Ah…here we go. I’ve finally made it to the recently immortalized-on-the-small screen Polonia. Polonia plays up the fact that Anthony Bourdain has visited by discreetly displaying his face in a small picture on their menu. Of course, their website features his now-famous mug as well with links to YouTube clips of segments featuring their place. Are they overdoing it? I don’t know. Who really cares anyway? They’re proud, and they should be.
Through a strange, serendipitous synchronicity, I drove up in the VW with Hendrix’s “Gypsy Eyes” playing off the hard drive. The soundtrack was appropriate. The propulsive drums and bass; the almost hyperkinetic, R&B, clean rhythm guitar of Hendrix himself; and the scenery seemed to go together like an unexpected wine and food pairing like Rioja and crispy black bass or lobster and a red Bordeaux. The apparent decay of the surrounding neighborhood with the Hendrix’s urban 1960′s musical sensibility worked perfectly. The area seemed trapped in a bygone era architecturally. The few clues to modernity were cars, fashions, and satellite dishes. The neighborhood could have played the role in a period piece if it weren’t for those occasional clues. My friend stated that the place also reminded him of Philadelphia. Maybe, a film crew could make it double for a 1960′s Philadelphia by removing the satellite dishes, modern cars, and modern clothes.
As another reviewer has stated, there is a public lot next to Polonia where we parked. At the entrances to the lot, there are some fancy, new-fangled machines where you can prepay for your parking. The one we passed by wasn’t working. I saw no evidence in other cars that anyone had used the machine. It seemed that no one put money in the meters either. So, I parked at a meter that had some two hours on it. Of course, that was broken too; it had the same amount of time on it when I got in the car to leave. Yes, the Detroit decay radiated over to my parking meter in Hamtramck.
The interior of Polonia
My friend James and I started off with some service with a smile as our waitress greeted us enthusiastically. She then happily led us to our booth. Having Filipino blood must include having pork-loving gene somewhere on one of those chromosomes. I was immediately drawn to the Smalec Zi Skwareczkami, which is apparently a famous Polish bread spread featuring lard, bacon, fried onion, and spices. I thought there was some garlic in there too. I highly recommend it if you have a death wish–a death wish which includes dying of a heart attack from eating tasty food which modern medicine would deem to be inconsistent with eating for longevity. Don’t hesitate to season with some salt and pepper to bring out the flavor a little. It’s much better that way. After all, we put salted butter on bread and olive oil, salt, and pepper on bread. It’s the same idea. My friend made the observation that it kind of made the Smalec into a lardo when I did that. Mmmm…lardo. The last time I had that was at Del Posto in the Chelsea/Meatpacking District of Manhattan. I know. It’s fat. It’s probably going to be considered pretty disgusting to some, but I appreciate it. I love the fact that it’s about hungry people not wasting anything from an animal. It shows respect. It shows a history of love–a peasant’s love for one’s cold, poor, hungry children. As Bourdain points out repeatedly, some of the great culinary and gastronomic experiences are brought about by deprivation and the creativity required to turn the awful (or is it offal?) into something edible and satisfying for one’s family. That’s what I see in the Smalec. That’s what I see in Filipino Kare-Kare (made with oxtails and tripe), Sisig (made from the meat and cartilage from a pig’s face), Bopis (made from the lung of I don’t know what), Tsitsaron Bulaklak (made from pork omentum), the infamous Balut (fertilized duck eggs), Dinuguan (made with pigs blood and pork), and so many other great Filipino dishes. A dear female friend has repeatedly reneged on offers to cook for me, because she thinks I’m a food snob. She’s intimidated. She thinks I won’t like what she’ll put on my plate. I say to her that I come from a culture of peasant food. Sure, I love baked lobster from Le Bernardin, and I have high standards. But, you know, my family comes from humble roots. We eat humble food, but it’s food made with love and an earnest desire to please. If that’s what my friend puts on my plate, I’ll eat it with a smile and with a dose of love returned. I tell her that she needn’t have worried.
Lipitor, Omega-3, red wine...you're going to need them all for the Smalec.
James and I both ordered the marvelous dill pickle soup. If that sounds strange to you, let me assure you, it’s grand. Think cream of potato with some pickles involved. It may sound odd, but it makes sense in any case. Rich food needs acid, and that’s where the pickles come in. Pair the soup with a rich, meaty sandwich, and you’ve got something–not that this soup isn’t wonderful by itself. My friend and I agreed it was very good.
Small Dill Pickle Soup. Marvelous.
For my entrée, I ordered the Polish Combination Plate, which had stuffed cabbage with tomato sauce, sausage, 2 pierogies, mashed potatoes with brown gravy, and kraut. I thought that the stuffed cabbage was excellent. My friend James, who being from Wisconsin knows some things about Polish food, assures me that it was a good example of one. The sausage was probably the tastiest example of a Polish sausage that I have ever eaten. All those familiar spices were there. It’s what I imagine a homemade Polish sausage to be. The kraut was amazing. I am guessing that this is the spiritual source for that NY/NJ thing for putting sautéed onions in that red sauce and sauerkraut on a hot dog, because that is what it was like—only better. It’s like the homemade version—not the hotdog cart version. The pierogies were good, but they’re really about being a starch source, it seems. Again, it’s that peasant thing of trying to fill bellies in the most economical but creative way possible–something borne out of a grandmother’s or a mother’s love. I see that in the potato noodles as well. They remind me of potato dumplings or gnocchi.
Polish Combination Plate. Sorry. I took a bite out of my pierogie.
Overall, I had a wonderful experience at Polonia. I’m sure I will return. I’m sure my doctor will advise me to stay away from the Smalec, but she’s Filipino too. So, maybe, I can’t count on that. I washed all of that great food down with a pint of Okocim Porter, which was indispensable in allowing me to make it through the rich meal. I’m definitely a fan of Polonia, but bring your appetite. You’re going to need it.
One may have to view my following comments as those of an outsider here. I feel like I can taste the history of the Midwest in a dish like this Polish Combination Plate. In truth, I am a transplant to the Detroit area. I’m not of this earth. I was born, and probably conceived in Manhattan. I’ve lived in SoCal and NorCal. I’ve lived in Asia. I just landed here by quirk of employment. So, my comments are very much the thoughts of an outsider observing his new surroundings. What I see in this Polish combo is one story in the history of the development of regional tastes. It’s a large portion of food. It’s hearty. It’s meaty. It’s filling. I think that’s something people would associate with Midwesterners’ tastes. Paul Kahan said as much when discussing the concept behind the things he does with his food. Also, I’m told it’s an accurate view into Polish food, as my friend knew it from his Polish neighbors in Wisconsin. So, it’s a Polish immigrant story too. It’s an inescapable truth that food history IS history.
