Longtime service industry folks know the equation by heart. A great vibe smoothes out the rough spots; people will forgive snooty wait staff, pricey drinks or tepid gruel, so long as the place draws a spirited crowd. Conversely, the most exquisite haute cuisine menu wilts sadly in a drab and lifeless room.

Fortunately, Bredovsk˘ Dvůr is a dynamic place, particularly around noon. Bartenders dispense rounds of fresh Pilsner Urquell, straight from the tank. Autographed football jerseys from the likes of Pavel Nedvěd adorn the space, lending a masculine feel. But rustic brick and artistic touches soften things enough that women also cluster around tables. Lunch draws in a mixed group of suits, grunts and tourists, debriefing each other on the morning's events, building into a constant murmur punctuated by laughter and bursts of exuberance. After work, a different group — and a few of the same — gather to commiserate over beers or plan the evening. Again, the noise level builds to a cheerful drone.

Do all these people come for the food? It's difficult to believe when you start off with beer-friendly, but otherwise unimpressive, appetizers like spicy cold bacon or hot sausage in dark beer. I tried both on my final visit to the place and found the former mellow and lacking substance. Gnawing on bits of hard, rubbery gristle embedded in almost every slice added a disturbing Cro-Magnon feel to the experience. Sausage, meanwhile, arrived in a tepid state and in a pool of sauce almost slimy from grease.

By then I had already dined at the restaurant a couple of times and anticipated something more appealing. The ribs, for instance, are tender and mild, flavored by fat melting through the meat as it sits on the grill along with a brush of herbal honey sauce. Well worth a try if you're feeling particularly carnivorous and can clear time the next day to recover from the meat coma — it's a rather large serving. Slovak bean soup conveys a viscous, oily heartiness and massive wallops of pepper. It borders on mundane, but is ultimately quite satisfying.

The small, plump portion of roasted duck, though, truly stands out. For anyone (and I include myself in this group) despondent over the lack of effort many restaurants put into chopped cabbage and white bread dumplings, this dish will prove the logic behind such ubiquitous sides.

Yeah, the pale cabbage remains a listless mound of white noise. Its purple counterpart, though, reeks of something rich, deep and fruity, like the taste of overripe cherries. The sour, pungent sweetness works beautifully with darker, earthy flavors such as that of good roasted meat. Together they speak of burnished leaves and fire-filled hearths. The dumplings are sticky and dense. Unlike the spongy Wonder Bread knockoffs served elsewhere, these carried enough heft to stand up to the other ingredients.

It's rewarding to find Czech pub fare done right: thoughtfully prepared, moderately priced and still very filling.

If only the kitchen performed with greater consistency, tossing out patent-leather venison and lumpy cartilage disguised as bacon instead of plating the stuff, the restaurant would deserve another star for food. Oh well. Just order the ribs, the duck or one of the quick-serve lunchtime specials and take solace in the fact that Bredovsk˘ Dvůr vibrates with that ephemeral buzz, that popular vibe.

And you're part of it.