Bing Crosby's soothing, melodic voice sings through the overhead speakers. There's a plate of kielbasa in front of me, and I can't help thinking of my Uncle Peter. I know why: he was a Crosby fan (we'd always have to watch "White Christmas" when he visited for the holidays), and as my father's older brother, the name Zukowski should tell you that he was Polish.
I'm eating lunch at Polka, a wonderfully small, throwback restaurant in Eagle Rock, Calif. owned by an immigrant family from Poland. I'd despaired of finding Polish food ever since moving to Southern California almost 20 years ago, and didn't know of this eatery until seeing it featured on one of Huell Howser's recent shows. Howser is a California content-generation factory, producing and hosting local-interest programming for about 20 years for public television. Viewers outside California probably don't know him at all; viewers here all know him, even if some aren't fans of his folksy style.
Back to the kielbasa. The restaurant sits in an unattractive strip mall next to a dry cleaner, and its door and windows are completely dressed in décor and signage. If you are only attracted to bright, clean, carbon-copy, chain restaurants, don't go.
The interior of Polka is a trip in itself. It looks like it was decorated by a platoon of grandmothers. It's all pink, and there isn't a square inch unadorned by some trinket, knick-knack or bauble. Somehow, though, it all works, and the star attraction anyway is the food.
Back to the kielbasa. This was my first, but certainly not my last, trip to Polka, and I had to start the Polish-cuisine sampling with the obvious. If the chef can't do kielbasa, they can't do Polish food. They can do Polish food.
In our family, my mother was the chef. She was Irish, but she learned well how to cook my dad's favorite foods. I grew up on pierogi, golabki and kielbasa. She used to boil the Polish sausage; Polka broils it. I prefer it grilled, the way my Uncle Kurt, who was German, made it. Charcoal smoke can't be beat.
My dad died in 1995. His younger sister, my Aunt Kathryn, died earlier this year just short of her 92nd birthday. Uncle Peter died in 1977, shortly after retiring from his job with the New York subway system. My cousin Dot - Kathryn's oldest - told me at her funeral that she remembers Peter as being scary. That wasn't my memory, but I understand that. Peter didn't speak much and was probably an enigma to a young girl.
Actually, I take that back. Peter could be talkative, whenever it came time for him to leave. A bachelor most of his life (he married in his mid-50s), he probably appreciated visiting our family most just when he had to depart. But because he wasn't much of a storyteller, I never learned much about his early life. I know that he served in Patton's 3rd Army and was in the Battle of the Bulge. He had a nice, clean apartment just two subway stops away from us, across the street from the railroad yard where he worked. He was a loyal Chevy man, and he let me drive his 1968 Impala shortly after I got my license. That would be last car he'd own.
Back to the kielbasa. By the time I've gotten through the automatic appetizers of cabbage soup and a salad with a distinctively delicious homemade dressing, and half of the lunch - two large segments of the sausage, carrots, green beans, corn, brown rice and mashed potatoes - I'm already stuffed. I'll finish the rest at home, where I can continue to linger in the memory of warm family meals, Bing Crosby music, and Uncle Peter. And where's it's not so pink.
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