I used to live in Poland. I worked in a fish-and-chip shop in the western city of Poznań, boning cod and peeling potatoes for £1.50 an hour. With the exception of that job, I enjoyed everything about my time in the country, not least the food. I liked the chicken broth with noodles, the slippery herring, the knuckles of pork the size of basketballs, the cold beetroot soup that beats gazpacho hands down.
One thing I was less delighted by were Polish dumplings – pierogi. It wasn’t that they weren’t nice – they were – it was more that they didn’t seem to warrant the extreme levels of affection and esteem Poles often bestow on the doughy parcels. By being ambivalent about them, I was going against a well-established grain.
It is claimed by some that pierogi arrived in Poland via Marco Polo (actually a myth), and that the oldest written Polish recipe dates to 1682 (true). In short, these things have pedigree, and you denigrate them at your peril. I almost lost a Polish friend once for not being smitten with Poland’s answer to gyoza and ravioli. Such was her reaction, you’d have thought I’d denigrated the late Polish pope, John Paul II.
“I don’t understand this mentality,” said Paulina. “Have you tried the ones filled with cheese and potato?”
“Yep.”
“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.”
I had versions of this conversation several times when telling Poles that I was merely fond of pierogi rather than hopelessly devoted. On each occasion, the babcia (grandmother figure) in question was either dead or otherwise engaged, meaning that their dumplings couldn’t be tested, and my opinion – that pierogi are just OK – couldn’t be validated.
Until now perhaps. Having enjoyed searching for the perfect steak frites in Paris, I set myself the task of giving pierogi a proper crack of the whip in one of Poland’s finest cities – its jewel on the Baltic coast, Gdańsk. Could the old port city cure me of my pierogi scepticism? Would the dumplings of a local babcia bowl me over? The answer was yes … and no.
Gdański Bowke
After a mooch around the picturesque old town (during which I learned that Daniel Fahrenheit, inventor of the temperature scale, spent his first years in Gdańsk before leaving as a teen, having realised how cold it got in winter), I pull up a pew on the riverside terrace of this well-regarded establishment. I have a mixed plate of the classics: potato and cheese, cabbage and mushroom, minced pork. They’ve been boiled then shallow fried, ensuring a slightly crisp finish, and are served with the traditional accompaniments: sour cream and bacon bits jostling in their own lardy juices.
The first thing that strikes me is the size of these parcels. Boy, are they plump. Of the selection, potato and cheese triumphs, with the optimal mouthful requiring a touch of each topping: the bacon bringing a salty crunch, the lard adding an umami note, the sour cream resolving the whole. In short, solid grub in a lovely spot.
£13, 7.5/10, gdanskibowke.com
Panorama
No chance of just happening on this restaurant: it’s on the 16th floor of what might be charitably called a nondescript building. The view isn’t postcard-perfect but it’s powerful: the vista is dominated by the city’s famous shipyard, where in 1980 trade union leader Lech Wałęsa and his unmerry men downed tools and gave communism the cold shoulder.
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The boiled dumplings have been blackened with charcoal or squid ink, filled with a raspberry reduction and white Belgian chocolate, then decorated with strawberries and cream. This is a main course, by the way, not a dessert. I have fun pressing a fork through the foreboding dough and watching the innards spill. Gory but enjoyable. There’s a nice sourness from the raspberries, the chew on the dough allows the flavours to travel and combine, and I like the crunch you get from the tiny raspberry seeds. I had been tempted by the savoury pierogi option – rabbit with thyme sauce – but I went with madam’s suggestion and I’m glad I did. After all, babcia know best.
£11, 7.5/10, panoramarestauracjagdansk.pl
Mandu
The dumplings here are made on site and it’s a lovely thing to witness – the craft, the culture, the skill of the babcia. The menu is extensive: 40 types, with baked, boiled and deep-fried options. Some of the fillings require a double take: chorizo, potato, mascarpone and … truffle paste, anyone?
I’m pleased to see variety, though. As with the sandwich, conceivably a dumpling can be filled with anything. (In Cleveland, Ohio, I once encountered bacon cheeseburger pierogi – which I interpreted as evidence that multiculturalism was working just fine.)
I have a baked half-dozen, filled with a mingling of beef, cheese, red onion and pickled cucumber. Small pies they are, befitting the etymology of pierogi. The filling is excellent, but the heavier carriage of the yeast-risen dumplings starts to weigh on me, and I find myself digging out the interior and foregoing the case. I would have appreciated a mixed plate option, to avoid things getting samey.
£12, 8/10, pierogarnia-mandu.pl
Stary Młyn
This pierogi specialist is housed in an old mill – hence the name, which translates as old mill – on the edge of what has become known as booking.com island, on account of its popularity with tourists. I have the mixed plate – nine iterations of Poland’s beloved comfort food. There’s a half-hour wait after ordering, while the dumplings are “cooked on the fly”, the ceaseless prep apparent at the back of the dining room. The wait gives me a chance to read a kids’ book I find on the merchandise stand (yep, there’s merch) about a dumpling that goes on an adventure and ends up as prime minister.
The fillings are decent: beef rib, cod fillet, chicken and cheese – but they are somewhat overpowered by the dough. One shortcoming of Polish dumplings is that a plate of them, even a mixed one, can get a bit repetitive.
Here’s an idea: individual dumplings, slightly enlarged, handheld, easily taken away and munched on the move? The largest pierogi ever made, incidentally, was about two metres long and weighed nearly 100kg, though the largest recognised by the Guinness World Records weighed 55.7kg – both, unsurprisingly, in the US.
£15, 7/10, pierogarnie.com
Oberża 86
Gdańsk is officially in a relationship with two other cities – Sopot and Gdynia. Together they are known as the Trójmiasto, or Tricity. I take a short train ride to Gdynia, the ugly sister of the three. After vainly wandering around for an hour in search of pierogi, I’m about to abort the mission when I chance on Oberża 86. I confess my head is turned less by the name or the building and more by the word Michelin on the sign. I pop my head in and ask if they do pierogi. They do, as a starter, just the three pieces, filled with broad beans and served with a shallot sauce, which they suggest pairing with a wine from the north-west of Poland.
I’m sold. And soon I’m smitten. The sauce has a zing that comes from the onions being slow-cooked with wine and lemon. The dough has the quality of pasta. The filling is gentle, and balances the tangy sauce. And there is the right amount – a lovable trio, rather than a testing half dozen. The wine helps, I must say. It’s lairy, with apple vibes and a slight fizz, the Johnny Rotten of the white wine world. After crowning Oberża 86 my winner, I waddle to the local beach for a swim, wondering if I’ll be more or less buoyant after all the pierogi I’ve taken on board the past couple of days.
£12, 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