I didn’t arrive in Poland with any grand plan to understand the country through its food. In the beginning, I was just a foreigner with a rucksack and a handful of words that dissolved the moment I tried to use them. Those early years when my friends stood beside me — guiding, translating, interpreting. They helped with menus, made suggestions, sometimes ordered for me. They nudged me to try things on my own, and when I managed even a simple “poproszę” or “dziękuję,” I’d be rewarded with that warm Polish encouragement that makes even the most basic phrase feel like a small triumph. Back then, I was still a guest — curious, hesitant, and supported by the kindness of people who wanted me to see their world.
Then I moved to Poland, and the safety rails came off. Food was chosen not for adventure but for survival — whatever I could pronounce without causing a diplomatic incident. Sometimes that meant a safe bułka and a banana from the local Biedronka, my first ever solo meal in Poland. And sometimes it meant relying on the quiet kindness of friends who fed me when I was too ill to feed myself.
Somewhere between the steam of a milk‑bar kitchen, the glow of a zapiekanka stand outside Katowice station, and the slow shift from being helped to helping myself, a map began to form. A map not of places, but of people — and the meals that carried me from stranger to something almost like belonging.
Krakus Jars to Gołąbki
When I was a child, the only Polish food I knew came in glass jars. My grandmother kept them on a shelf in her pantry — the name Krakus on the label mystified me, declaring it to be a ‘Produce of Poland’. Preserved fruits with a label that looked foreign and slightly magical. Blueberry, or maybe bilberry, I could never quite tell. They went into a pie with other fruits, both sweet and tart, lashings of custard or, a good pouring of condensed milk, which I especially enjoyed. The jars sat there quietly among the tinned peaches, pears, baked beans, a box of Bisto and other long-life foods. Krakus was a little window into a country I couldn’t imagine. Poland was just a name on the far side of my bedroom atlas.
For many years, those jars were the whole of my understanding of Polish food. Even later, in supermarkets, the Krakus jars stood out in isolation — pickled cucumbers that looked nothing like the cucumbers I knew, I recognised beetroot, but not so the foods with labels with names like sauerkraut. In Polish it’s known as kapusta kiszona, but I seem to recall in conversation people shortened it to simply kapusta — which might be unhelpful if you’re trying to buy a fresh cabbage and keep being handed something that’s been fermenting since the late Bronze Age.
Growing up in the North East in the 1960s and ’70s, anything with kraut in the name sounded firmly Germanic — which, depending on who you asked, ranged from “perfectly fine” to “absolutely not.” Sauerkraut felt like the deluxe edition: too much sour, too much German, and frankly I felt horror toward anything pickled. Piccalilli was the worst offender. My grandparents would place a jar of that yellow substance on the table with the casual confidence of people who had survived a war. It glowed with an intensity that suggested it was either radioactive or sentient. I’d stare at it, half‑expecting it to introduce itself.
Pickled onions were marginally less terrifying. My grandmother prepared enormous jars of them — great glass vessels filled with pale, floating spheres. I have eaten them, or attempted to, during that strange British lunch known as a Ploughman’s, a meal that implies a man has taken a lunch break from the fields with nothing but cheese, bread, an apple, a pickled onion or two.
But pickled eggs? Absolutely not. Full stop. The very sight of them — boiled eggs suspended in a cloudy amber fluid of unknown origin — was enough to make me reconsider the entire concept of food safety. They sat on pub counters like minor officials awaiting instructions, each one looking as though it had been pickled mid‑career for disciplinary reasons. Approaching the jar felt like entering negotiations with an entity that might, at any moment, request documentation.
I’m laughing even now at the memory of two of my Polish friends during a visit to Chester, standing in a local fish and chip shop as I encouraged them — with a straight face — to try a pickled egg. I can’t imagine anything worse than the sight of that half-filled jar of mysterious amber fluid sitting on a chippy counter, yet I offered only the vaguest explanation that they were ‘different.’ These were people raised on ogórki kiszone, śledź, and sauerkraut sharp enough to make your eyes water at twenty paces — yet one bite of a British chip-shop egg defeated them utterly. Each managed a single mouthful before politely asking if they were allowed to throw the rest away, as though seeking permission to abandon a diplomatic mission. I can still see their faces now. For months afterwards, they’d bring it up at random, shaking their heads in disbelief and reminding me, with great solemnity, that it was the worst thing they had ever eaten in the United Kingdom.
I tried sauerkraut for the first time in Hamburg in 1979, and the acidity hit like an ambush. One bite and I was blinking as if a cabbage had pepper‑sprayed me. It felt like centuries of fermentation had been preparing for that moment — and I walked straight into it. I wasn’t able to eat another mouthful.
Sauerkraut, or to be precise in Polish — kapusta kiszona — the backbone of bigos, a dish cherished in Poland — was something I treated like a hostile foreign power for years. Living in Poland changed that; I not only made peace with it, I learned to enjoy it. My younger self would never have believed it.
What really intrigued me, though, shopping in any of the large supermarkets, was finding huge drum-sized containers holding kapusta kiszona. I understood glass jars and even small plastic tubs of it for sale. Poland didn’t do pickled cabbage by the handful; it produced it on a huge scale. I’d walk into a shop and find vast, self-serve open vats of the stuff. Back home, pickled cabbage came in a jar you could lose behind the HP Sauce. In Poland, it came in something you could bathe in.
And there I’d be, standing in the aisle, staring into these cabbage reservoirs with the awe of a man who once blinked at a single forkful.
After Poland joined the EU, the country began to drift closer. It was Polish people — thousands of them — bringing with them the foods they loved and needed. Polish shops appeared on high streets across the UK — bright signs, shelves filled with things that looked both ordinary and exotic. Even the big supermarkets caught on, dedicating half an aisle, or more to Polish products: pickles, sausages, juices, jars of things I didn’t recognise but would learn to.
Looking back, it’s strange to realise that my first connection to Poland wasn’t a place or a person, but a row of jars in my grandmother’s pantry. A quiet beginning, but a beginning all the same.
I moved closer too. Through my work with clients, and later through friendships, I found myself edging into the world behind those labels and shop signs. To help build community cohesion, I set up a project called Projekt Otwarte Drzwi — The Open Door Project. It was meant to be simple: a space where people could meet, talk, ask questions, and feel less like strangers in a new country.
It was there, in our Friday drop‑in centre that always smelled faintly of instant coffee and photocopier toner, that I was introduced to gołąbki. A woman arrived one winter afternoon carrying a foil‑covered tray, the kind people bring to family gatherings. She set it down with the quiet pride of someone offering a piece of home. When she told me the name — “little pigeons” — I must have looked troubled, because she burst out laughing. “No pigeons inside.”
My Polish friends and visitors to the drop-in stood watching at the kitchen counter eyes wide open, smiling, they genuinely seemed full of joy to see a food they recognised from Poland. As the foil was uncovered, I thought perhaps unfairly, but true to my own experiences — this smelled like a British school dinner—all mince and boiled cabbage. But that first impression was entirely wrong. That first bite — warm, comforting, unexpectedly tender — tasted like something made with care, something meant to be shared. And without realising it, I’d just met one of my favourite Polish foods.
Looking back, it makes perfect sense that my first real introduction to Polish cooking didn’t happen in Poland at all, but in a community hall in the UK. Before I ever boarded a plane, Poland had already begun feeding me.
The jars in my grandmother’s pantry had been the prologue. I just hadn’t known it yet.
Poland: First Tastes
Years later, I finally stepped through the doorway those jars had quietly opened.
When I finally travelled to Poland in 2007, it felt foreign — unmistakably so — but not in the way I’d expected. I’d drilled my basic phrases, rehearsed airport conversations, and carried my phrasebooks like survival gear, yet something about the place felt half‑known, as if I’d walked into a story I’d been circling for years. Still, nothing prepared me for the moment the plane doors opened and the air hit my face — colder, sharper, carrying a scent I couldn’t name. I walked across the tarmac with the strange feeling that I was both a visitor and someone returning to a place he’d never been.
Inside the terminal, I spotted them immediately: my friends, two women waving Polish flags with the enthusiasm of a welcoming committee who had decided, unanimously, that subtlety was overrated. Their laughter, their excitement, the way they pulled me into a hug before I’d even cleared the doorway — it was my first real taste of Polish hospitality, and it arrived long before the food did.
Weeks earlier, they had asked what I wanted to eat on my first night in Poland. Wanting to honour the moment — and completely unaware of the culinary consequences — I’d chosen what I believed to be the most Polish dish imaginable: bigos. I had no idea I was requesting something that required days of preparation, resting, reheating, and more resting.
As we drove through the outskirts of Kraków, the winter light fading into a blue‑grey dusk, everything felt unfamiliar and strangely gentle at the same time. Road signs I couldn’t read. Buildings that looked both Soviet and European. A landscape that didn’t match anything I’d imagined, yet didn’t contradict it either.
When we reached my friends’ home, the smell met me before the door did — rich, smoky, sour‑sweet. My friend’s mum hadn’t just made bigos; she’d made the kind families save for holidays. On the table waited thick slices of bread, an ice‑cold beer, and, of course, vodka.
My friend frowned when she saw me agree to another shot. “Please… don’t drink vodka,” she said, with the weary affection of someone who had watched foreigners make brave but regrettable choices. But the vodka didn’t flatten me. It sharpened everything — the sourness, the smoke, the meatiness — and somehow made me hungrier.
The first mouthful of bigos was a shock. Not unpleasant, just intense. Deep, wintry, full of flavours — sauerkraut unmistakable, cutting through smoked sausage, other meats and mushrooms. There was a hint of gaminess too, something ancient and forest‑like. It was the kind of dish that didn’t just sit on the tongue but travelled upward into the nose and down into the chest, warming places I didn’t know needed warming.
Then came dessert — makówki. Cold, dark, heavy, soothing. Nothing like the bread‑and‑butter pudding I knew. The poppy seeds, dried fruit — now softened and plump — and just a note of rum, a sweetness that felt oddly festive, as if Christmas had been compressed into a bowl. I remember pausing after the first spoonful, not because I disliked it, but because I needed a moment to understand it. It was unfamiliar, yes, but also strangely comforting, like being handed a family tradition without the instructions.
By then the room had settled into that soft, post‑meal tiredness where everyone leans back a little. My friend slipped away to rest her voice after an evening of interpreting, and I stayed at the table with her brother, whose English was excellent and whose enthusiasm was undimmed.
He suggested seconds. Before I could protest, he was already at the fridge, spooning out portions that looked suspiciously like both seconds and thirds. When he set the bowl in front of me — poppy seeds glistening under the kitchen light — I realised this was the real test of belonging.
And somewhere between the second helping and the laughter around the table, something shifted. I stood up and insisted on helping with the washing up. My hosts reacted as if I’d offered to dismantle the boiler. A guest does not wash dishes in a Polish home — but I wasn’t trying to behave like a guest any more. I was trying, in my own small way, to say: I’m here. I’m part of this now.
Second Breakfast
Years before I ever stepped foot into Poland, I’d already encountered the custom of drugie śniadanie in a British office. I worked with a Polish interpreter who moved, spoke and thought at lightning speed. At ten each morning, she would place a foil‑wrapped parcel on the table and say:
“Przyniosłam nam drugie śniadanie, Gary. Nic nie kupuj.”
I’ve brought us second breakfast, Gary. Don’t buy anything.
For weeks, I ate whatever she handed me, assuming she had taken personal responsibility for my survival. Eventually, when we’d grown used to each other, I asked, “Do we actually need a second breakfast? I take lunch at noon.”
She gave me the look Poles reserve for Englishmen who have missed something obvious — and explained the habit. That was the moment I realised I wasn’t correcting her English. I was learning her culture.
So when I awoke in my friend’s home the next morning — feeling slightly worse for wear from the journey, the late meal, and, admittedly, the vodka — I dressed quickly, tried to make myself look vaguely human, and wandered downstairs into the kitchen where my friend and her family had been up for hours. Instantly, that memory came rushing back.
Breakfast had been laid out like a small celebration: sliced ham, cheeses, sausage, radishes, homemade jams, fresh bread, and bułki, soft bread rolls that seemed designed for mornings like this.
I whispered to my friend, “Is this first or second breakfast?”
She roared with laughter.
“To twoje pierwsze śniadanie, ale może być naszym drugim.”
Your first breakfast — but it can be our second.
And now, standing in a Polish kitchen, whispering about first and second breakfasts while my friend laughed loud enough for her parents to ask what was so funny, I understood just how deeply that rhythm ran.
Somewhere between the ham, the cheese, and the sliced tomatoes, I found myself eating on Polish time.
Kotlet Schabowy and The Mundur Górniczy
A few days later, I visited another friend’s home. By then I’d already learned that Polish families take genuine delight in hosting, and her family was no exception. But this meal felt different from the ceremonial bigos of my first night. This wasn’t a dish prepared for an occasion. This was simply what they ate — and that made it feel even more intimate.
Her mum served kotlet schabowy: pork cutlets, breaded and fried until crisp and golden. It came with boiled potatoes, the cooking juices and oil spooned over the top. I cannot overstate how quickly this became one of my favourite meals. It was simple, honest, and deeply comforting.
Beside it was mizeria — cool, creamy cucumber sliced so thin it was almost translucent. I didn’t know then that every family had their own version, or that this quiet little dish would become something I’d crave years later. At the time it was just refreshing, unexpected, and perfect alongside the kotlet.
And then there was the salad.
My friend brought out a glass bowl so large it could have doubled as a fish tank. Inside was a layered salad — colourful, careful, almost architectural. Each layer was distinct: vegetables, sweetcorn, chicken, mayonnaise, something pickled, something sweet. It looked like a celebration disguised as a weekday dish.
What I didn’t realise then was that this was the heart of Polish home cooking: not grand gestures, not special‑occasion meals, but the everyday generosity of a family table. The kind of food that appears without fuss, made because that’s simply how they feed the people they care about.
And yes — vodka appeared again, as inevitable as the bread on the table. I tried to pace myself, but refusing a shot felt impossible. You raised the glass, thanked your hosts, drank — and somehow it was full again before you’d put it down.
After the meal — after the kotlet, the potatoes, the mizeria, the layered salad, and the vodka that refilled itself whenever I looked away — my friend’s father did something I will never forget.
He disappeared for a moment and returned carrying his ceremonial miner’s uniform — known as the Mundur Górniczy, together with the szpada górnicza, a miner’s ceremonial sword. In Silesia, mining isn’t just a job; it’s a heritage, a responsibility, a source of pride woven through generations. The uniform reflects that. The jacket, the distinctive hat with its plume, the sword — each piece carries meaning.
He was a serious man, quiet, direct, the kind of person whose presence filled a room without effort. A manager, with the weight of countless responsibilities on his shoulders. And yet, that evening, he smiled — a warm, unmistakable smile — and insisted that I try on his uniform.
My friend, her mum, and brother laughed loudly as I stood there, solemn and slightly overwhelmed, but her father didn’t laugh. He watched with pride.
There are photographs of that moment somewhere — me standing stiffly, wearing a jacket that didn’t quite fit, a hat with a huge feather denoting a rank I didn’t yet understand, and holding a real ceremonial sword. I don’t know if I still have the photos, but the memory is vivid. Not because it was surreal, though it was, but because it was a gesture of trust. A welcome far deeper than I realised at the time.
He passed away in 2021. My friend is still devastated. When I think back to that evening now, I feel it differently — not as something strange or humorous, but as a quiet honour. A small, generous moment from a man who, without saying a word, chose to share a piece of who he was with me.
That first visit stayed with me in ways I didn’t understand at the time. There are countless books about Polish food and culture, written by people far more knowledgeable than I am. This isn’t one of those. It’s simply the story of what I was given — the meals, the kindness, the small rituals that opened a door for me. I grew to love Polish food, but more than that, I grew to love the people who placed it in front of me. I didn’t eat like this every day, not then and not later, but those first tastes shaped everything that followed.
In 2010, when I returned not as a visitor but to live and work, I realised just how much that first welcome had already prepared me.
Ghosts to Carry, Stories to Keep 