The Sunday Times Magazine • 47apples and onions, plush comfort
for those dreaming of the grand
cafés of Krakow and Warsaw.
Those stout pierogi, garlicky
shredded duck and pork in jackets
of chewy dough, dressed not only
in butter but soured cream —
and dots of frazzled smoked bacon
for extra insulation against the
vicious winds strafing the steppes
of South Ken. But it’s not the
food I come here for: it’s not
often that I find myself jonesingfor pork knuckles the size of a
large baby or linseed oil-marinated
herring. It’s everything else that
makes it somewhere I go back to
again and again: its serene, almost
melancholy beauty, dried roses
drifting down pale walls. Its
house-flavoured vodkas, served
in little carafes for blotting out
everything that requires blotting.
But most of all I love the staff,
charming men and maternal,
rather stern women who
command you to pour all of that
generous tot of rum over your
baba. Yes, they might also add
“if you’re greedy”, but you do as
you’re told. It was here I chose to
mark the moment we officially
left the EU. Apt, I thought: not
only European, but designed to
offer succour for the unhomed.
I knew the staff here would make
me feel as though I still belonged.
And, briefly, they did.
When I worked in restaurants
the hierarchy enraged me. Even
the language is telling: “chefs”
— heads — in the kitchen, the
obnoxious American import
“server” out front. (Since “waiter”
is a noble profession and “waitress”
is antediluvian, I intend to use
the former from now on,
irrespective of sex.) Good
waitstaff should be applauded
every bit as much as the cooks.
Ognisko was also the first place
I came to at the end of the first
fully draconian lockdown. Again
via the US, there had been a lot of
pious cant about how we shouldn’t
go to restaurants during the
pandemic, even when not locked
down, as they were exploiting the
staff. I confess, prone to Catholic
guilt at the best of times, it got to
me — even though I knew our
working practices and healthcare
support were very different. So
I asked our waiter, as she glugged
the ferocious chilli vodka into
my glass, how it felt to be back at
work again. She stopped in her
tracks. “I’m so happy,” she said,
“I’m back with my family.” n
Twitter: @MarinaOLoughlin
Instagram: @marinagpoloughlinStern maternal
women command
you to pour that
generous tot of
rum over your baba
ILLUSTRATION BY ALEX GREEN
Plate of the nation
An Indian banquetfrom Opheem offers
lasting satisfaction“Eighty-five quid for a home
delivery curry?” you might splutter.
But two things: first of all, it comes
from the kitchens of Aktar Islam,
of the Michelin-starred Opheem in
Birmingham. Second, there are ten
dishes designed to feed four, which
represents astonishing value.
A household of two, we ate it over
three nights, each meal different
— an adventure in vac-packed
pouches. One was accidentally
all-vegetarian: a gingery veg
jalfrezi, methi aloo (potatoes with
fenugreek) and dal with loads of
the perfect, fluffy basmati pulao.
Another featured beef dhansak
and a dish of chickpeas, peas and
sweetcorn: delicious, if a little Birds
Eye-does-veg-curries. The only
duffer was murgh kali mirch, whose
sweet, curdy sauce had developed,
by night three, a sinister cheesy
backnote. But it could have been
dandy on day one. And some puffy
bread looked like the stuff I buy
from my Turkish corner shop.
A Malabar fish curry in a soothing
coconut-creamy sauce with curry
leaves, mustard seeds and a thrum
of chilli, however, was divine. All
freezable, if you don’t fancy three
nights of Indian food (why not?),
and there’s a vegan version. MO’LAktar at Home Curry Box;
£70 plus delivery (nationwide)