benchilada | (no subject) (Reply)

In my dream, Pope John Paul the II was still alive and was running a deli in Chicago. My wife and I were looking for authentic Polish food that wasn’t just boiled meat or a sweet pastry when we stumbled upon this place. The glass door swung open with the slightest touch and the bell above our heads rang three, four times as we walked in.

The place had to have been there for sixty years, at least. The tiny black and white checkered tile floor had been worn almost flat from decades of high heels and Florsheim shoes. Naked incandescent bulbs made everything so bright, so much so that you could see every pore on your face when you looked at the stainless steel edging on the meat case.

“One second, one second,” said the Pope and began to carefully drop little wads of dough into an enormous pot of boiling water. His touch was so delicate that each one hit the water like an Olympic diver, barely making a splash at all.

“Pierogi?” my wife asked knowingly.

“Not just pierogi!” he grinned as he doffed his miter and wiped beads of sweat from his brow, “but wild mushroom pierogi, with potato and onion!”

My wife and I looked at each other with approval.

“They’ll be ready in a few minutes, I just need to stir them a bit so they don’t stick,” he said and grabbed an ancient wooden spoon from its hook on the wall. As he stirred the water, we heard a quiet but gruff person speak from the back corner of the shop.

“Don’t let him tell you about the tongue!” came the old woman’s voice, cracking with ever word.

“You ever have tongue?” the Pope asked with an altogether different giant smile on his face, “Beef tongue, not your wife’s!” he laughed and we heard a groan of resignation from the woman.

“No, we’ve never had it,” I answered, standing on my toes to look over the counter. At the opposite end of the counter I saw a tiny woman, sitting in a rocking chair and rolling her eyes. She looked across at the Pope and shook her head.

“I’d really like to try it sometime,” I assured him, “but I’m not sure today is the day.”

“But you must have it some day!” he giggled. “It’s the only food that tastes you back!” he finished and erupted into laughter.

“I told you not to let him tell you about the tongue!” the little lady admonished.

“Oh, it’s okay. My dad’s told worse jokes,” I laughed.

“Mine too,” said my wife with a smile, “much worse.”

“Hm!” said the woman as she stood up. She was almost the same height as she had been sitting down. As she shuffled around to our side of the counter, Sara and I started pointing at various things in the case, then leaning over fresh loaves of bread and inhaling deeply.

The old woman took a long look at my wife’s face, which was shadowed by her hat.

“You, you look Polish!” she exclaimed happily, “this man, not so much.”

“That’s right,” my wife smiled, “I’m one hundred percent Polish. My husband is not so lucky, he’s just a mutt,” and the lady laughed from deep in her belly.

“Okay!” said the Pope as he fished out the pierogi with a long pair of metal tongs, “bring them a plate, they have to try these!” The woman pulled a few china plates from a shelf by the door and, with shaking hands, passed one to each of us.

“What you need before your meal is some sweets!” she said, and dumped a handful of Werther’s and peppermints onto our plates.

“Hey!” shouted the Pope.

“I love them, but my son, bless his heart, he always brings me too many. You’re going to want more!” she asserted and poured more from a large plastic bag. Lifesavers, Bits o’ Honey, and little white Atkinson’s Peanut Butter Bars cascaded off our dishes and smacked against the floor.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said and slowly leaned over to pick up the spillage. I passed my plate to my wife, helped the woman back upright, and knelt down to pick up the candies. I saw that most were now broken inside their wrappers.

“Don’t any of you worry,” said the Pope, coming around the counter – I hadn’t noticed his “Kiss Me, I’m Polish” apron before – with a plate piled high with steaming potato and mushroom and onion buns.

We all took a seat at one of the black metal café tables and helped ourselves to the pierogi, burning our tongues out of impatience but not caring. The Pope went to get us all some bottles of grape and orange soda.

“So, is he a relative?” I asked the woman through a mouthful of salty dough.

“Who, Karol? Heavens no,” she smiled, “he’s just the Pope, you know?”

“Do you work here, then?” my wife inquired.

“No, I just wait here,” she said and looked down at her plate.

“Wait? For whom?” I asked and felt my wife kick my shin under the table.

“My husband,” she answered quietly. “I’m waiting for my husband.”

Karol came back with frosty bottles of Nehi and set them in the middle of the table.

“She comes in every day to wait for her husband,” he said and smiled warmly at her. “He’s been away for a while. But he’ll be back soon, won’t he?”

“You know,” the tiny little woman whispered, “I think he’ll be back today.”

“I think you’re right,” Karol answered so very quietly, “I think he’ll be back with you today.”

We ate the rest of our food in silence. The only sounds were glass bottles on a metal table and fingers wiping grease onto napkins.

The Pope got up first and went back behind his counter. My wife and I stood up, ready to pick out our purchases. As soon as we reached the glass case, however, the Pope lifted up two giant paper grocery bags and set them in front of us.

“Everything you might need. Żurek, a sour rye soup with sausages. Golabki, stuffed cabbage. Baranina and klopsiki and krokiet and szaszlik and enough kolachkes to down an elephant!” he beamed.

“I, uh…I don’t think I have enough to pay for all of this…” I said, sheepishly reaching for my checkbook.

“On the house today, for the two of you,” he said, pushing the bags towards us. We took them and showered our thanks on him. He just shook his head and kept insisting it was his pleasure. “I even put your candy in there. If I hadn’t,” he said, tipping his head towards the old lady, “I’d never have heard the end of it.”

We went to leave, our arms heavy with groceries, and I paused with my fingers on the door handle. Outside, cars were honking, bicyclists were speeding between pedestrians, and pigeons milled around a coffee shop across the street, begging for bits of scone and muffin.

As I pulled the door open, the bell rang above us again, three, four times.

“Z'Bogem!” shouted the woman as we left.

“It means ‘Go with God,’” said the Pope.

“We’ll do our best,” we assured her as we took the food out into our world.