Wombgingwonga (or something like that)
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If you can’t tell, Jared is on the verge of tears in this photo. This is due to a combination of fatigue, hunger, swollen feet, and bruised pride. We had just finished making a bunch of art in Williamsburg when we realized we were feeling faint. It dawned on us that we had not eaten since our breakfast of instant oatmeal and it was nearing 6. A friend had told us that we must try Lomzynianka. We knew the approximate crossroads and while we didn’t know its real name at that time, we were told it started with a “K” and was pronounced something along the lines of “wombgingwonga”.
With that knowledge we set off to march up and down Manhattan Ave for what felt like six hours, looking for the place. We passed several Polish restaurants, but none that started with “K”. After a few passes up and down the block we began to suspect the place was run with speak-easy secrecy, and we started examining unmarked doors and whispering “pierogi” at passersby. I decided to ask a nice Polish shop keeper if she knew where “wombginwonga” was. “Willy Wonka?” she repelied and then she laughed. If you were to walk up to a Spanish speaker and asked where “grrrbrrrba” was, they would rack their brain for anything that sounded like that mumble, they would break out a dictionary and search it while serving you snacks and complimenting you on your beautiful accent. The Poles will mock you with a cold stare. Further evidence; after the Willy Wonka humiliation I asked a woman at a Polish grocery store. I prefaced my question with, “I don’t speak Polish and I know I am not pronouncing this correctly, but……” Her answer; “Is that a chinese place?” Humiliation complete.
Since we were unable to communicate with the natives we decided the best course of action was to wander up and down the block whimpering. I knew things were getting bad when Jared pressed his face against the window of a Polish bookstore and insisted we just eat there. We had to clean the saliva off the glass before we walked on. After passing a bakery for the fith time, I vowed to eat my weight in pastries. Jared stopped me and pointed at a place we had passed 73 times, “could that be it?” It was spelled “Lomzynianka”, no “K”, but if you were drunk enough I could see it sounding a bit like “wombgingwonga”.
We had found it! It was everything we had been told and more. For instance, no one bothered to tell us about the decor. Stuffed elk heads anyone? No? What if I told you they had plastic flowers between their horns? That’s what I thought. Fake brick on one wall and ceramic tile on the other? Check. Red white and blue streamers hanging from every inch of the ceiling? Of course. Blue string lights on one wall, red and green on the other? Done. They politely ignored the crazed looks on our faces and seated us near other patrons, just like we hadn’t gone feral with hunger and fatigue.
We ordered until we weren’t hungry. The polish sampler, white borscht, potato pancakes, yellow soda for me and the red soda for Jared. There was some sort of pickled salad with shredded beets, cabbage, carrots, and kraut. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have even looked at the salad, let alone stuff it into my mouth with both hands while rolling on the floor. Jared finished his and then gnawed on the edge of the table until the main course arrived. The white borscht should be renamed “hot dog soup” and served with every meal everywhere in the world. The potato pancakes were crisp and large. The pierogis were delicious with cheese fillings, the kielbasa was devoured in one bite. The last thing eaten was stuffed cabbage. It was bland but the size of a loaf of bread, so we were still pleased with it.
We kissed all of the customers and staff before leaving, and then marched off to the West Village to buy some dessert from the Magnolia Bakery. Approximately 200 miles and 18 hours later we ate our cupcakes and banana pudding in a nearby park as we wept with fatigue, hunger, and the profound joy that is only found in the unexpected cessation of pain.
