The Blue Kiełbasa Van of Kraków

The sun is drawing to an end as long shadows are cast across the street. My wife and I leave our hotel on Józefa Sarego Street and walk along the border of the Kazimierz District, a walk that has become very familiar these last four days. I relish the moment, knowing it will be my last on this sidewalk. We cross beneath the train tracks and arrive at the corner of Grzegórzecka Street. I have one final wish while in Kraków, and that is to visit the blue kiełbasa van.

I read about it online. Some guy shows up every evening between 8:00 pm and 2:00 am in a blue Nysa van and grills up kiełbasa sausages. He's so popular that crowds line up to buy.

We arrive at the spot and as expected there is a short line for the savory links of meat. There, parked on the sidewalk, is the famous blue van. Nysa vans are a relic from the communist era in Poland. They were produced in the city of Nysa and production reached its peak in the late 1970's. When Poland became a democracy the demand for the Nysa began to plummet as the people preferred the safer and more efficient western cars.

An older man with a gray stubble beard and blue ball cap stands outside the van holding two skewers loaded with sausages over an open flame. Next to him are crates full of wood to stoke the fire. I notice that attached to the van is a retracted canopy he can pull out for shelter if it starts to rain. On this evening the skies are mostly clear.

On the window of the van a menu is posted. There are only five items: kielbasa and roll, 17 złoty; kielbasa (only), 15 złoty; orange drink, 5 złoty; tea, 5 złoty; and packaging (to go), 1 złoty. Of course, it's all in Polish, but I am able to understand.

I stand in line and watch the old man as he turns the skewers over the fire, the sausages sizzling and becoming darker. A younger guy moves in and out of the van, assisting the old man. I hear chatter among the people in front of me in line, and between the two kiełbasa men, and I understand none of it.

The line moves quickly and it doesn't take long before I'm at the front. In basic English (of which he understands), I point to the top menu item and say, “Kiełbasa and roll.” I give him 17 złoty and in return he places one perfectly charred kiełbasa onto a flimsy plate with a kaiser roll and a dollop of mustard.

A few feet away from the van stands a tall folding table with a wooden top and no chairs. With my new meal in-hand, I walk over to the table and begin to eat with six other strangers. This is a bizarre, but interesting experience. I don't know where anyone is from because no one is speaking. We all eat in silence.

With a plastic knife and fork I cut off a thick slice of kiełbasa and dip it into the mustard. It is still hot from the flames and very smokey. The outer edge is crispy and slightly tough, while the middle is thick and meaty, much more dense than the kiełbasa sausages sold in the States. I then follow it with a bite of bread.

I am hungry enough I have no problem finishing off the 8-inch long sausage. It is well worth all 17 złoty I paid for it. I now wish I would have bought the orange drink.

The sun has set and the lights of Krakow now illuminate the streets. A blue tram comes down the road and inside I see rows of weary travelers, heads down, waiting for their destination.

Jenelle and I have 20 złoty left and set out to find some ice cream or some other Polish treat. Tomorrow we will leave for good, so we need to spend what we have. It is a perfect ending to a pleasant stay in Kraków. ♠

A Sampling of Cambodian Cuisine

We arrived in Phnom Penh just before dusk and by the time we left the hotel to find dinner the streets were dark and a cloud burst had just erupted. With umbrellas overhead we walked and walked trying to find a place to eat, but most who were outdoors had already closed shop.

We finally found a place protected beneath a canopy and sat down to a menu. I will admit that my knowledge of Cambodian food was next to nothing. I glanced over my options and decided on a rice-porridge dish that included liver, heart, shrimp and cuttlefish. I felt it would be a great introduction. Jordan, on the other hand, played it safe and ordered a more conventional noodle dish. Our meal cost 34,000 riels.

I don't remember much about how the food tasted, but rather another incident that took place during our meal. Three young school kids came to our table, stood in front with their hands pressed together, apparently begging for money. This went on for two minutes until the owner shooed them away. Begging, I would learn, became a typical scene in Cambodia.

First meal in Phnom Penh.

Four days were all we had in the “Land of the Khmers,” and we wanted to make the most of it. That included a desire to sample as much food as possible. But I was soon to learn that there would be less learning of Cambodian cuisine (it all looked so similar and was indistinguishable from other Southeast Asian food with my untrained eye) and more enjoying the experience while eating it.

A similar scene unfolded the following evening. Now the rain had stopped and puddles of water sat in potholes, reflecting neon lights of the city. We spotted a restaurant across the road, and as we crossed we startled a large street rat.

The place was small and dingy, with buckets and a cooler stacked near the entrance. There was only one other table with guests. This truly was a hole-in-the-wall restaurant . . . and that was how I preferred it.

The food was good. I ordered the pork and noodle soup. Although it had a pleasing taste, I didn't know if it would have tasted any different than a pork and noodle soup from Vietnam or Thailand. The noodles were the thin angel hair kind. It had a couple slices of pork and three pork balls. There was a slice of carrot, as well as the usual handful of greens adorning a savory broth. But the thing that made the evening so memorable was the cockroach crawling on the wall next to us!

A dingy hole-in-the-wall restaurant. 

Pork and noodle soup.

Phnom Penh did not have the street food I thought it would. I expected something similar to Bangkok. Perhaps this was because we were there during monsoon season. But that's not to say there was no street food. We just found it in pockets.

We wandered around the street carts to assess our options. Alongside the many foods I did not know were two that stood out: deep fried frogs, and birds on a skewer. The frogs were not just the legs, but the whole body without the head. Two frogs adorned each skewer. The birds, on the other hand, came with the head, beak and everything else. We didn't buy either, but I would have if I had more time.

Instead I bought other meats on a skewer, and sweet rice wrapped up in a thin tortilla-like cover. We took our food in a little baggie to our hotel and took the elevator to the “sky bar.” We were the only ones there. I don't remember much about the food we ate, but rather of the view we had while we ate. Before us stood the jumbled cityscape of Phnom Penh with colorful roofs below and a birds-eye view of random skyscrapers. In the distance loomed heavy storm clouds that would soon burst in a downpour that would last all night long.

Frogs and birds on a skewer.

Dinner with a view!

We found this very refreshing sugar cane drink.

Speaking of our hotel (which was only $36 a night), it was one of the best I've ever stayed in. Not only did it have a nice view of the city, but a rooftop pool, four jacuzzis (all a different temperatures from cold to hot), and a piping hot sauna. They also had an excellent breakfast buffet. There was an ample selection of eggs, toast, pastries, salad, and noodle soup (kuyteav). An on-site chef with a very tall hat stood ready to customize the noodle soup.

My favorite, however, was bobor, a rice congee dish that is very popular in Cambodia. This was very similar to the porridge dish I had on my first night, but this one had a better savory broth with more garnishes to sprinkle on top. Bobor has a long history in Cambodia, dating back at least 1,000 years.

Kuyteav, a noodle soup often eaten for breakfast.

Bobor.

Garnishments for the bobor.

On our final night in Phnom Penh we went to the night market, which was located across the quay, near the Tonle Sap river. We walked through stalls selling shirts, purses, crafts and a thousand other items.

On the far end we came to the food court where aromatic stalls lined the perimeter. One thing that made this food court unique was that there were no tables and chairs. Instead, colorful mats were laid on the ground, each with its own basket of condiments.

Jordan and I ordered some food and sat on the ground like we were having a picnic. I don't know how common it is to eat on the floor, but I believe it is practiced throughout Southeast Asia.

I ordered the lort cha with beef, a stir-fry using short thick rice noodles topped with an egg. It was fried with garlic, bean sprouts and other greens, and was served on a bed of lettuce. The dish came with a small side of chili oil.

Afterward we ordered a plate of kebabs.  We chose what we wanted, and they deep-fried it for us.  I will admit that I didn't know what any of them were. One looked like an egg and another we guessed was tofu.

Lort cha with beef.

Deep-fried something on a skewer.

Reflecting back on that evening I can remember what the food looked like (probably because I took pictures), but not how it tasted. But I will forever remember the atmosphere⸺the night market, the mats on the floor, the mystique of being in a foreign land.

Shortly after finishing our meal they began rolling up the mats and setting up tables and chairs. My guess is that they did this for the evening influx, the chairs and tables being able to accommodate more people.

The other thing that made that evening memorable was the rain that began to fall shortly after we left the market. We had a mile-walk to reach our hotel. I used an umbrella, but Jordan chose to get soaked. We ended our time in Phnom Penh exactly how we began it⸺in the rain. ♠

Eating dinner at the night market in Phnom Penh, Cambodia.

First Six Hours in Lima

We left Jorge Chavez International Airport in the back of a taxi at 7:15 am. The first thing that stood out was that I was grateful not to be driving. Traffic was gnarly. Bumper to bumper, door to door. Honking every five seconds and old beat up cars vying for position. It was a miracle we didn't hit anyone. 

My second impression was that EVERYONE was wearing a mask. I considered asking the driver whether it was obligatory, but decided against it. Mothers, fathers, children, students, workers⸺they all wore the mask. 

A typical street in Lima, Peru.

Haze or smog enveloped everything. We were excited to see a southern hemisphere sun, but today would be disappointed. Nearby hills, that normally would be painted in color and detail, now stood as mere silhouettes. 

We passed along street after unknown street, not knowing if we were facing north, south, east or west. Buildings were coated in an array of bright colors, but were also falling apart. 

At last the cabbie parked alongside the road and announced he had come as far as he could. We must walk the remainder, which was only around the corner. Our travel from the airport had taken us forty minutes. 

Jirón Trujillo Street on the north side of the Rímac River.

We climbed the stairs to the front desk and as expected they told us it was way too early to check in. But they would hold our luggage. We could come back at two o'clock and our room would be ready.

Running on fumes from an overnight flight, we set out to do our best, exhausted and excited all at once. 

We crossed the Rímac River toward the Plaza de Armas and Lima Cathedral. The first item to draw my attention were all the police. They were everywhere! Armed with military rifles and some with shields, they looked as if they were poised for battle. Almost the entire plaza had been cordoned off and I wondered what was going on. 

I walked to a security guard and asked him why everything seemed to be closed off. He responded it was because of the threat of protests. 

Lima Cathedral.

One of many police found on the streets of Lima.

My second observation as we walked around were all the “works” going on. Every street, it seemed, was under construction. There were obras everywhere. Entire streets had been torn out and now workers laid mortar and brick one by one, taking their time. Buildings were blocked off with construction barricades and streets had detours around the workers. Between street workers and the police, the government must have been paying hundreds of employees on every block! 

After wandering for nearly an hour we finally made our first purchase of food: a sandwich for each. One with avocado and the other with olives. Nothing else. No oil. No mayo. It was the first olive sandwich I ever had. (And in all truth, I thought she said tuna, rather than aceituna!) 

The "obras."

Our fist attraction entered was the Convent of San Francisco, built in the 1600's. For twelve soles each we got entrance and an English-speaking guide. Between her Covid mask and thick accent, I barely understood a word she said, but got the gist. 

The Convent was beautiful. The art work, architecture, carved wooden furniture—all of it amazing.

And beneath it all . . . the catacombs! Thousands upon thousands of bones now laid in neat piles—mostly skull and femur bones—for all to see. We walked through a series of underground tunnels to view the subterranean arrangements. My favorite part came as we stood in a room of ossuary delights while listening to the choir on the level above us sing Gregorian chants. Unfortunately for us, no photography was allowed in the convent. 

The Convent of San Francisco, of course, under construction. Home to the catacombs.

As we had nearly three more hours to kill, I chose to fulfill a goal of mine and explore the hill of San Cristóbal on the north side of the Rímac River. 

To put it bluntly, crossing the Rímac to the north side was akin to crossing into Tijuana from San Diego. Whereas most of the historical sites on the south side were protected by hundreds of police, the north side was a different story. 

Our first attempt failed. 

San Cristóbal Hill beneath a blanket of smog. This area, unfortunately, is too dangerous for the average tourist.

Sudsy water of the Rimac River.

Painted wall on the north side of the river.

We hadn't even crossed the bridge when a lady with the “tourist police” stopped us and asked where we were going. “You can't go over there,” she said. “That's too dangerous. You should stay in this area where all the police are.” She then told me to tuck my camera into my pocket so no one could swipe it.

Part of the north side is semi-safe. Our hotel on Jirón Trujillo Street was there, and a wide array of restaurants and street vendors. But beyond that principal area, things get really sketchy. 

After taking a break on a bench in front of a church, we again tried to venture into that sketchy area toward St. Christopher Hill. We didn't get too far before a man from across the road looked us in the eye. He didn't have to say a word. He only shook his head and waved his finger. A similar experience happened shortly afterward. That was strike three. We gave up our fraught plan. 

This was about as far as we dared venture into the Rimac District.

Armed guard on the street corner.

With less than an hour to go, we found a street cart selling ceviche. Anyone familiar with Peru knows this is the national dish. Our chef, Jesús, turned out to be very friendly. 

We sat on plastic chairs in front of his cart. While he deep fried fish and sweet potatoes, he asked us an array of questions regarding where we came from, and what our plans were. Then he scooped the fried food onto a plate, along with a pile of raw fish that had been marinated in lime juice. He topped it with raw onions, dried corn, salt and other ingredients, creating and extremely strong dish. 

We sat in front of the cart to eat and visit with Jesús. He asked if he could film us, and while I consented, I felt stupid for stumbling all over my Spanish sentences. We were tired and ready for a nap.

Ceviche, the national dish of Peru.

A picture with our street-chef, Jesús.

At last, two o'clock came and we again climbed the stairs of our hotel. Two twin beds awaited us and we plunged our weary bodies. At the moment Lima still felt like a dream, something we had only fancied. Perhaps after a little rest we could return to the streets and make them come alive. ♠

 

 

San Pedro Market

One of the craziest, most chaotic markets I have ever seen is the San Pedro Market in the high elevations of Cusco, Peru. 

The market sprawled into all the streets surrounding the actual building of San Pedro. There was barely enough room to walk around. Vendors with fruits, potatoes, herbs, and everything else were overflowing onto the sidewalk while traffic on a single-lane road tried to push through. Horns honked. Exhaust blew. Pedestrians pushed through. A young boy urinated wherever he found room on the cobble-stoned street. 

I wished I could have taken pictures with my eyes, but I had to do the second-best thing⸺with my camera, trying to be as stealthy as possible. It was the people and their goods I wanted to capture, especially the Inca ladies in traditional dress, or with their babies wrapped on their backs. 

I looked at the food and filth and concluded that it was no wonder so many foreign tourists caught a bug while traveling to Peru. This food would be purchased and brought to the eating establishments where they would be prepared on a plate. 

Still, I was fascinated. 

Then we passed the meat section. Piles of heart, liver, hooves, jugular veins. It smelled the same as when I gut a deer. Blood and rotting stomach. It was here we saw chicken legs, skinned guinea pigs⸺and live bugs. 

At one point we decided to take a break on the steps of San Pedro Church, a 320-year-old house of worship watching over the market. Jenna and I plotted our next move when a foul and drunken man with dark hair and pudgy hands made his way toward us. He nearly fell over the guy next to us, then turned our direction and mumbled something in Spanish. I grabbed Jenna's arm, ready to protect her, but when he began to sway toward us, we quickly stood up and walked away. He spewed a few curse words, but we only smiled. As we gained distance we turned around and noticed he was getting lectured by a policeman. 

From one adventure to the next, we continued through the market, now passing through food being cooked. Ladies stood in front of large kettles with a fire lit below and steam rising above. Patrons sat on little plastic stools around the kettle and ate bowls of appetizing food. A common dish appeared to be rice with a drumstick and fried egg on top; or caldo de gallina, a brothy soup with noodles and chunk of chicken.

Some ladies grilled meat and others made juice. Ice cream was also popular. At the far end were booths of flowers. 

Bathrooms were of interest to me in Peru, and those at San Pedro Market were no exception. I paid the man at the booth 50 soles to enter, and he in return gave me a piece of toilet paper. The room I entered was large and had no door to separate it from the outside. Men and women alike entered inside. The room reeked of urine and feces. Although lines of enclosed stalls filled most of the room, there was also a line of urinals for the men, which was not covered at all. In my stall there was no seat on the toilet.⸺Completely squalid conditions for a food market! 

We ended our tour by walking through the artisan section. Here they have any souvenir a tourist might want: beenies, scarfs, coin purses, alpaca sweaters, Inca figurines and much more. There were no prices listed, so with everything we had to ask, then haggle. 

Eventually the market fizzled out and the normal chaos of Cusco streets filtered in. The market of San Pedro was definitely an experience we won't forget! ♠

 

 

Quest for the Dominican Dish

Fish and tostones.

Half the experience of foreign travel comes in eating the local food. 

Before our recent trip to the Dominican Republic, I was excited to contact Lucy, a dear friend whose roots run deep in that country. I asked her if she had any suggestions on food that we must try. Her response was enthusiastic and extensive. 

She messaged me a list Dominican dishes, complete with pictures, the Spanish translation, where they could be found, and how they tasted. And she didn't stop there. I was sent pictures of fruits, desserts and drinks. By the time she was done, my mouth was salivating and I was anxious to begin my quest.

But my search proved to be a bit more difficult than I had anticipated. Our trip would be split between beach and city. Our first stop, Playa Dominicus, had one of the prettiest beaches I had ever seen! But authentic Dominican food was another story. This coastal town on the Caribbean Sea, popular with Europeans, proved to have almost exclusively Italian food! 

Plantains are common throughout the Dominican Republic.

After enjoying an evening of fine white sand, calm blue waters and a beautiful sunset against a silhouette of palm trees, we wandered back into town for our first sit-down meal. We decided on an outdoor restaurant serving pizza, spaghetti and linguine. There was one sole Dominican dish on the menu, and of course, that's what I ordered: arroz con habichuelas. 

Rice and beans are a staple in many Central American countries, including the Caribbean. This meal was simple. I received a scoop of herbed rice alongside a small bowl of black beans, stewed in a broth of spices. It came with a tasty leg of chicken. I think this meal could also be called la bandera, which is considered the national dish. Translated as 'flag', this dish consists of rice, beans, meat and salad. No matter what you call it, the meal was simple and satisfying. 

Arroz con habichuelas.

The next four days proved just as challenging. We didn't eat constant Dominican food like I had hoped, but rather a taste here, a bite there. The one constant was the free breakfast at our hotel. Every morning we were brought a plate of fresh fruit: always a sliced banana, pineapple and papaya. The papaya and pineapple were probably the juiciest and sweetest I had ever eaten. 

On another day we had a pleasant surprise on the beach when a lady came around selling small samples of sweets. When she announced what she had, I immediately recognized it as one of Lucy's recommendations. I bought a small cup of dulce de coco for 50 pesos. It was easily the most wonderful dessert I had the entire trip.  A coconut dessert par excellence! Each day after that I kept an eye out for that lady, hoping to buy more, but never saw her again. 

Sweet Dominican fruit.

Little cups of heaven being sold on the beach. My favorite was dulce de coco.

Twice we took a boat tour to an exotic island where we spent the day either snorkeling or lounging on the beach. Each day they fed us a buffet-style lunch. This gave us a chance to sample several kinds of food, but we didn't know the name of any, nor if it was authentic. We dished up rice and beans, fresh fruit, rolls, sausage and grilled chicken. They tried to charge us an arm and a leg to boil up a fresh lobster, but we passed. Maybe we should have done it. 

Buffet on the beach.

One of the fascinating aspects of Dominican food is that much of it is a fusion between many different cultures. Just like the people who inhabit the island, any food could likely have roots in Africa, Spain, other Caribbean countries, or even West Asia and China. 

One such dish is mofongo, a recipe influenced from Africa, with Spanish and Taíno influence. It consists primarily of fried plantains which are then mashed and cooked with a variety of spices. We found ours at a restaurant in Playa Dominicus where it came served with a salsa and topped with several (hard) chicharrónes (or pork cracklings). It had a wonderful, but simple flavor, especially when topped with sauce. 

Mofongo.

My favorite eating experience came after swimming at an isolated beach in Bayahibe. Lucy had told us that the beach was the best place to eat fish and tostones, and she was right. After crawling out of the water and drying off, we walked across the dirt road and found a so-called restaurant in someone's back yard. (For the longer version, click here.) 

We walked inside an area enclosed by a bamboo fence and sat down to a wobbly table. There were no menus. A lady with an Aunt Jemima scarf around her head took our order and a few minutes later we watched her taking a slimy fish back to her little shack. 

After another thirty minutes she returned with a beautifully grilled fish, which included head and fins, as well as a plate of rice and tostones, or fried plantains. The fish was arguably the best I ever had; moist in the middle and well-flavored. The tostones had a hint of salty sweetness. 

We saw no other customers while we were there and I enjoyed every minute. We even got to watch a gecko crawl on the wall behind us! 

A gecko watching us eat.

Moving on we traveled to Santo Domingo. Here I hoped to find a new culinary experience, something less touristy and perhaps more authentic. 

We arrived in the chaotic capital. After checking into our hotel we immediately hit the street hoping to find a place to eat. We were away from the tourist section and finding an eating establishment didn't come as easy as I thought it would. Yes, we saw a few places here and there selling sandwiches, but nothing offering authentic fare. 

Lady selling samples of food for 75 pesos.

We must have appeared lost because a local guy came up and asked what we were looking for. I told him we wanted Dominican food. He then took us into the backstreets, places I would never have found on my own. I wouldn't even call them streets, but walking paths. If he weren't with us, I would have felt we were trespassing. 

He came to one restaurant, but it was closed. Another was open, but all the food was gone except for a serving of rice and beans. A third was selling food, but it wasn't Dominican. None of the restaurants had signs and none were on Google Maps. They were all hidden to the common foreigner. We thanked him for being so kind and parted ways. We settled on a sandwich shop. 

The bottom item is a quipe.

I will comment briefly on a few of the foods we ate during our time in Santo Domingo: 

Quipes. A lady on the street was selling a sampling of food for 75 pesos. It included quipes, which is a fried bulgur roll with flavored meat in the middle. It was brought to the D.R. by immigrants from the Middle East. 

Mangú. Served frequently for breakfast, mangú consists of mashed fried plantains. When it is served with salami, eggs, and cheese, it is considered mangú con los tres golpes (or with the three punches). At the time, we didn't know this was the typical Dominican breakfast, nor did we know that the caramelized onions were supposed to top the mangú. 

Typical Dominican breakfast. Mangú is the mushy stuff on the right.

Cane sugar. Driving anywhere long distance in the Dominican Republic will most likely take you past sugar cane fields. It is no surprise then that cane sugar is the sweetener of preference. I still don't understand the difference, but the sugar we ate in the D.R. had a better taste than that from back home, and the crystals were bigger. 

Batidas. These are smoothies, made with local fruit that is always sweet and fresh. Very yummy.

Yaniqueque. Pretty simple. Fried dough with salt, and sometimes accompanied with ketchup. We only ate this once, which was at family carnival on the Malecón. 

Cane sugar.

Street food cart selling yaniqueques and quipes.

For our final day in Santo Domingo we searched out a restaurant for one last hoorah. We decided on El Conuco, a cozy little place in the Gazcue District. We chose it because it specialized in Dominican food. 

Although outside the restaurant appeared like every other street in Santo Domingo, inside it looked like a giant tiki hut. The floor was laid in stone with wooden tables atop it. Walls were painted a variety of bright colors and ceiling fans circulated outdoor air. 

I ordered a bowl of sancocho, a typical Domincan stew with meat, potato, yucca, plantain, yam and a drumstick on top. It was accompanied with a bowl of rice. The stew had a very good, but not overwhelming flavor and the texture was thick and smooth. 

My family thinks I'm crazy, but I love stews. They are hearty. They are nutritious. They are savory. Stews from a foreign country usually represent what the typical person would eat. Perhaps everyday. Dishes that are stews usually don't become world-famous, but often they are more authentic than those that do.

I relished every bite. I alternated between the stew and rice, sometimes dipping the rice into the thick broth. Then I would pull the drumstick out with my fingers and take a nibble. 

Less than twenty four hours later we were gone, out of the country and heading home. Among my memories of the Dominican Republic were the beaches, the people, the chaos of Santo Domingo, and most certainly the food. ♠

 

Sancocho.