The effort it takes to digest one pig knee and a cup of homemade mustard really is a doozy. Multiply this by four and it’s one group of fat-bellied, contented men.

I often say there are no stupid questions, a catechism heard in kindergartens across the globe. Yet, a questionable question arose when someone asked, “Just how many beers have we had since we got to town?”

“Who the (BLEEP) knows?!” was the booming answer to my colleague’s inquiry. After a mere single round of those heaving chalices of cold, frosty goodness it’s time to stop practicing early mathematics and get on to the more important matters of business: women, fast cars and bottom lines.

This is when things turned ugly.

As the lone woman– a delicate flower in stilettos and polyester pantyhose– I was dismayed as it became increasingly apparent the day’s mission would fast become one embarked upon by gluttonous, slovenly office mates questing after the Czech Republic’s answer to eau de vie. Beer is one thing, but it’s an everyday thing (at least in Europe). So, what lurks beyond the obvious drink of choice in this charming Eastern European city that teems with shameless American tourists? What hidden liquid delicacies remained just off the radar so that even the finest of guidebooks would fail to take note?

And there it was, our mission in full glory: find something else the Czech drink. Get it, taste it, and try to remember it the next day.

Yeah, yeah. Gentle readers, I know you think this task seems underwhelmingly simple: find a convivial Praguian, ask him/her about the chances of there being some secretive elixir of life, head over to Tesco’s and seal the deal.

It turned out that finding a bona fide Czech in Prague is a real issue. It seemed everyone was suddenly dressed up as an obnixious tourist donning white socks with Tevas. At first we had one of my colleagues approach really Czech looking people– (don’t act like you don’t know what I mean here). But, he went for voluptuous blond women and we couldn’t wait around for him to bumble over his words and get to the point.

Armed with a charming grin only David Hasselhoff could outdo our team-leader took charge. Within minutes we had our lead– from a sweet little balding man with just enough English to convey the name of this critical potion and the direction in which to head.

Our informant quickly qualified his insider tip with a caveat that made our loose-lipped mouths water even more: “Only obscure, musty local shops sell this drink.”

Not wanting to see us go bone dry on the streets of Prague, this little man offered us his directions: “Turn right and go up the street. You’ll find a place where they sell this special stuff.”

The men took charge. After going in circles for upwards of an hour, I opened up a can of whoop-ass-woman on them. I had had enough of tiptoeing around like an idiot in heels along precariously placed cobblestone roads, following behind these drunkards like a subservient Asian housemaid.

“Figure this s**t out or else I’ll leave you right here, and for dead,” I said.

Like an angel descending from heaven, a perky young woman entered the scene.

“Hi there. Uh, we’re awfully sorry to bother you, but might you be willing to help us?”

“Yes????”

“Are you from Prague?”

“No… Slovakia.”

(Insert synchronized sighs of disappointment.)

Not wanting to leave this group of silly, grinning men in such despair she added, “Maybe I can still help?”

We explained our mission, but despite her knowledge of this concoction and its similarly clandestine locations, she could not help…

Next to turn the corner was Sergei, a Belarusian hottie with a killer tan and bulging biceps. Not only did he know all about Prague and this mysterious inebriant, but he promised to lead us to the holy grail.

But, just when he held our modest hope in the palm of his hand, the liquor shop we approached had a menacing “uzavřen” plastered across the front window. (So much for the 2 km of uphill hiking in snazzy stilettos.) He tells us not to give up– not far from where we were was another corner shop bound to have just what we need.

Fortunately for us, we were sold on the idea and nowhere near ready to give up. Unfortunately for us, “not far” doesn’t translate well from Czech to English. Blisters and bunions later, we come across another clandestine shop.

“Uzavřen.”

Dear readers, this time it looked like an end to our fairytale…. We were sagging, tired and despite repeated requests, not one of the guys would rub my blisters and bunions for me. We were failures. Would I even have a job come Monday morning?

Bidding adieu to darling Sergei, he informed us that trucking it further up the hill would take us to the nearest metro station. My bunions squealed in pain as I stuffed them back into my Jimmy Choos.

A precious few meters before the top of the hill we came upon a restaurant. We unfurled our tired, broken spirits into some chairs and the waiter spoke to us in a fragrant potpourri of English and Czech. I’m not sure what he said, but I did understand one thing: “You can not find this magical intoxicant after twelve o’clock noon.”

Although our spirits had already been shattered, this was the bitter end of our quest for secret Czech moonshine.

We reached the top of that god-forsaken hill.

Then, out of nowhere an angel appeared. A familiar face– a mirage on the horizon. Our Slovak angel was back! It had to be a sign.

She smiled (most pointedly at my colleague with the mustard smeared down his dress shirt). “Did you have luck finding it?”

“No. Every store was closed, and we are going back home broken and thirsty.”

And then, something miraculous happened. She opened her backpack and pulled up a bottle of some yellowish liquid.

“I bought it half an hour ago. I found one wine shop by accident…”

Right there, on the top of a hill in the middle of glorious Prague, with the sun shining down on us, we couldn’t really believe in the notion of coincidence. We didn’t know what to believe in. Serendipity? God?

We just stood there, mouths agape and she extended to us her bottle of Burcak.

As she turned to leave, Mustard Man shouted out: “Your name?!”

“Lea”, she said

“Not an angel! A princess… Princess Lea,” we thought.