The snow was still falling in sodden flakes as I trudged along the pavement. It wasn’t easy going, even if I stuck to the cleared pathways and got heavier still every time I ventured off the beaten track through knee high drifts on either side.

This kind of harsh winter weather burns a lot of energy. It’s gratifying to know therefore that Czech cuisine provides the perfect antidote to subzero temperatures: Roasted duck, dumplings and cabbage.

As I laboured onward, my tummy began to rumble. It became a matter of some importance I get a ‘stodge’ fix, and quickly. It wasn’t long before I spotted my salvation, a traditional Czech pub.

As I parted the heavy velveteen curtains I knew I had come to the right place. A layer of thick smoke hung in the air. Dark wood panels populated every spare metre of wall space. The tablecloths were clip-on and the beer-mats tatty from over use…

I slide onto the nearest bench seat and quickly scanned the daily specials menu. Although written in Czech the Roasted Duck sang out to me. (Restaurant Czech is the one dim highlight of my otherwise pathetic language skills).

As if by magic a waiter materialized from the smoke. (They can do that in such places). Even during the lunchtime rush, service is universally prompt, although not always with a smile. This guy looked totally pissed off. He grimaced at me. I decided best not add to his awful mood by exercising my bad Czech so instead employed the; ‘Its too noisy in here to talk so I’ll just point at what I want’ trick. It worked. He understood. A Duck and beer was on its way…

(You can’t have duck without beer. That would be treason).

One minute later a delicious feast was placed before me. Ten minutes later my sides felt fit to burst. Still only half way through this monstrous helping I needed a short rest, a moment to catch my breath. I laid aside my cutlery and lent back in the chair.

In an instant the waiter was upon me. Swooping like a Japanese Zero, dive-bombing from out of the sun. He went straight for my plate. My plate containing my half eaten meal, the meal I had every intention of finishing.

At the very last moment I managed to grab the dish before it was ripped away. There was a second of standoff. I smiled. He frowned. I raised an eyebrow. He reluctantly let go. I could carry on, for now.

As my plate was returned I noticed what the problem was. By mistake I had placed the cutlery side by side. A long established signal for having finished.

I spent the next thirty minutes experimenting. How close together would the cutlery have to be in order to attract the waiter’s attention? A few mouthfuls then, with a visible flourish, I’d lay down my utensils. Each time the waiter spotted it and headed across the room. This was my cue to start eating again before trying another configuration.

The game carried on right up until the final mouthful. Satisfied and stuffed I discarded my cutlery one final time. In the beat of a humming bird’s heart my empty plate was whisked away into the ether.

In truth I bet the waiter hadn’t even noticed I was messing with him but it was most educational while it lasted. I left him a handy tip and strode out into the cold once more. But as I trudged homewards I began to wonder… If those last few mouthfuls were the ones that keep me alive in this winter wasteland, what might have happened if the waiter was that little bit faster?

Guess I’d be forced to order dessert!