bitful

There is a delicatessen shop about a five minutes walk from where I live. I walk past it almost every single day, and I was convinced it was Italian. I never paid much attention to it, but for a while they've had panettone and pandoro (Italian Christmas cakes) in the window.

I am more of a supermarket kind of person. One stop for all that I need, huge selection, wide range of prices - and I normally aim for the bottom shelf: after all, it's just food, I don't care what I put in my mouth, as long as it's cheap and filling. I should probably rephrase that.

This afternoon I was missing a basic ingredient for tomorrow night's dinner, and since it's typically Italian (I'm afraid I can't say what it is, as tomorrow night's menu is a surprise and my guest will probably read this), I popped out to the deli certain that they would have it in stock.

As I opened the door, I heard people speaking what sounded like a Slavic language, had a quick look around and realized it was a Polish shop. One hundred per cent Polish. I had given up on finding what I needed, but had a look around anyway out of curiosity. I was about to pick up some cherry juice (extra-sweet souvenir from frequent holidays in Croatia), when I saw my Prince. No, not "my Prince", nor one of Michael Jackson's kids, nor Charles o' Windsor, but Prince Polo: the best candy bar / snack in the world, which major markets are Poland (where it is produced) and, for some obscure reason, Iceland! A quick look at the back of the packet proved it, as the packaging is in Polish and Icelandic (and English too, since it was bought by Kraft).

The deli of miracles had not stopped to amaze me though. One last look around while waiting for my turn to pay as the woman in front of me was buying half a pound of every single luncheon meat available (is there a major Polish holiday coming up?), and there, staring at me from one of the shelves, were several packs of the Italian stuff I needed. Mind you, nothing else Italian in the shop, just that. And it was not something as widespread as pasta. Why?

My turn came up. I smiled, paid, got out and stepped back into London. What is surprising is that I've lived in this area for almost six months, and only during the course of the past week have I realized that it must be a Polish neighbourhood, with a Polish church I noticed the other day and a newsagent where they have a wide selection of Polish press, including crosswords and the TV Guide.

Off to cuddle up with my Prince now. Can't wait to unwrap it and sink my teeth into it.

Dobre bo Polskie!

This entry was posted on Thursday, February 13th, 2003 at 11:10 pm and is filed under uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.