The Underground Bars and Speakeasies of Prague That Tourists Never Find
Prague's got a drinking problem. Not the kind that requires intervention, but the kind where every pissed-up stag party from Manchester thinks they've discovered the city's nightlife because they've stumbled into some overpriced bar on Wenceslas Square. Meanwhile, the real action—the proper, no-bollocks drinking establishments—are hiding in plain sight, accessible only to those who know where to look and how to behave once they get there.
The Czech capital has been perfecting the art of underground culture for centuries. When you've spent decades under communist rule, you get pretty good at keeping secrets. Those habits didn't disappear when the regime did. They just evolved into something more interesting: a network of speakeasies, hidden bars, and subterranean drinking dens that make New York's prohibition-era joints look like Wetherspoons.
Why Prague's Best Bars Aren't on TripAdvisor
Here's the thing about proper speakeasies: the moment they end up on some tourist's Instagram feed with a geotag and a caption about "hidden gems," they stop being hidden. They become another tick-box experience for people who think travel means collecting locations like Pokémon cards.
Prague's genuine underground bars survive because they're protected by a simple principle: if you need Google Maps to find it, you probably shouldn't be there. The locals keep these places quiet not out of snobbery, but out of self-preservation. They've watched too many decent pubs turn into selfie factories, and they're not keen to repeat the experience.
The difference between a tourist trap and a real speakeasy? One has a queue of blokes in matching T-shirts outside. The other has a door you'll walk past three times before you notice it.
The Art of Finding Prague's Hidden Watering Holes
Finding these places requires a different approach to navigation. Forget your phone. The best bars in Prague exist in the gaps between the mapped world—down alleyways that don't have names, behind doors that don't have signs, in basements that officially don't exist.
Look for the subtle tells: a small brass plaque with nothing but a symbol, a door that's slightly more polished than its neighbours, a window with condensation that suggests warmth and bodies inside. Sometimes it's just a doorbell with no explanation. Press it. See what happens.
Once you're inside, there are rules. Unwritten, but absolute. Don't take photos. Don't be loud. Don't ask for a bloody mojito unless you want to mark yourself as a tourist immediately. Order in Czech if you can manage it, or at least make the effort. The bartender will appreciate it, even if your pronunciation is shit.
These aren't Instagram opportunities. They're drinking establishments for people who actually want to drink, not perform drinking for an audience.
Five Speakeasies Worth Getting Lost For
Hemingway Bar sits behind a bookshelf in Old Town, because of course it does. Pull the right volume and the wall swings open. Inside, it's all dark wood and darker spirits, with bartenders who take cocktails seriously enough to make you feel slightly inadequate about your usual order of "whatever's cold." The absinthe selection alone could knock out a small army.
Anonymous Bar takes the speakeasy concept literally. No sign. No website. Just a doorbell on a nondescript door in Vinohrady. Ring it. Wait. Eventually, someone will decide whether you look like you belong. Inside, it's intimate enough that you'll end up in conversation with strangers, which is either brilliant or terrible depending on your tolerance for human interaction after midnight.
Black Angel's Bar hides beneath the streets near Old Town Square, all Art Deco glamour and pre-war sophistication. It's the kind of place where you half expect to see someone plotting an assassination in the corner booth. The cocktails are expensive, but they're also genuinely excellent, crafted by people who understand that mixology is chemistry, not theatre.
Cash Only Bar does exactly what it says on the tin—except there is no tin, because there's no sign. It's a basement operation in Žižkov that serves proper Czech beer and spirits at prices that won't require a second mortgage. The décor is "communist chic," which means it's basically unchanged since 1985, and that's entirely the point.
The Alchemist's Lair occupies medieval cellars that have been serving alcohol in some form for about 600 years. The current iteration mixes historical atmosphere with modern mixology, creating drinks that taste like they might actually contain magic. Or at least enough alcohol to make you believe in it.
What Makes Prague's Underground Scene Different
Prague's speakeasies aren't cosplaying prohibition-era America. They're the real deal, born from actual necessity rather than aesthetic choice. Some of these places occupy communist-era bunkers, spaces that were designed to survive nuclear war and now serve as surprisingly atmospheric cocktail lounges. There's something properly surreal about sipping a martini in a room that was built to shelter people from the apocalypse.
The Czech approach to spirits is different too. This is a country that takes beer seriously enough to have protected geographical indicators for brewing methods, and that same attention to craft extends to their distilleries. Becherovka isn't just a tourist souvenir; it's a legitimate herbal liqueur with 200 years of history. Slivovitz—plum brandy—will strip paint and hair from your chest simultaneously, but it's also a point of national pride.
Prague does speakeasies better than most cities because they're not trying to recreate someone else's history. They're continuing their own.
Practical Tips for the Adventurous Drinker
Avoid Friday and Saturday nights unless you enjoy watching British stag parties discover that Czech beer is stronger than they anticipated. Midweek evenings are when the locals come out, and when these places feel like what they're supposed to be: neighbourhood bars that happen to be hidden.
Bring cash. Specifically, bring Czech koruna. Some places take cards, but many don't, and the ones that don't aren't being difficult—they're being traditional. There's usually an ATM nearby, but finding it after several drinks in an unmarked basement is its own adventure.
Order what the locals order. That means Pilsner Urquell or Budvar if you're drinking beer, becherovka if you want something herbal, or slivovitz if you want to prove something to yourself. The bartenders can make you a perfect Old Fashioned, but they'll respect you more if you try the local stuff first.
Earning Your Place at the Bar
The best bars in Prague require effort. You'll get lost. You'll walk past the entrance multiple times. You'll question whether you've got the right address or whether this is all some elaborate prank. That's the point.
These places exist for people who give enough of a shit to find them. They're a reward for curiosity, for persistence, for being willing to look beyond the obvious tourist track. Once you're inside, nursing a drink in a basement that's older than your country, surrounded by locals who've decided you're alright, you'll understand why they keep these places secret.
Prague's underground drinking scene isn't about exclusivity for its own sake. It's about preserving spaces where you can actually drink, talk, and exist without performing for an audience. In a city that's increasingly overrun with tourists treating it like a theme park, these hidden bars are small acts of resistance.