Who knew the place to be in Detroit on Christmas eve-eve is Hamtramck’s Polish Village Café for a festive midday meal? I do now. We were lined up out the door, along the sidewalk of this pseudo-thriving, old-world, working-class neighborhood. Of course, being caught up in the holiday hustle of the ‘Still have to do in the next 24 hrs.’ mode, and already wearing the winter-weighted look of the carb-laden, sugar-cookie coated Midwesterner, I was less than enthusiastic to get a last minute invite from mom and dad for a Polish lunch. Dad is a real meat-and-potatoes, salt-of-the-earth, solid, Irish-stock of a man. Now weak, tired and thin from the return of cancer, he had a hankering for some pork chops. So I slapped on my bolshevik (faux) fur hat and hopped in the backseat for the 15 minute jaunt down I75 from Royal Oak to the familiar Caniff exit leading onto Joseph Compeau Avenue and into another realm.
The streets were bustling (ok, maybe stirring) with activity and Christmas decorations. Among the closed and boarded-up businesses were some Open signs and people, like women and children and elderly couples, crisscrossing the narrow, district streets, having friendly conversations, smiling, stopping, waving, shopping. I felt a stir of hope for this city. A glimmer. But this human presence was not the big surprise. That came when we pulled into the public parking lot. It was packed. Odd. Walking up to the Polish Village Café building, smack-dab in the middle of the brick, duplex, residential neighborhood, we realized there were people waiting to get in. It was 1p.m. and the lunch hour was going strong. More were coming, they were taking names, and my frail father was waiting too, begrudgingly, but working hard to rustle up a little patience. If I wasn’t there, they would’ve left. But I was and I was thrilled to be part of this. I felt so connected to my Detroit history and reassured with my decision to move back here a few years ago and stick it out, no matter what. It’s what Polish families, many of whom came from this neighborhood and still live there, waiting in line for pork chops and mashed potatoes, do. There were sticking it out. That’s what they do. That’s what we do.
It was a festive, colorful, steamy affair of glittering tinsel and heaping plates of hot, delicious, carb and gravy-laden delights; Pierogi, sauerkraut, cheese, kielbasa, potato pancakes, cucumbers, bread, applesauce and yes, pork chops. Sure, the average customer weight is over, way over, but the spirit is healthy, nourishing and filling. If this isn’t comfort food, I don’t know what is. So, Christmas eve-eve is past but the winter lingers and though my snowbird parents won’t be making that annual pilgrimmage to Florida this year due to Dad’s health, we know where to go to get a little more of those loving helpings of warmth and hope. The Irish stick it out too and we’d like to thank the Polish for their potato pancakes.
No comments:
Post a Comment