To the uninitiated, Czech food can be puzzling – not because it is highfalutin' or exotic, but because it resembles something you may have seen at grandma's house, especially if she happened to be a Bohemian peasant.

The elements and the flavors of the dishes are straightforward, the cooking deliberate, the results, at their best, are modestly pleasing, hearty and heart-warming.

This is classic meat-and-potatoes fare, with ingredients predicated upon the long, harsh winters of Eastern Europe.

There are no shortcuts and no attempt to elevate the appearance of the food with precision plating. The salads are often limited to two items – which would pretty much eliminate the concept of the all-you-can-eat salad bar. And darned if you don't see deep-red cabbage on practically every plate this side of the Black Forest cake.

Czech food is slow food, soul food, filling food, pretty good food but not great food. Czech food can be about as spicy as a Wall Street Journal editorial on single-payer health care.

A cynic could conclude Czech food is an excuse to get to Czech beer. Heart-warming in its own way, the beer is such a fixture in Bohemia that it is known as "liquid bread."

I recently visited Little Prague Bohemian Restaurant in Davis because it was celebrating its 15th anniversary, complete with discounted specials, prizes and a yodeling contest. I wanted to learn how this family-run place continues to thrive when so many restaurants falter after a year or two.

My conclusion? People have a good time here – not a rip-roaring time-of-their-lives time, but a pleasant evening full of good cheer, reliable food, tasty beer, decent wine, big desserts, corny music and friendly service.

Holding it all together is the seven-days-a-week commitment of the owners, the husband-and-wife team of Vaclav and Eva Burger, the former out front with the customers, the latter in the kitchen tending to the food of her homeland. Little Prague partners with the Farmer's Wife Bakery, which is 30 years old.

"We are working every day and stay with the restaurant as much as we can. Eva takes care of the kitchen and I am in front with the customers," Vaclav Burger told me over the phone.

When I asked about the readily apparent personal touch at Little Prague, he replied, "The owners have to be involved with all these things. We have to approach the customers. We have to be at the scene. I think the customers appreciate that."

The Burgers' recipe for success is as straightforward as the food. You adhere to the basics, put in the time, believe in what you're doing and things work out as they should.

Little Prague is not so little. The patio out front has two fireplaces and room for plenty of diners. The inside is also roomy and nicely appointed. An adjacent building houses the full bar.

We opted for the pleasant patio, which soaks in the atmosphere of G Street, where there is plenty of foot traffic and several restaurants.

Our two visits were very different. One night the temperature was 101 degrees, the next time about 65. There is live music from Tuesday to Thursday night, with open-mike night on Tuesdays, when customers arrive with their instruments.

I started with the borscht on the extra-hot evening, mostly because my last experience with this traditional soup, at a restaurant whose name I shall withhold, was dismal. That borscht was right out of Feodor Dostoevski's "Notes From Underground," only not as cheerful.

So I was more than pleased when my Little Prague borscht arrived at the table looking bright red and fresh. The flavors of this chilled soup were equally crisp, highlighted by the earthiness of roasted beets.

We asked about the so-called sourdough soup, and were taken aback by the facial expression of our waiter, who clearly winced. It was the same tight-lipped facial tic Clint Eastwood employed, oh, 118 times in "Gran Torino." Our waiter explained that not only was this soup an unsightly mess, it tasted worse.

So we ordered the soup. Czech mate. Our waiter has a palate. The soup was a mushy mess, with a distinct bitter taste. Lesson learned.

Call The Bee's Blair Anthony Robertson, (916) 321-1099.