I come to the tasting myself. I write the proposal myself. I drive in, set up, refill and clear down, myself. No chain, no subcontractor. From the first email to the last fork, you're in one person's hands. Seventeen years in gastronomy, one long table I've made my own.
Most of my colleagues opened bistros. Some went into hotel kitchens. I fell in love with one table: its layers, its composition, its afternoon quiet before the guests arrive.
No hotel, no Michelin star. The path was long and sometimes winding. I cooked in restaurants, at home for family, alone for myself. Trochu Jiný didn't happen overnight.
Washing dishes, slicing lemons, carrying plates. First lesson: guests won't forget how the food tasted. They'll forget whether you smiled at them.
Six months in Vienna, at the delicatessens by Naschmarkt. I learned that charcuterie isn't just slicing: it's composition, rhythm and quiet hands.
A good lesson. I learned I don't want to serve food to three people at once at lunchtime. I want to build one big table and sit at it with the guest from morning on.
Thirty-five guests, a four-metre table, seven hours of work. When they walked in, they went silent. That's when I knew this was the work. Years without a name, just Edith, the one who does that thing.
An old boathouse by the water, wooden tables, a brass lamp. This is where I tune every proposal in person. Every client comes here, I don't send catalogues.
A deliberately small portfolio. The rule: one big table per weekend. That's the only way I have time to arrive in person, build it with my own hands, and sit down with you. When a date is gone, it's gone.
No two days are the same, but the rhythm is. I'm up at five, drive in for bread, load the van, drive to you. You're asleep, or having breakfast, or ironing your shirt.
Honza bakes through the night. The car smells like a country kitchen on a Sunday. The day starts earlier than you think.
I take the cheeses out of plastic to let them breathe. Boards built in the atelier, so the van carries finished work, not pieces.
The cooling is set to 14 °C. I keep a list of where everything is, so I'm not thinking while I build.
Layers, heights, paths. The table tells a story from savoury to sweet. You're greeting your guests in peace.
I watch what's running low. I refill without anyone noticing. No one has to ask. I see it first.
When the main table closes, the sweet station opens. The espresso machine is with me, not with you.
You have the keys. The van leaves as quietly as it arrived. The next morning, a clean space, as if I'd never been there.
I write a short note: thank you for the day. Then an espresso and the notebook. What worked, what I'd do differently next time.
After seventeen years I know what I say yes to and what I don't. It helps me and you, because you know in advance what you'll get. And what to find somewhere else.
Catering without championship gadgets. Wood, marble, linen, a brass lamp. I carry my own tableware, enough things to feel like I'm moving house.
— hands · buildingAbove 80 guests I take on one assistant, Anička, the daughter of a friend from Vinohrady. But the composition, the cut, the final detail are always my own hand. No one else knows how a table should look in a photograph.
— toolsThirty-three wooden boards (from ash to oak), two marble slabs, ceramics from a workshop in Telč, linen from the Vysočina. No plastic. Ever.
30 minutes by tram from the centre. Large windows onto the water, a long table, a brass lamp. A tasting here takes an hour, sometimes two. Coffee always.
— Press & public · who's written about me
Not about catering, about me. About the atelier, about how it all works, whether I have a team, whether I book a year out. Short answers, no marketing.