To dine in the amber halls of the Jadlo is not a simple task. One cannot wistfully point at this or that item and suppose all is well. No, on behalf of the mighty flowing Vistula and Oder the mind must wander like their beguiling waters, first serene and then treacherous. There is no warning. The ghosts of six million lost souls wander the nether highway from Poland's Curzon Line, they attempt to migrate to any place with traces of Polish pride--praying for a time long past when even the vicious Teutons were humbled in their presence.
Here, dragoons linger with halberds gripped, here, the gaze of Jagiellon nobles fall upon your shoulders and burden you. Your senses weary.
Enough of these prophetic rambles. The food we ate was mediocre. The chicken kebabs were dry and overcooked, the vegetables were average and sparse. My memory disallows me to identify the white substance adjacent the kebabs--only that is was semi-malleable. The beets, I am relatively certain, were canned and the pickles were . . . pickles. The potato dumplings were bland and in need of some non-existent dressing.
The perogies were a saving factor--light and airy, crisp. Wonderful. I think this experience was partially folly on my part. I am aware that the spectrum of good food narrows the more north you go in europe. I think it would have been better to simply order very obvious Polish specialties--namely beef strogonoff or more perogies of various types. I still do not condone "menu filler" though--which is what I consider what me and my companions ordered.
I curse the Piast Dynasty.
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