‘Berlin made me fall in love with Prague again’: Chef Isaac’s recipe for success in Czechia

From dive bar to food truck and a long-running presence at Manifesto Market, American chef Isaac Starobin of Dirty Dog Barbecue fame, has shaped Prague’s casual dining scene, Now, he’s channeling his smokehouse expertise into a bold new venture in the city center on Prague’s Jungmannova Street.

Slow-smoked brisket pulled pork and ribs take center stage at Isaac’s Barbecue. The menu is playful and indulgent—think bone marrow with mustard “caviar,” fried chicken sliders drizzled with guajillo honey, and an over-the-top Elvis Presley bread pudding with bacon-washed bourbon.

We visited Starobin in the restaurant’s historic space to talk about Prague’s evolving food scene, how to turn missteps into learning moments as an expat entrepreneur, and his secret for building a loyal following, one perfectly smoked rib at a time.

Honestly, most of it has been people coming to me with ideas and saying, “Hey, let’s do this,” and me saying, “Okay.” This new project actually started through one of our longtime customers—who became a very good friend. He’s an incredibly successful entrepreneur. One day, he said to me, “Isaac, the food is awesome. Why are you still doing this in a stand after so long? Why don’t you have a restaurant?” I told him, “Money, brother.”

Opening in Berlin was… an experience. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.

At first, I was really excited. To me, Berlin was like the New York of Europe. Turns out it’s not. It’s an unbelievably frustrating city with insane bureaucracy—worse than the Czech Republic—so much worse. The best thing about operating in Berlin was that it made me fall back in love with the Czech Republic.

I’ll give you an example. If you want to import something from outside the EU, you need an EORI number for customs. In Germany, I had to fill out paper forms by hand, sign them, mail them to the customs office, and then wait weeks. I got a letter back—yes, a physical letter—saying my documents were received and I’d get an answer in four to six weeks.

In the Czech Republic, I needed the same number. I filled out a form, submitted it online through the data box system, and the next morning—boom—my number was there.

Yeah, I’m sorry—I didn’t see any of that.

Berlin was tough for so many reasons. You don’t realize how important it is to speak the language, to know people, to have connections. We had none of that there. I think we all underestimated just how difficult it is to start from scratch in a new country.

I did—I thought we’d be entering a bigger, more sophisticated market. I was dead wrong. Czechs are way more open to trying new things than Germans. Of course, I’m generalizing, but that was our experience. Every day in Berlin felt like a battle.

The day before opening, we finally got all our equipment installed after endless delays and unresponsive contractors. It felt impossible. I had wanted to import a proper smoker from the U.S., but the timeline made it seem unrealistic. Looking back, we could have done it, but it didn’t feel feasible at the time. German-made smokers exist, but the best ones are American. Instead, I had one custom-built in some unpronounceable town in northeastern Germany.

It arrived—and immediately had problems. Electrical issues, mechanical failures—one thing after another. On top of that, our team was completely inexperienced. In Prague, I have amazing chefs and managers. In Berlin, it was just me, [Prague-based chef] Scott Kelly, and a group of young kids who had never worked in a restaurant.

The day before opening, we were scrambling to prep, test equipment, and train staff. I should’ve said, “We need more time,” but I didn’t.

No. It was the worst opening I’ve ever had. There was media everywhere. Influencers, journalists—it was all over the place. These dumb Americans can’t even run a kitchen. We looked like total clowns.

You can’t run two businesses in two separate countries without rock-solid management. We didn’t have that, and we didn’t know how to find it in a different country. It was an absolutely horrible decision.

It was a ton of fun. A ton of fun.

Hire professionals and listen to them. But also understand what you don’t know. As a business owner, especially in this industry, you need to know a little about everything—accounting, electricity, bartending—just enough to have an intelligent conversation with the experts. But you also need to know when to step back and trust them.

The best decision we made here—the one I’ve never made before—was hiring legitimate managers. I’ve always tried to do everything myself, but there are too many things I’m just not good at. Most of us aren’t good at everything, and we need to be honest about that.

Absolutely. It’s everything. When I first got here, the food scene was either garbage or fine dining—no middle ground. Places like Gram, Alma, Agave, wouldn’t have survived back then because people didn’t grasp the idea of paying more than CZK 150 for something that wasn’t a Michelin-star meal.

I [went to college] in New Orleans, but oddly, I didn’t eat much barbecue there. For me, it’s about flavor, not location. New York has great barbecue—my mom and I used to love ribs at spots like Virgil’s and Dinosaur.

In Prague, I mix styles. Texas is all about beef, salt, and pepper; Kansas City loves tomato-based sauces. South Carolina leans on mustard, and North Carolina on vinegar. But I go with what tastes best—what I call “New York-style” barbecue.

But why stick to tradition? We’re having fun with barbecue tacos, spring rolls—whatever keeps it interesting.

Yes, it drives me crazy. I once saw someone eat a wing with a fork and knife—it was a Slovakian girl, of course. Even worse, the Norwegians are eating pizza with a fork and knife from the outside.

We focus on value. I don’t want anyone to feel ripped off just because we’re in the city center. At the same time, I won’t cut corners by using lower-quality meat or cheaper cooking methods. Smoking meat is expensive, and good brisket costs way more than cheap beef chuck.

I have two young kids and a new restaurant—I don’t even remember the last time I ate a proper meal! When I do, like every chef, I order pizza.

Plenty. This 300-year-old building belongs to the Josef Hlávka Foundation, the country’s oldest foundation. Hlávka was a philanthropist and architect. When we took over, it was a Vietnamese restaurant covered in white plaster—it looked like a dentist’s office.

Our goal was to restore its history. The barbecue is rustic, and so is this space—we wanted to blend the two. The brick, ceilings, and moldings are all original. We added new tiles and completely redid the electrical work, but otherwise, this is how it looked 150 years ago.

Honestly, this is finally me cooking the food I want to cook—not just what I think will sell. For years, you’ve seen me doing burgers, hot dogs, and all that other stuff. But this? This is me. I’m putting it all out there.