It simply struck me as a good idea. I lived in Norway for three years—we were on the outskirts of Oslo, where neighborhood communities really function. People meet in churches, they don’t have fences or curtains in their windows, they celebrate holidays together. On weekends, kids sell lemonade on the street; during Restaurant Day, people cook in the street, sell things out of their windows. I really liked this different view of the city coming alive—including the fact that there aren’t cars parked everywhere.
When we started out, the tram tracks on Vinohradská were under repair and cars couldn’t drive there. It was summer—people bought food from us and sat right in the middle of the street on stacked construction materials. It felt like being at the beach.
We felt that with the empty space we have there, we could make it nicer and more neighborly. Before that, we spent a year in Karlín, where we had a bistro in a kind of recess between buildings—but unfortunately it rained that year, so people mostly came later in the afternoon. That’s where we first made cocktails in cans. People mixed their own cocktail, sealed it in a can, and drew their own label on it. That was great.
When a place become live…
Unfortunately not. Instead of a square, there’s a road there and three underground waste containers. It really could have been a lovely little square, but someone decided—completely unnecessarily—to build a road there. I don’t understand why it’s there. And right in the middle are the bins, around which rubbish piles up. Because who has the patience these days to stuff one plastic bottle after another into a container, right? Then all it takes is a gust of wind and it gets blown all over the “square” and into the surrounding streets.
As much as we can, yes. We clean up what the wind blows around, and sometimes we also have to rein in scooters or overgrown greenery. And thanks to AutoMat and Zažít město jinak, we learned that we can apply for a temporary use permit ourselves—we’ve even held a carnival and a wine harvest celebration there. We found out that we can bring that street to life more often than just once a year in September. And every time, it’s packed. People enjoy it, they walk by and ask what’s going on… it’s great.
Yes, there’s a lot of organization behind it, extra staff, and in the end we usually more or less break even. But the fact that something is happening there is definitely worth it. From a business perspective, it makes sense for us to be visible. We have great partners we work with or source ingredients from, and we’d like to focus even more on giving them visibility too. But you’re right—it’s a lot of work. We wanted to do the same thing at our Alma restaurant on Jircháře, where we have a slightly different circle of collaborators, but Prague 1 didn’t allow us to use public space, neither on Křemencova nor on Jircháře.
Carnival festivities in front of Kro Kitchen
I think it used to be like that here too, but fifty years of communism somewhat pulled us out of that continuity. People forgot a bit about being together, because everyone mainly tried not to stand out too much. Now it’s slowly waking up again. I see it even in Strašnice, where we live and where I grew up. I remember plans that instead of a playground next to our building there was supposed to be a gas station, and similar things. Fortunately, there are more sensible people at city hall now, and today there’s a school and a playground there again. The change is slow, though, and people have to want it and help make it happen themselves.
We recently opened a bakery on Libeň Island, where there’s basically nothing. The bridge repair got stuck, and the unfinished building by Pleskot has been standing there for ten years already. The whole area feels rather sad. But suddenly, when you give people fresh bread, good food, and a few smiles from the staff, they’re happy. An artisanal bakery has the power to become a place for community gathering just like a café. And it works in the regions too—people there also want fresh bread, not rolls from a supermarket. I think that’s healthy for any city.

Vojtěch Václavík want to teach Czechs to eat well
I’ve been passionate about it since I was little. I lived for a while with my grandmother and grandfather, who would cook all morning every day and let me taste everything. And I loved it. Pretty early on, I started cooking on my own. I went to university, but I always knew I wanted to cook. That’s why I went to Norway—to learn from the best. With cooking and gastronomy in general, you see the immediate reaction of people when they enjoy the food and are happy. That’s probably what we all look for a bit. It’s similar with Zažít město jinak—you see happy people who have never experienced their street without cars, and suddenly it’s possible. But even in my own circle, I have many people who don’t understand why streets are being narrowed or why crosswalks are added. It will probably take a while for this 1990s way of thinking to change.
People should definitely think more about what they eat. What they put in their stomachs matters, and often it affects their physical and mental health. They should eat more healthily and more locally. Slowly, I hope, they’re starting to understand this. We need to teach even small children what vegetables are, how they’re grown, that it’s not normal to eat only industrially processed food full of unnecessary chemicals, and why things like allergies happen. There’s still a lot to catch up on, and it’s up to us to make that change. And that applies to public space as well.
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