Why Europe’s traditional foods are not always what they seem

Prague’s narrow streets makes for hungry work. What better way to cap off a spot of sightseeing than with a local delicacy? How about a ? Throw a cobblestone in any direction in the Czech capital these days and it is likely to land on a stand peddling the unpronounceable snack. Think of it as a Danish pastry crossed with a rotisserie chicken: sweet dough is wrapped around a metal spit and theatrically twirled over glowing charcoals until browned, then dipped in nuts and sugar. The “old Bohemian speciality” advertised by the jolly vendor warms the hands on a chilly wintertime stroll; in summer it can be used as an ice-cream cone. Either way, for a few tasty minutes one can imagine oneself a burgher of medieval Prague, indulging a sweet tooth while traipsing over Charles Bridge. The only glitch in this alluring daydream is the fact that is no local snack at all. Nobody in Prague recalls seeing this supposed Czech staple for sale until about a decade ago. Even today, scent blankets the touristy bits of Prague like a smog, but is hard to find anywhere else. Food sleuths place as a delicacy from Romania or Slovakia, no more authentically Bohemian than a Big Mac. The allure to vendors is clear: the margins flogging a bit of warmed-up dough for 70 crowns (around $3) would have executives at McDonald’s salivating. Tourists see something plausibly authentic—how would they know?—and ask few questions.