic) version of Coke, Kofola. Government scientists were locked in the lab in a to quest to find a way to utilize surplus caffeine, a by product of the country’s coffee roasting industry. Similar to Vegemite being borne out of beer production. It became popular around the cold war when Coke and Pepsi were in short supply.
In an effort to assimilate with the locals I gave it a go. Probably should have refrigerated it when I got home but being a cold day I decided to live dangerously and cracked the lid as soon as I walked through the door. It tasted medicinal. Koff-mixture could be an apt name, an acquired taste. Two swigs and I was out, putting it straight in the fridge hoping that a drop in temperature would make it more palatable in the future. If you are a Dr Pepper devoutee you would enjoy.
Meanwhile I had abided by the strict instructions governing the plumbing at the unit but the city’s drainage infrastructure is diabolical. The shower has twenty-first century pressure but second century drainage. Being on the coldish side in the mornings the hot water takes a while to overpower it’s cold counterpart. I don’t mind waiting in the quest for acceptable hygiene but when the water is still luke warm and is lapping at my nipples I fear the shower screen will burst like a dam wall. The issue isn’t helped by the sink strainer in the bottom of the shower to make sure only liquid makes it way through.
The plumbing situation was further stressed when it came time for “other bathroom needs”. I don’t want to delve into too much detail but let’s just say a turtle had a short sublet of the apartment. Bound to happen in a country that serves up meals the size of a table. I’d flush, wishing my newborn safe travels but once the whirlpool subsided I’d see him poke his head out seeing what all the fuss was about. A shitty game of hide and seek. Before reaching for the plunger I remembered reading that a can of Coke can clean a toilet. I don’t know if it can or not but let’s end this by saying it’s Central European cousin Kofala, got me out of a bog.
The next morning after some light rain I understood that drainage is a city wide issue, I want suffering alone.
I know I said no dinner, but I didn’t say no dessert.