Dinner at U Kucharzy (An American in Warsaw)

What does one do when one has the opportunity for an epic meal in a foreign city but nobody with whom to share it? One blogs about it, so that one can share it with everybody.

Tonight, at the very strong recommendation of a friend of a friend, I walked into an unassuming restaurant on a side street in Warsaw, a few blocks from the Old City. The place is called U Kucharzy, which, near as I can tell, is pronounced "ooh koo-HGHAR-shee" (in which the "HGH" is that gutteral 'h' that only seems to exist in Eastern European languages and cats on their way to a hairball). What follows is my experience...

Upon walking in the front door, I am instantly struck by one thing - it is loud. The jazz trio in the corner of the bar is knocking it out of the park. The bar patrons are yelling over the music. I can't even see the dining area, but I can hear jubilant voices echoing from down a corridor. This is not going to be a fine dining experience; this is going to be a gastronomic event. This is going to be fun.

I greet the headwaiter. He is dressed in a bold blue plaid suit, a white tuxedo shirt, a maroon bow tie, and bright red shoes. I can best describe him as a cross between Elton John and a circus clown.

"I was told this is the one place I need to eat in Warsaw."

Instantly, he responds, "It's true. I need two minutes, if you'd like to wait in the bar."

Twenty minutes, several apologies, and one Kasztelan (a rather nice, crisp lager) later, I was led to my table-for-one, right next to a rambunctious party of eleven who I'm sure had all kinds of fun at my expense.

[I should note that in walking the Old City before dinner, I passed restaurant after restaurant that was completely empty. This place was jammed, absolutely packed to the gills.]

Comfortably sipping my beer, I order the steak tartare, the barley soup, and the roast duck stuffed with apple. The food sounds incredible. And it smells incredible. But then...oh my, the presentation!

A chef comes out of the kitchen with a rolling cart and parks it in front of my table. He greets me, and spends the next five full minutes preparing my steak tartare on the cart. He chops it and smoothes it and chops it and smoothes it until it is more paste than meat. He sprinkles it with salt, pepper, and olive oil. Chop, chop, chop. Adds some onion (chop chop chop), pickle (chop chop chop), and capers (chop chop chop). Gives it one last smoothing swirl with the knife and spoons it onto my plate. My first thought is, "Wow, this looks amazing." My immediate second thought is, "Oh shit, I have to eat all of this by myself!" But one bite removes any fears of a struggle. The tartare has the consistency of yogurt and the flavor of the best carpaccio you've ever had. Divine.

As I finish my tartare, my waiter suggests a shot. By now the mood of the place has taken hold of me, so...who am I to say no? Of course, it is vodka. And I do not drink vodka. But, when in Rome...so down the hatch it goes. I have to admit, I rather enjoyed it.

The barley soup comes. Which means a chef comes out with a saucepan full of it and ladles some into my bowl. It is gorgeous. Huge chunks of potato, smaller bits of carrot and onion and meat and oh yes, barley, and probably a dozen other things in a fantastic brown broth. I absentmindedly pick up my fork, and my waiter laughs out loud. I laugh as well, and blame it on the shot, which he apparently misinterprets as me asking for another, because 30 seconds later he is pouring another shot for me. This could be a long night. The soup, by the way, is spectacular. And it is hot as hell. I decide that if I eat it fast enough, it might actually cook the quarter pound of raw beef I just ate before my stomach gives me a royal "WTF? First a pisco sour--" (which, for the uninformed, is a Peruvian cocktail that includes raw egg white, and which I consumed for the first time exactly one week ago) "--and now this?"

The barley soup is gone. Vodka shot #2 goes down. We are approaching uncharted drinking waters in a country where I don't speak the language. And I still have work to do tonight.

The duck arrives. The entire duck. It is carved for me tableside. Words can no longer do this justice; I must resort to pictures.

Why yes, I would like some duck. How about that half?

OK, yeah, that'll do.

I don't even know what I'm eating anymore. Duck, yes. Potatoes, yes. But then some weird purple vegetable...oddly cut beets? Strangely colored cabbage? Whatever it is, it's delicious. And this berry glaze that was so gently laid upon the duck? It looks like the lingonberry jam from IKEA. Which I'm certain it is not. But it's exactly what the poor duck never knew it needed. Just a touch of sweet. I'm running out of adjectives.

The leg portion and half of the potatoes are gone. And it looks like I haven't even started. I get committed and dig in. I'm in the effing zone now. Screw that party of eleven - this American is throwing down!

Eventually, I stop eating. The duck is gone. The potatoes are gone. The weird beet/cabbage thing evidently got de-prioritized, as its remains and the half duck carcass are all that are left on my plate.

The waiter gamely asks if I'd like another beer. I'd rather crabwalk home than eat or drink another thing. He sees the defeat in my eyes and grins. Then he brings the dessert tray. I can't help myself; I manage to point to the smallest one. I have no idea what it is, but -- surprise! -- it's delicious. A tart-sized pie crust, filled with caramel creme, topped with finely sliced peanuts and a chocolate drizzle. Sublime.

Finally, mercifully, I am done. The check comes. Including tip, it is just under sixty US dollars. It has been just a shade over two hours since I walked in the door.

I pat my waiter on the back and ease my way into a largely silent street. Across an expansive plaza, I pause to pay my respects at the tomb of the unknown soldier. Then I drift away into the evening mist, alone with my umbrella, my very full stomach, and a memory that will last a lifetime.

Dziękuję, U Kucharzy. Dziękuję.