First of all, my computer can’t make the little tail the “a” should have in paczki (pronounced pawn-ch-key). Apologies all around.
(kitten aside: I bet you could if you bothered to look through your computer settings)
The Thursday before Lent here in Poland is called Tlusty Czwartek. It’s like Fat Tuesday without the beads and breasts. And on a Thursday. Still nearly a week from Lent. Leaving me to question why it’s on Thursday, not Tuesday, but who am I to question.
For Tlusty Czwartek one eats donuts and faworki, but we excluded the faworki from our celebrations. Faworki are like fried dough. Our donuts are paczki.
Now, you may be asking, why is this blog post called “The Running of the Paczki”? Let us tell you. Getting paczki on Fat Thursday is no simple matter. Oh, no my friends. First of all, where do you get your paczki? (Kitten aside: Obviously, this is a greater question if you don’t have a babcia making them for you.) So there are bakeries at the malls; bakeries on the street corners; bakeries at the peasant stalls; and even your local Zabka will provide baked goods. (Lamb aside: The Zabka should have a dot over the Z, and a little picture of a frog, because that’s the sign of the store. Our local Zabka has a host of workers who love to hear me “speak” Polish. They say I’m very good. They're liars.)
So where to go for Paczki? And why a run on donuts? These are not simple donuts, my friend. These are fried, goo-filled, sugar-encrusted, balls of delight. (Kitten aside: And heart-burning diabetic coma) So where did we go? We had a multiprong attack on Poland’s Western Front. (Kitten aside: German joke, take one) First, we consulted our local Poles. Second, we consulted our local Polish blogs. Third, we even consulted our local Polish print media. And, yes, where to get the best paczki was a major news story. You think I jest. Wait until the pictures are loaded.
So, after we triangulated our information we continued with the tri-prong approach and chose three locales from which we would purchase paczki. First, an independent bakery known as Pon-Czek. Second, the renowned Kandulski bakery of which there are many locations in the city. And finally we hoped to try Elite Bakery, also with several branches inside Poznan. Here’s how it went down in actuality.
As we approached Pon-Czek, we saw a stream of Poles lining the street as though it were a run during communist times; there was pushing, there was shoving, there was complaining, there were looks of supreme existential despair. This was all for an Elite Bakery location we were bypassing. Still, it bode ill.
We made our way to Pon-Czek; the line was sizable, but not wrapped around the street. We elbowed our way through the crowds, and were eventually faced with our second choice: what filling(s) did we want? Fundamentally, Meghann decided two of each. I agreed. The flavors were raspberry, advocate, rose, and chocolate. Walking out of the bakery, we each bit into a paczki; our first success.
Next we skipped the still long line at Elite and pressed on to Kandulski. There we encountered yet another line. Not as long as Elite, but far longer than Pon-Czek. We queued up. As we stood there, an old Pole asked us, “Is it good or cheap?” We told him we didn’t know. He seemed to think Meghann was an idiot for standing in a line about which we knew nothing. Soon, in a moment not like communism, three friendly middle-aged women stood outside the bakery while vaguely in line, discussing the various lines to other bakeries. (Kitten aside: How is this not exactly like communism?) (Lamb aside: I’m getting to that.) What wasn’t like communism is that as people left the bakery, the women did not go inside, leaving crucial gaps between their spots and the door, an easy mark for cutting. The older woman behind us was clearly about to have a nervous breakdown over the gap in the line. Luckily all was well, and we got more paczki. This time, the flavor was cherry. Just two more. Though looking back, I wonder if we should have tried the cognac flavor. (Kitten aside: I’m sure there’s still some there.)
But what of Elite? Would we manage paczki from Elite? No. The answer on the door of Elite was a sign stating “Brak.” Meaning, “Gone.”
Still, we went home with a full bag of paczki, we ran the Poles, we survived the lines, and we ate well that night. (Kitten aside: There is no respect for the amount of work it took for her to come up with vocabulary on the spot with people pushing in line behind her.) (Lamb aside: Oh, kitten. Everybody loves you. There was no rush in the crazy pushing Poles behind us. They just wanted to touch you to express love. Like a crush hug. In a mob) (Kitten aside: I feel we’re being demeaning to Poles somehow.) (Lamb aside: I don’t think so. I think it is a fact that Polish people don’t line up well. It seems a demonstrable fact. Just like Americans don’t learn languages well, unlike Poles who seem to know at least 2 – 4) (Kitten aside: Well I guess they got us there)
Eventually this will all have pictures as well.
