A Winter Dream - By Richard Paul Evans Page 0,30
the front room and no pictures on the wall. Actually, there was one—a picture of Jesus that looked as if it had been cut out of a book or magazine. Across from it was a black and white poster of Kurt Cobain smoking a cigarette. The contrast was strange. April noticed me looking at the poster.
“That’s Ruth’s,” she said. “My roommate. How was your day?”
“Busy. Strange.”
“Strange?”
“Ever since I was promoted, everyone acts weird around me.”
“What’s strange about that? You’re the boss now. No more fraternizing with the enlisted men.”
I laughed, not expecting her to say something like that. “I’m the least bosslike person you’ll ever meet.”
“I bet you could get bossy.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s not in me. So where are we eating?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “You’re the boss.”
I shook my head. “Tonight, you’re the boss. It’s your call.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’m taking you for pierogies. And I have the perfect place. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Famished,” I said.
“Famished is perfect. You won’t be when we’re done.”
We took the Blue Line to Belmont. As we got off the train, April took my hand and led me to a two-story brick building with a brass sign that read:
Staropolska
Polish American Cuisine
I opened the door and we stepped inside. The room was dark, woody and pungent. A small dark-haired woman in a floor-length skirt and apron greeted us with a heavy accent. “You are two?”
“Yes.”
“This way, please.”
“Dziekuje,” April said.
I turned to April. “You speak Polish?”
“Just a few phrases. Dziekuje means ‘thank you.’ ”
The restaurant had an old-world feel, with iron chandeliers, and bearskins on the wood-paneled walls.
Our hostess led us to a small table near the fireplace. A moment later our waitress came to the table. She put a basket of bread and a dish of some pale brown substance on the table. Then she handed us two menus. “What would you like to drink?” she asked.
“Do you like wine?” April asked me.
I nodded. “Yes, please.”
“We would like some red wine. And water.”
“With gas or still.”
April looked at me.
“Remember, you’re the boss,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Sparkling.”
The woman nodded. “I will come back in a moment,” she said. She walked back to the kitchen.
“I think we’re the only non-Poles in here,” I said, looking around at the rest of the clientele.
“That’s a good sign,” she said. “If you want good Mexican food, you go where the Mexicans eat. You want good pierogies, find the Poles.”
“So they’re really that good?” I asked.
“Aside from Madame Curie, pierogies are the Poles’ greatest contribution to humanity.”
I looked at the menu. “They also have salmon.”
“No salmon,” she said. “I’ll do the ordering tonight. I’m the boss. You said so yourself.”
“You’re right. But nothing too . . . different.”
She gave me a smile that I knew meant she was about to ignore my request. “Trust me.”
When our server came back, April was ready. “We’d like to start with zurek.”
“That sounds like something on Star Trek,” I said.
She shushed me.
Our server wrote on her pad of paper.
“And then?”
“The pierogi assortment with sausage, potato and sauerkraut. And then the Old Country Plate.”
“You are hungry tonight,” our waitress said.
“We are,” April said, looking at me.
After our server left, April’s eyes twinkled. “Are you excited?”
I’d never seen a woman get so excited about food. Certainly not Ashley. “Yes. Very.”
“You should be.” She scooped her knife into the pale brown substance and spread the mixture over a slice of bread, then took a bite. “Try some.”
“Okay.” I started spreading some over my bread. “What is it?”
“Smalec.”
“That was helpful. Thank you.”
She laughed. “It’s lard.”
I stopped spreading.
“Don’t be a baby,” she said, taking a bite. “It’s good.”
Definitely not Ashley.
Our server brought out the wine, left, then returned with our soup. The thick broth was grainy-looking, brownish gray and filled with sliced sausages and halved boiled eggs. I lifted a spoon and tasted it. It was flavorful but difficult to describe.
“What’s this called?”
“Zurek. It’s a sour rye soup.”
“Sour rye?”
“Like sourdough. It also has boiled pork sausage. The Polish serve it on Easter. But it’s good anytime. Especially when it’s cold. Do you like it?”
“I do.”
After we finished our soup, our server brought out two plates each with three dumplings. They were lightly browned and sprinkled with bacon. I poked one with my fork. “This does look like a gyoza.”
There were three flavors of pierogies—potato and cheese, cabbage and barley, and spicy meat, covered in butter and bacon. All three were delicious.
The pierogies were as good as April had promised, and I was already full when