How much Czech could a buček check if a buček could check Czech?

Despite being in the centre, food truck Bucheck is a little hidden. Yes, it’s adorned with fairy lights and flowers, but it’s also huddled in an alley, cloaked in the shadows and dressed in black; like a jaunty mugger waiting to separate you from your cash at the sharp end of pulled pork sandwich.
There are some interesting things happening on Zelný Trh these days, and not least of them is Bucheck. Food trucks have never really hit the big time in Brno. The areas where they could make an impact tend to be the ones with highly restricted parking. So, after roving the food festival circuit, Bucheck found shelter in the car park behind Gran Moravia on Zelný Trh, and have been attracting a steady stream of devoted followers ever since.
It’s an al fresco dining experience, with standing tables made from what looks like the exploding barrels from a first-person-shooter. The flower pots on top of them give them a benign appearance, but I’m careful not to knock the one I’m eating at anyway.
The eponymous dish is a fusion affair. Soft, almost gelatinous pork belly in a brioche bun, sprinkled with a tuft of coriander, hoisin gravy, crushed peanut for crunch, and quick pickled cucumber for acidity. It’s a superbly balanced mix; savoury, sweet, a touch sour. Some people don’t care for coriander but it’s carried along nicely here by the other ingredients, and just seems to give it a fresh… You can always ask for it without, but I definitely recommend with.
Please, dear reader, forgive this appalling cliche but looking around… Bucheck isn’t just a meal, it’s a way of life. What I mean to say is, there’s an atmosphere. A bright October sun has burst into the square, “Mi Swing es Tropical” is playing on the stereo, and the chefs are cheffing in time to the music. They’re relaxed, and chat enthusiastically with their customers in both Czech and English. They clearly enjoy what they’re doing, and are proud of the results.
As I demolish my bucheck, the vegetable market bustles; a kaleidoscope of brightly coloured, organically grown jewels glisten in the autumnal sun. Hoards of gourds. Plethoras of paprikas. Shoals of chillis, boiling out of overflowing baskets. I think it’s time to try another dish: chips.
These are chips in the UK sense. I don’t mean crisps. And I certainly don’t mean weeny spindly little french fries. I mean thick-cut, chunky, skin-on, crisp outside, fluffy inside chips. They’re especially notable for being cooked in pork fat, an uncommon thing these days. They’re a glorious hue of golden brown, with edges so crisp you could cut yourself on them. I might ask them to tone down the salt a little next time. I know it’s a small thing, but as a food critic I’m contracted to say at least *something* negative.
In addition to these dishes, there’s the pulled pork, a pudding (red velvet cake at the time of writing), and once a week a surprise dish. That’s mostly it; they keep the menu tight, and the quality high. Am I going back? Yes, of course I am. 


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