In a darkened speakeasy, a mixologist wearing a bellhop uniform slides a box of sweets across the bar. He opens the lid slowly, as though presenting me with diamond jewellery. Obligingly, I pop a sweet in my mouth. It isn’t what I expected when I asked for the cocktail menu, but I’m realising that Brno has a few surprises up its sleeve.

My drink — based on the sweet I chose; a brew of unusual spirits served frothy in a china skull — arrives. Eager to play again, I drink it fast and ask for another. This time the menu is a posy of wooden flowers, each with a phrase tethered to the stem. One translates as “folk paganism”, another “algorithm of death”. Everything about…

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