Trosca profiles its patrons. If you don't fit in their ideal demographic, you may end up entering the bar, finding no one there to serve you, in fact no one working there at all, and thus you will quickly leave, while the barman, playing hacky sack outside on the sidewalk, chuckles quietly to himself and goes on hacking.
The sign "No Gypsies Allowed" hanging next to the bar is more of a reminder of Humanity's darker past than any real policy. Of course anyone is welcome here, although most tourists do end up making a quick u-turn when they hear the speed metal on the stereo. Trosca is the local's pub in a neighborhood that has little to offer locals, having been turned over long ago to Visitors.
Trosca was my after-lunch bar of choice in 2002, the year of my spanish friends in Prague. Lunch for 20 crowns in the Student Cafe, and a coffee in Trosca. A lovely way to start the day.
One evening I was sipping a beer with Fabio, my Italian friend, when a man asked if he could join us. Either he wanted to speak English or smoke Fabio's joint. At any rate, I said yes. "What do you do?" I asked. "I'm a policeman," he replied. Oh dear. "But I'm a pacifist," he went on to explain, puffing on the mary jane. "I'm not enjoying being a policeman. It's not for me."
