Ponitka's Pierogi by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

4 – The Birth of a Polish Nation

The absurdity began with complete seriousness, which is the only way that it can efficiently and convincingly start, without a shrill, repelling overture to the fourteen year olds of mind and spirit; not to mention the adult retards who hold ostensible sway on the markets with their collective miniscule purchases and disparaged product reviews.

At the same time it should be simply noted that the stage was set. Criticism of blacks, jews, or muslims was punished; which made it all the more irresistible to those who thought that they were sufficiently hidden by the cryptic, yet secretly revealed for profit, operators of sites on the web. More web savvy posters saw this as an opportunity to show some chutzpa and safely make fun of the un-protected groups; the Whites, the Polaks, the Wops, the Micks, the hetero males, and the righties with guns. “Likes,” irrespective of their intent and dubious value, was viewed as a currency.

Uninterested in the aforementioned fashionably outre crapology, Wladyslaw Ponitka had previously contracted with Neveah Vazquez, a tatoo recipient by way of Venezuela, for home renovations; or maybe it would be more accurate to say that his wife, Ada did. No matter, the job went fine, but Wladyslaw couldn’t help but notice that Suavimir Szymanski did all the work. Neveah, ostensibly a licensed plumber and general contractor, only drove up in his recent model, metallic blue Mercedes to do the estimate and make collections.

So Wlady decided to cut out the middle man and go direct for this bathroom re-model, contracting with Suavimir, who had the annoying habit of showing up at 8AM.

Suavimir arrived at 7:58 AM, which he considered "8AM sharp." He knocked once; hard enough to imply urgency, soft enough to imply professionalism, and let himself in through the open garage door, when Wlady didn't answer fast enough.

Wlady came down the stairs in a robe, rubbing his eyes. Suavimir, already spreading drop cloths, said; "Good morning, boss. I start now. Bathroom waits for no man."

Wlady said; "It's eight in the morning, Suavimir."

Suavimir replied; "In America, yes. In Poland, this is practically lunch."

He said this with the confidence of a man who had not lived in Poland for two years. As he unscrewed the old shower valve, Suavimir launched into one of his monologues; half nostalgia, half propaganda, half complaint.

He said; "You know, Wladyslaw, you are famous in Poland. Or were. Before the league changed the rules. But Kraków; my Kraków, that city would have loved you. Real people. Strong people. I like Trump. He’d do well in Poland. I started getting loads of jobs right after he became President for the second time. I was struggling with Biden in office. Poland is not like here, where everyone wants gluten free pierogi."

Wlady said; "Tell me about it. I've never been to Kraków."

Suavimir froze, wrench in hand, as if Wlady had confessed to never having seen the sun. He chastised; "You? A son of Poland? Never been? This is tragedy. Shakespeare level tragedy. In Kraków, we have history. We have culture. We have men who know how to tile a bathroom without YouTube. Houses there are sturdy, made of cement. Not like here. Someday a big wind is going to come and blow all this away." He resumed working, muttering in Polish about "lost sons" and "American softness."

Wlady said; “Stone is pretty good.”

While fitting the new copper line, Suavimir leaned back on his heels and delivered the line that would, in retrospect, doom everyone. "You know what all my old friends from Kraków do now? Bathroom remodels. Bathroom remodels in America. Every single one. Chicago, Detroit, Phoenix, Tampa; bathrooms everywhere. Poles are taking over American plumbing. It is our destiny."

Wlady questioned; "All of them?"

With confidence, Suavimir replied; "Every last one. And they all complain the same thing: 'Suavimir, where is good Polish food? Where is taste of home? Why must I eat burrito for lunch like animal?'" He shook his head, deeply offended on behalf of his diaspora.

Suavimir paused briefly and then continued; "There are millions of us here. Millions. All hungry. All working hard. All dreaming of real pierogi, not this frozen supermarket garbage."

He said "millions" with the same confidence he used when measuring tile by eye instead of by level. He went on to add; “I like Poland, especially for its ethnic purity, but I want to make some money in the US before returning home to Krakow. With all these Poles in the US, its a great idea to give them their own food.”

His belief in Poland's "ethnic purity" isn't a manifesto; it's a young man's inheritance. It's the worldview of someone who grew up in a culturally homogeneous environment and assumes that should be normal everywhere. He likes the order and familiarity of home. He sees the US as chaotic but potentially lucrative, apparently unaware that this is also the predominant American view. He probably doesn't understand that most Poles in the US, like Wladyslaw are third generation and eat Chipotle.

Wlady wasn't fully awake, but something in the speech hit him; maybe the pride, maybe the grievance, maybe the idea of millions of Poles wandering America in search of cabbage rolls. He imagined them; tired, dusty from drywall, clutching their lower backs, and yearning for a plate of steaming pierogi. It was a demographic he understood. It was a demographic he was interested in.

Wlady slowly said; "Millions, huh."

Suavimir avoided sneering when he answered; "Millions. And all with money; US green. Bathroom remodels pay very well." He winked, as if he personally controlled the entire Polish-American GDP.

By the time Ada came downstairs; hair perfect, robe elegant, expression already suspicious, Suavimir had convinced Wlady that Poles were the fastest growing ethnic group in America, that they were all in the trades, that they were all starving for real Polish pierogi, and they would pay handsomely for a place that served "real food from the motherland,"

Ada walked in on the tail end of the pitch.

Suavimir continued; "... and this is why America needs Polish restaurant. Not fancy. Not fusion. Real. Honest. Like bathroom remodel; simple, strong, reliable."

Wlady said to Ada; "He says there's a market."

Ada said; "For what?"

Suavimir answered for Wlady; "For destiny." He said it while tightening a compression fitting, which hissed slightly, as if agreeing.

Norm Pitkin said; "I’ve been standing here listening to all this. This is another Taco Bell!"

Wlady said: “How did you get in here?”

Norm said; “Some jerk left the garage door open. Not bright in these days of home break ins.”

Wlady said; “So why are you here?”

Norm said; “I was going to tell you that I drummed up some interest for you; a tryout with Givaat Shmuel of the Ligat HaAl ........ “

Wlady interrupted to say; “What?”

Norm patiently replied; “The Israeli Basketball Premier League, but forget about it. It doesn’t pay much anyway; and in sheckels, too. What I’ve been hearing here is much better. ‘Ethnic authenticity.’ Look, I’m doing you a favor, and I can make all the necessary arrangements. This tidal wave of Polish tradesmen doing bathroom remodels is a demographic trend. ‘Authenticity’ is a commodity. And you’re proudly Polish.”

Wlady remained silent, but was thinking; “I’ve always felt American, ever since my mother told me that’s what I was at age eight. I haven’t eaten pierogi in twenty years. I prefer sushi.”

Suavimir grunted while tightening an un-cooperative nut, saying; “Everyone I know from Krakow is here doing bathrooms, and they all tell me they can’t get any good Polish food where we live in Albion.”

Norm said; “Hear that. Opportunity comes once in a lifetime. Look, Wlady. Face the facts. You’re financially comfortable, but not secure. You have enough cash on hand to get this thing going. After it’s going we can franchise it and rake it in; maybe even go public. Every ethnic food can be franchised if you just scale it hard enough.”

Wlady, on the other hand, didn't trust Norm. Not because he’s a crook; because he’s not very competent, gullible; in this case running off with an idea he just heard for the first time five minutes ago. But Wlady also needed the money with his middling career over.

Suavimir chimed in with; “Americans love ethnic food; why not ours? If you build it, Poles will come.”

Before Wlady could say anything, Norm blurted; “See? Poles love this stuff! ‘Ponitka's Pierogi’!!! Rings a bell, doesn’t it? I can make all the arrangements.”

Wlady said; “Done; but I want Suavimir here to be the CEO.”

Ada said; “What? ....... How much of OUR money are you putting up?”

Wlady said; “I don’t have all the details. ....... You don’t want to live in Hebron, do you?”

Ada deadpanned; “Bat Yam’s better.”

And she then left the room.

Norm said; “She’s joking. ....... She’s joking. ...... You know that she’s joking. Right?”

Suavimir said; “She’s joking. ....... CEO? Huh? Sounds impressive, but what does it pay?”

Norm said; “Pay? You get options that will be worth millions in a year.”

Wlady said; “I’ll pay you just like I do for doing my bathroom.”

Norm said; “Suavimir, you can’t lose.”

Suavimir nodded, and the deal was done, with Norm handling the money, putting up none of his own, and looking forward to taking his unspoken, but customary 10%.