This was the first week I was not a hundred percent confident of what to review. Normally, a new bar or event will present itself in time for an idea to form. But this week my parents were in Prague for the week. My day-to-day to routine was significantly altered, and my night-to-night routine significantly halted. Not in a bad way, but I couldn’t really write a review of Prague Castle or their hotel.
Last night, without even the flirtation of an idea, I assumed the only thing left to do was to continue with my plans for the night: go just around the corner in Vinohrady to The Peach Pit. It is sort of a staple in my life, my default bar, if you will. But for some reason, I never had thought about writing about it. Maybe I was protecting its anonymity. Maybe deep down, I was somewhat embarrassed of my favorite bar. But in a moment of desperation I’ll admit it, and proudly now: I’m a loyal, regular patron of the Peach Pit.
Let me explain to you why one might be initially shy of admitting such a statement. The place is literally a shrine to anything and everything related to Beverly Hills 90210. A collage of Luke Perry and Shannon Doherty photographs scream at you off the Florida Gator orange and blue walls. Old records of miscellaneous sizes are also scattered across the walls, just to throw in a touch of authentic diner, I suppose. In case you weren’t an avid watcher in the 90s, the Peach Pit is the name of the diner the crew hung out in on the show.
Prague’s Peach Pit, windowless, just below street level, is more cave-like than diner. It is definitely more suitable to middle-age, semi-alcoholics than sunny, Californian teenagers. A small bar greets you when you walk in; follow it back to four large leather couches and random chairs suitable for large parties.
And as I just discovered yesterday, there are two more rooms through the passage marked Dark Room. The one to the right looks like the personal theatre in mansions, with an eclectic mix of rustic, dated machines and plush leather couches facing the passageway and other room. That other room would be the mansion’s games room, complete with foosball table.
The set-up is similar to the Batman-esque, bottom floor of Chateau L’Enfer Rouge (the bar formerly known as Chapeau Rouge): winding passageways under arched hallways connect hidden rooms. It is a very cozy place (as caves are often reminiscent of wombs), but also in the way you would feel at a theme-party hosted by Michael Jackson or Hugh Hefner. Cool, but maybe a little creepy. Creepy would suffice for a comparison with Michael Jackson and the womb.
The music at the Peach Pit is definitely someone’s iPod on shuffle: embarrassing, guilty, pleasures and all. What else would produce the Backstreet Boys, Nirvana, Marvin Gaye, and Madonna? The music videos playing on the TVs mixed with the music is quite possibly the most endearing part about the Peach Pit: “Smells Like Teen Spirit” plays to a Chingy music video. I wouldn’t have made the collaboration, but it works. And after enough Hoegardens, it is quite entertaining.
The Peach Pit probably isn’t the place for a group of two or three girls, ready to hit the town to find a date. However, it is the perfect place to go with a group of friends for a laid-back night.
Also, great for couples, but at least wait until the third or fourth dates. (Or however long it takes to embrace the other’s quirkiness.) But, as I learned last night, it might send out mixed signals for a first-date spot. As my date put it: “The place isn’t exactly straight.” This seems to be a topic for debate about the Peach Pit.
Regardless, the bigger question is seriously what is with the obsession?
