Take a friend and order duck.

I really can't put it in plainer terms. The serving of roast duck at U Dělového Kříže is prepared for two, so a friend, co-worker, even someone coaxed from the street is necessary for all but the most committed glutton. It arrives on an inelegant rectangular tray slopping brown sauce: two portions of meat and extra stuffing, with a pile of cabbage — red and white — damming up each end. It may be one of the best traditional pub dishes you'll order in Prague.

Otherwise, U Dělového Kříže will likely strike you as an ordinary cellar-dwelling hospoda. The kitchen cooks up Czech favorites and pours Pilsner Urquell for a noisy crowd of locals packed onto uncomfortable wooden benches.

The choices of meat, pasta and other usual fare are limited. On my first trip, I settled for something called the "artillery cross skewer" (U Dělového Kříže translates roughly as "at the artillery cross"), an iron pike spitting hunks of pork and chicken, slices of mild sausage and big pieces of onion and bell pepper propped over a scattered layer of roasted potatoes. Very medieval and, like the duck, a hefty presentation — my order drew wanton stares from a table of European tourists across the aisle. On another occasion, I ended up gaping at another patron's order, a massive wedge of ham also stuck on a rod of iron.

These are not dishes for the "I'll just have a bite" crowd.

Another example of the restaurant's ability to find beauty in pedestrian ingredients is a simple platter of four cheeses, cubed and sprinkled with a washed-out chili powder. They vary from a prosaic hermelín to Balkan feta, the one truly pleasing cheese of the group. It's simple fare, but when the flavors of each match to the chili powder, they pick up redolent, earthy, smoky layers.

Roast duck is U Dělového Kříže's piece de résistance, though. It's cooked until melting fat permeates the meat, making for a tender and densely flavored bird. An unctuous, thickening gravy flatters the wild and rustic taste. It's packed with an almond stuffing that on one visit was moist and herbal. (On another, the nutty bread mixture had been fairly well singed by heat.) Although dry and crumbly, the bitter tinge of the burnt crust almost resembles dark chocolate. Either way, the mellow, herbal (and sometimes charred) stuffing supports the gamey duck perfectly. Even the cabbages speak of old-fashioned country cooking: white that is comfortably sour and red with a deep flavor akin to overripe cherries. For 195 Kč ($9), it's a spectacular combination.

Sure, the dumplings could be better. But that's true of many restaurants in Prague. What you can't say about other places is this: three-star duck at one-star prices.