My journey into the heart of Polish gastronomy began not in a bustling Warsaw eatery, but in the unassuming western city of Poznań, where I once lived and worked in a fish-and-chip shop. For a modest £1.50 an hour, I spent my days meticulously boning cod and peeling countless potatoes, a rather unglamorous initiation into the country’s culinary landscape. Yet, despite the humble beginnings of my employment, my time in Poland was an overwhelmingly positive experience, a sentiment largely fueled by my deep appreciation for its robust and soulful cuisine. The delicate, comforting warmth of chicken broth with noodles, the surprisingly delicious tang of slippery herring, the monumental, basketball-sized knuckles of pork that offered a hearty challenge, and the refreshing chill of cold beetroot soup – chłodnik – which, in my estimation, surpasses gazpacho hands down, all left an indelible mark on my palate. However, amidst this symphony of flavours, one iconic Polish dish consistently failed to ignite the same level of enthusiasm within me: pierogi. It wasn’t that I found them unpleasant; indeed, they were perfectly palatable. My ambivalence stemmed from a perception that these doughy parcels simply didn’t warrant the almost religious reverence and fervent affection that Poles universally bestow upon them. To express anything less than adoration for pierogi was, I quickly learned, to go against a deeply ingrained national grain, akin to questioning a fundamental tenet of Polish identity. The cultural significance of pierogi is immense, steeped in history and folklore. While some romantically claim their arrival in Poland was courtesy of Marco Polo – a popular but ultimately mythical tale – historical records paint a more accurate picture. Pierogi, or similar filled dumplings, have roots across Eastern Europe and Asia, likely making their way to Poland through trade routes and cultural exchanges during the Middle Ages. The earliest verifiable written Polish recipe, dating back to 1682, unequivocally confirms their long-standing presence and culinary pedigree within the nation. To denigrate such a dish, therefore, is to tread on sacred ground. I vividly recall almost losing a Polish friend over my lukewarm sentiments towards what she passionately described as Poland’s answer to gyoza and ravioli. Her reaction was so intensely protective, one might have thought I had dared to speak ill of the late, beloved Polish Pope, John Paul II himself. "I don’t understand this mentality," my friend, Paulina, had exclaimed, her brow furrowed in genuine bewilderment. "Have you tried the ones filled with cheese and potato?" "Yep," I’d replied, already anticipating the familiar litany of questions. "Have you had the ones from the fancy place on the old square?" "Yep." "Have you had the frozen ones from the supermarket?" "Uh-huh." "Have you had the ones from the milk bar near Freedom Street?" "More than once." "Hm. Have you tried my grandmother’s?" "Erm, no." "Well, there you are. Mystery solved. That explains your mentality. You have to reserve judgment and stop talking nonsense until you’ve tried the dumplings of a babcia." This conversation, or variations thereof, became a recurring theme whenever I dared to admit that my feelings for pierogi ranged from mere fondness to polite appreciation, rather than the expected, unyielding devotion. In every instance, the mythical babcia (grandmother figure) in question was either long departed or conveniently unavailable, meaning their legendary dumplings remained untested, and my contentious opinion — that pierogi are, at best, "just okay" — could never be definitively validated or refuted. Until now, perhaps. Inspired by a previous successful quest for the perfect steak frites in the culinary capital of Paris, I resolved to give pierogi a truly comprehensive and open-minded evaluation. My chosen battleground: Gdańsk, Poland’s magnificent jewel on the Baltic coast. This historic port city, with its rich cultural tapestry and burgeoning food scene, seemed the ideal location to confront my long-standing skepticism. Could Gdańsk finally convert me? Would the fabled babcia-level pierogi reveal themselves? The answer, as it turned out, was both yes… and no. Gdański Bowke: A Riverside Classic My culinary exploration commenced at Gdański Bowke, a highly regarded establishment nestled on the picturesque riverside terrace of Gdańsk’s old town. After a leisurely stroll through the charming cobblestone streets – during which I learned that Daniel Fahrenheit, the inventor of the eponymous temperature scale, spent his formative years in Gdańsk before departing in his teens, perhaps deterred by the city’s bracing winter chill – I settled into a comfortable pew, ready to embark on my pierogi quest. The restaurant exuded a traditional yet refined ambiance, popular with both locals and discerning tourists seeking an authentic taste of Pomeranian cuisine. I opted for a mixed plate, featuring the quintessential classics: potato and cheese (pierogi ruskie), cabbage and mushroom, and minced pork. These dumplings, I observed, had been expertly boiled to tender perfection before undergoing a shallow-fry finish, imparting a delicate crispness to their exterior. They arrived accompanied by the traditional accoutrements: a generous dollop of sour cream and a scattering of crispy bacon bits, all glistening in their own savoury, lardy juices. The first thing that struck me was their impressive size; these were undeniably plump, generously filled parcels. Among the selection, the potato and cheese variant emerged as the undisputed champion. Each optimal mouthful required a careful combination of elements: the crispy bacon delivering a salty crunch, the rendered lard contributing a rich, umami depth, and the cool, tangy sour cream providing a creamy counterpoint that harmoniously resolved the entire flavour profile. It was, in short, solid, comforting grub served in an absolutely enchanting location, a testament to traditional Polish cooking done right. Price: £13, Score: 7.5/10, gdanskibowke.com Panorama: A Modern Take with a Historic View My next stop, Panorama, required a deliberate effort to locate, situated on the 16th floor of what could charitably be described as a nondescript building. Yet, the journey proved worthwhile, not for a postcard-perfect panorama of the old town, but for a powerful and profoundly moving vista. The sprawling view was dominated by the iconic Gdańsk shipyard, a site etched into the annals of modern European history where, in 1980, trade union leader Lech Wałęsa and his determined Solidarity movement initiated the strikes that would ultimately challenge communist rule and alter the geopolitical landscape of the continent. Dining against such a backdrop added a layer of historical gravitas to the culinary experience. Here, the pierogi offered a radical departure from tradition. The boiled dumplings, strikingly blackened with either charcoal or squid ink, were filled with a vibrant raspberry reduction and luxurious white Belgian chocolate. They were then artfully decorated with fresh strawberries and a delicate swirl of cream. This audacious creation, I was assured, was intended as a main course, not a dessert. I found a perverse pleasure in pressing my fork through the foreboding, dark dough, watching the crimson raspberry innards spill forth – a deliciously "gory" and thoroughly enjoyable experience. The raspberries provided a delightful sourness that cut through the richness, while the chewy texture of the dough allowed the complex flavours to meld and evolve with each bite. The subtle crunch from the tiny raspberry seeds added another layer of sensory pleasure. Although I had been tempted by a more conventional savoury option – rabbit with thyme sauce – I deferred to my server’s recommendation, and I’m immensely glad I did. It was a bold, innovative dish that challenged my preconceived notions of pierogi, proving that sometimes, as the babcia wisdom implies, it’s best to trust the experts. This represented a sophisticated, almost deconstructed interpretation of the classic, showcasing the versatility of the form. Price: £11, Score: 7.5/10, panoramarestauracjagdansk.pl Mandu: The Avant-Garde of Dumplings Mandu presented itself as a temple to dumpling diversity. The most captivating aspect was the open kitchen, where the craft of pierogi-making was on full display. Witnessing the skilled hands of the chefs meticulously folding and crimping each parcel was a truly lovely thing – a palpable demonstration of culture, tradition, and culinary artistry. The menu was nothing short of encyclopaedic, boasting an astounding 40 different types of pierogi, available baked, boiled, or deep-fried. Some of the filling combinations demanded a double-take, pushing the boundaries of what one might expect: chorizo, potato, mascarpone, and… truffle paste, anyone? This adventurous spirit extended beyond Poland, reminding me of the "bacon cheeseburger pierogi" I once encountered in Cleveland, Ohio – a dish I’d interpreted as irrefutable evidence that multiculturalism, at least in the culinary sphere, was thriving splendidly. I opted for a baked half-dozen, filled with a hearty mingling of beef, cheese, red onion, and pickled cucumber. These were more akin to small, savory pies, a nod to the very etymology of "pierogi," which derives from the Proto-Slavic "pir" (feast) and later evolved to mean "cake" or "pie." While the filling was excellent, rich and well-balanced, the heavier carriage of the yeast-risen dough began to weigh on me. Unlike traditional pierogi dough, which is typically unleavened and thin, the yeast-risen variety provides a breadier, more substantial casing. While this can be appealing, I found myself, towards the end of the meal, selectively excavating the delicious interior and leaving portions of the thick dough behind. A mixed plate option, allowing for a lighter and more varied experience, would have been greatly appreciated to prevent the meal from becoming somewhat monotonous. Price: £12, Score: 8/10, pierogarnia-mandu.pl Stary Młyn: Traditional, But Repetitive Stary Młyn, meaning "Old Mill," is appropriately housed in a charming old mill building on the fringes of what locals affectionately refer to as "booking.com island," a testament to its popularity among tourists. This pierogi specialist offered a mixed plate of nine iterations of Poland’s beloved comfort food. After placing my order, I was informed of a half-hour wait, as the dumplings were "cooked on the fly" – a practice that ensured freshness and highlighted the ceaseless preparation visible at the back of the bustling dining room. The wait afforded me the opportunity to peruse a curious children’s book found on the restaurant’s merchandise stand (yes, there was merch) – a whimsical tale about a courageous dumpling that embarks on an adventure and ultimately ascends to the lofty position of prime minister. This charming anecdote underscored the deep cultural integration of pierogi into Polish society, even finding its way into children’s literature as a symbol of aspiration and transformation. The fillings were decent enough – beef rib, cod fillet, chicken, and cheese – each offering a distinct flavour. However, a common pitfall of some Polish dumplings became apparent here: the substantial dough, while fresh, tended to overpower the delicate fillings. One inherent shortcoming of ordering a large plate of pierogi, even a mixed one, is the potential for culinary repetition. The texture and form remain largely consistent, and even varied fillings can struggle to maintain excitement over nine pieces. This experience led me to ponder an innovative concept: individual, slightly enlarged, handheld pierogi, easily taken away and munched on the move, perhaps a modern adaptation for busy urbanites. This idea contrasts sharply with the record-breaking pierogi attempts, such as the two-meter-long, nearly 100kg monster once created (though the Guinness World Record officially recognizes a 55.7kg pierogi) – both, perhaps tellingly, achieved in the US, where scale often trumps subtlety. Price: £15, Score: 7/10, pierogarnie.com Oberża 86: The Unexpected Winner in Gdynia Gdańsk is part of a dynamic urban agglomeration known as the Trójmiasto, or Tricity, officially linked with two other cities: Sopot and Gdynia. Sopot is renowned for its elegant pier and vibrant resort atmosphere, while Gdynia, often dubbed the "ugly sister" due to its more modern, functional port city aesthetic, offers a different charm. I took a short, scenic train ride to Gdynia, initially disheartened after an hour of fruitless wandering in search of pierogi. Just as I was about to abort my mission, I chanced upon Oberża 86. My head was turned not by its unassuming facade or name, but by the promising word "Michelin" proudly displayed on its sign (indicating a Michelin recommendation or Bib Gourmand, a significant mark of quality). I cautiously inquired if they served pierogi. They did, but with a refined twist: a starter portion of just three pieces, filled with broad beans and elegantly served with a delicate shallot sauce, which the server suggested pairing with a local wine from the north-west of Poland. I was instantly sold, and very soon, completely smitten. This was pierogi elevated to an art form. The shallot sauce possessed a remarkable zing, a bright acidity derived from the onions being slow-cooked with white wine and lemon, creating a sophisticated counterpoint to the dumpling. The dough, unlike some of its heavier counterparts, had the delicate, almost silken quality of freshly made pasta – thin, yielding, and allowing the filling to truly shine. The broad bean filling itself was gentle, subtle, and perfectly balanced by the tangy sauce. Crucially, the portion size – a lovable trio rather than a challenging half-dozen – proved ideal, leaving me satisfied but not overwhelmed. The accompanying wine, a revelation from a region not typically known for its viticulture, was indeed a character. It was bright, "lairy" even, with pronounced apple notes and a slight, invigorating fizz – the "Johnny Rotten of the white wine world," as I mentally dubbed it: unconventional, bold, perhaps a touch unpolished, but utterly captivating and full of personality. Crowning Oberża 86 my undisputed winner, I waddled contentedly to the local beach for a well-deserved swim, pondering whether I would be more or less buoyant after the substantial pierogi pilgrimage of the past few days. My skepticism, if not entirely eradicated, had certainly been softened, and my palate had discovered a new, elevated appreciation for Poland’s iconic dumpling. The quest for the ultimate babcia’s pierogi remains an elusive, perhaps romanticized, ideal, but in Gdynia, I found my perfect pierogi, a testament to culinary innovation within a cherished tradition. Price: £12, Score: 9/10, oberza86.pl Ben Aitken is the author of A Chip Shop in Poznan: My Unlikely Year in Poland. To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply. Post navigation Share your travel tip: Europe’s mountain holidays beyond the slopes.
