Jangzom's Momorogi

“It’s been six months,” uttered Emily, “we know you’re hurting, but…”

“But you don’t,” I quipped, “unlike you guys, I like my parents. Now my mom is dead, my dad flew back to Nepal, and I’m stuck here working for Skynet.”

“Relax,” said Jason, “here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna have some food, then we’re gonna get a few drinks and have fun. Just like old times.”

“Yeah, well I’m not an alcoholic like you guys. Plus, what’s wrong if I wanna eat a pint of Haagen-Dazs and watch Paddington?”

“Because you’ve been doing that every weekend,” complained Emily, “and you never even switch to Paddington 2 or Paddington 3.”

“You haven’t had a vegetable in six months, your apartment stinks, you’re wearing pyjama bottoms right now,” added Jason. The waitress strolled to our table.

“Are we ready to order?” She asked.

“We need a few mi…”

“We’re ready,” I interrupted Emily.

“But…” tried Emily.

“We’re ready.” I asserted.

“Okay,” said Jason, “I’ll take the go-lab-key please.”

“One gołąbki,” the waitress responded.

“Kielbasa and potato salad please,” said Emily.

“Great choice,” the waitress affirmed, “and you?”

“I don’t care.”

“What do you mean?” the waitress asked.

“I don’t care. My friends dragged me to Greenpoint. I don’t speak Polish, so I’m not gonna try to read your menu. Give me whatever.”

“I think I know what you need,” mused the waitress.

She marched away, and I resumed bickering with my friends. After 15 minutes, she returned.

“Alrighty,” she announced, “so here’s your gołąbki, here’s your kielbasa and potato salad,” she dropped what looked like some green burritos covered in ketchup in front of Jason, and a U-shaped sausage in front of Emily, “and, for Mr. Sunshine, pierogi.” The waitress walked away.

“What the hell is that?” I snickered at Jason.

“It’s a cabbage roll,” Jason retorted, “and it’s really good. So stop talking, and eat your pierogi.” I grabbed the silky pocket. As it entered my mouth, I tasted something that I hadn’t had in ages. Something so familiar, yet foreign. Like when you realize your favourite actor has an accent. A dumpling filled with potato and cheese. All it was missing was momo ko achar. A tear went down my eye, and after a couple seconds, I was weeping as twenty-something Slavik faces scowled in our direction.

“Kevin,” whispered Jason, “what’s wrong?”

“Momo,” I babbled with a mouth full of “pierogi.”

“Mama?” Jason asked, “I know buddy, I’m sorry, but you’re making people uncomfortable.”

“No, momo,” I clarified.

“Excuse me!” I flagged our waitress down.

“What are these?” I asked.

“I told you, it’s pierogi. Potato and cheese pierogi.”

“Doubt it! You got some Nepali guy working back there, don’t you?”

“No, it’s a Polish restaurant. We serve Polish food.”

“Let me see the chef.”

“He’s busy right now.”

“Come on…” Jason interrupted me, “sorry, my friend is going through something. Kevin, relax.” The waitress backpedalled from our table.

“What was that?” Kevin chided.

“Those were my mom’s momo!” I declared.

“What do you mean?” asked Emily.

“I swear to God.”

Emily and Jason looked at each other. “Let’s finish up and get out of here. We’ll take you home, and we can talk.”

“No, I’m fine. I can take myself home.”

“Come on, buddy.”

“I’m fine, I swear. I don’t wanna bring your night down.

“Too late for that,” Emily muttered.

”And I’m sorry I called you alcoholics earlier, I was upset.”

“Well okay, but text us when you get home,” conceded Emily. I’d get home, but not anytime soon.

After we finished, I stood in the alley behind the restaurant freezing in my pyjama bottoms. After a couple hours, a large, gruff man waddled out with a cigarette in his mouth. “Excuse me!” I yelled.

“What?” he responded.

“Who’s the chef here?”

“I am chef.”

“Really?”

“What, I can’t be chef? Why I can’t be chef?” He was angry. Like a bearded white Shrek.

“Then how did you learn to make the momo?”

“What is momo?”

“The dumplings.”

“Pierogi? It is Polish dish, I am Polish.”

“No, that’s Nepali!”

“You think I lie?!?”

“No, it’s just they make momos, and I really liked yours.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I have the recipe?”

“No, recipe is for restaurant.”

“Come on.”

“I cannot give.”

“Then can I get your number?”

“Why you need my number?” he laughed, “Do you think I’m sexy?”

“I just want you to make them for me.”

“Then come to restaurant.”

“No, I want to watch you make them.”

“Why you need this?”

“Please! I’ll pay $200 to watch you make the momos!”

“I told you, they’re not momo. Now leave, you wake neighbourhood.”

The next day, I came back to Orzeł i Korona at 7 pm.

“Oh hey, it’s Mr. Sunshine,” the waitress acknowledged.

“I’ll take the m…pierogi please.” The pillowy potato and creamy cheese swirled in my mouth with each bite. It was like my mom was giving my mouth a hug through a scary Polish surrogate – that didn’t come out right. You get what I mean.

The next day, I came back at 4 pm. I hadn’t brushed my teeth or eaten all day to savour last night’s pierogi for as long as I could. As I walked through the door, a chime sang behind me, and the waitress side-eyed me across the empty restaurant. I sat at my regular table because, now, I considered myself a regular. She ran into the kitchen, and the chef came out. It was the shittiest magic trick ever: a beautiful blonde woman turned into a grizzly bear. He sat down at my table.

“Why you here?” he interrogated, “You’re bothering my daughter.” He nodded at the waitress who stared at me from behind the bar in front of the kitchen.

“I like your pierogi.”

“Everybody like my pierogi.”

“Fair point.”

“If you keep bothering her, I’ll have to do something.”

“I’m not here for her.”

“What then?”

“Well, my mom used to make food just like yours.”

“Your mom Polish?” He sneered, gathering by my Asian-ness that that was not the case.

“That’s what’s crazy. She’s from Nepal.”

“So how her food like mine?”

“She used to make these dumplings, the momo I brought up on Friday.”

“Mama make momo?”

“Exactly! Well, made. She died six months ago.”

“Oh. I sorry,” he paused.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot. My name is Kevin.” I stuck out my hand. His loaf-sized forearm reached across the table, and his cabbage roll fingers enveloped my hand.

“I am Jan.” I felt a tear drip from my eye again.

“Yan?”

“Yes, Jan!”

“That’s my mom’s name,” I cried, “well, her name was Yangzom, but she went by Yan.” Just then, ten men flooded into the restaurant, chatting to the waitress in Polish. Jan stood up.

“Look,” Jan put his baseball mitt on my shoulder, “we have customers, and you cry like baby. Come back at 11.”

After hours of wandering across Brooklyn neighbourhoods like a lost tourist, I walked back to Orzeł i Korona at 10:58. Jan was sitting at my table holding his hands over his belly while the waitress cleaned dishes from behind the bar. A big bottle with a clear liquid labeled “Żubrówka” was on my table amongst two shot glasses, and two larger glasses filled with cola.

“Kevin,” Jan greeted, “sit.” I obeyed.

“Karolina,” Jan shouted to the waitress, “Kevin ma coś do powiedzenia.” The familiar blonde walked toward our table. Jan gestured toward me. I looked back at him confused. He gestured again.

“Oh! I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable earlier. I didn’t mean to. I just really like your father’s cooking, so that’s why I’ve been coming here every day.”

“Apology accepted,” Karolina responded. Jan nodded in approval, and Karolina walked back to the bar to clean dishes. Jan raised his cola, and we clinked glasses. “Na zdrowie!” he chanted.

I took a sip of the cola in question. The bitter liquid struggled to enter my throat.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, “you don’t like beer?”

“This is beer?”

“Żywiec Porter. Ten percent.”

“Ten percent?”

“Maybe you prefer this.” Jan started pouring the Żubrówka.

“No thank you. I’m trying not to drink much.”

“Tonight, you drink!” He slammed the glass in front of me. We clinked again. He said “na zdrowie” again. I shot the vodka.

“Karolina,” he shouted, “czy możesz przynieść pierogi z kuchni?”

“Pierogi?” I thought. My mouth started to water. Karolina walked to our table with a tray of pierogi. Jan stood up.

“This is meat. This is cabbage and mushroom. For Christmas. This is blueberries. This is lentils. Lubelskie. East. This is onion and mustard. Mazowieckie. West of Lubelskie. This is…Karolina! Jak się mówi śliwka?”

“Plum!” She yelled back.

“This is plum with honey and nuts. Szydłów. Small town in south.” Though I appreciated Jan detailing each pierogi like a boy flaunting his baseball cards, I was waiting for him to announce the main event.

“This is potato and cheese. You have this one.”

“Thank you,” I reached for the potato and cheese.

“No,” Jan slapped my hand away, “you try the others.”

I shovelled the new pierogi in my mouth. Though each was tasty, none compared to the potato and cheese. Finally, I held the premier pierogi with my shaking right hand. Jan started a chuckle, which turned into a cough. I took a bite, and felt the filling explode in my mouth. I closed my eyes, and was back with my mom, hearing her hum in the kitchen while folding momo.

“This is the best,” I said after digesting.

“The best? I don’t choose favourite.”

“Well, this is basically what my mom made, aloo cheese momo.”

“Aloo?”

“Potato. It’s very common in Eastern Nepal. My mom made other fillings too, chicken, pork, vegetable, but aloo cheese was my favourite. Every time I was sick, my mom would make them.”

“Your mom seem like great woman.”

“She was.”

“My mama die too. She was sixty.”

“No.”

“What you mean, no?”

“My mom was sixty.”

“To dead mamas,” Jan raised his beer glass.

“To dead moms.” We clinked. He “na zdrowie”d. I drank, squinting to hide my repulsion. He cough-laughed once again.

“Come back tomorrow at 11,” he ordered.

I came back again the next day. Through the window, I couldn’t see anyone inside. I opened the door, and the chime rang behind me. The kitchen door opened.

“Kevin,” welcomed Jan, “come to kitchen.” I ran back there like I was starving. As I opened the door, I smelt butter, potatoes and cheese, and heard Jan beating the mixture. “Today you help,” Jan instructed. Jan demonstrated how to fold the pierogi, making crescent-shapes instead of balls with pleated peaks like my mom.

“My mama was great woman,” Jan remarked while stirring, “she was born 1935. She lived through German occupation, had me at 30. We didn’t have much, but she taught me to cook. I come here in 1985 on temporary visa, but mama tell me to stay. I work for ten years. I clean, I do construction. In 1995, I save up to start restaurant, Karolina was born. I tell mama, ‘come to America’, but she was afraid because she don’t know English. I work for a few months, lots of customers, and one day…” Jan took a big gulp as his nostrils flared and eyes widened, “one day, my Aunt Joanna call. Mama was hit by car. I was so angry, I couldn’t breathe. She survive Hitler, but not car?” His stirring grew louder, echoing throughout the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” I consoled, “my parents came in 2003 during the civil war. I was nine. My dad worked as a carpenter, my mom became a nurse. My mom was thinking about early retirement, and boom, she got breast cancer,” another annoying tear came down my eye, “meanwhile, I was stuck 500 miles away working. I barely got to see her. When I finally did, she was so exhausted and frail,” I began crying again. Jan walked out of the kitchen, and came back with another bottle of Żubrówka and two glasses. He poured two rather large shots, and handed one to me.

“Drink,” he ordered, “and keep your eyes away from pierogi, you’ll make them too salty.” Eventually, the pierogi were ready. He put them on a plate, brushed them with butter, and announced “like mama used to say, ty jedz, bo schudniesz. Eat, you are too skinny. And if you lose more weight, I won’t be able to see you.” Jan laughed and coughed again.

Jan invited me to dinner at his and Karolina’s apartment the next Saturday. I couldn’t wait for him to bless me with more pierogi. I arrived at his door with a bottle of Żubrówka and a bottle of raksi, a Nepali liquor made from millet that I found in a liquor store in Queens. He opened the door and greeted me with a wide smile. I handed him the Zubrowka and raksi. He kissed both bottles, and let me in.

“Karolina not here yet,” Jan started, “we wait for her to eat. But now…” Jan poured the raksi while chuckling. We clinked, said “na zdrowie” and shot it.

“Ugh,” Jan winced, “vodka much better.”

“Now you’re the one that doesn’t like drinking,” I teased. Jan and I went shot for shot. “Are you okay, little boy?” He cackled, mocking my small frame. Finally, Karolina came home.

“Hi,” she hummed. She hung her coat in the closet, and came to sit with us at the kitchen table until she saw the half-empty bottles. “Are you serious?”

“Co? Jestem dorosły.” Jan defended.

“Doctor Feldman told you not to drink on your medication. Have you even taken your medication?”

“Karolina, mamy gości.”

“Have you?”

“Egh, porozmawiamy o tym później.”

“You know what? I’m leaving.” Karolina grabbed her coat, and slammed the door behind her.

“Sorry, she is drama queen,” Jan mocked.

“It’s fine,” I paused, “you know, your daughter is quite beautiful. Her mother must’ve been an angel if you were her father.” I laughed, returning his jab from earlier. He did not.

“Her mother was witch. She move back to Poland when Karolina was four.”

“Oh,” I paused again, “I’m sorry…You should listen to her though. She cares about you.”

“She is not my mama.”

“Still, maybe you should stop…” Jan slammed his shot glass on the ground, and it shattered into pieces.

“Enough!” he urged.

“No, it’s just…”

“You look at my daughter. You call me ugly. You just want pierogi. You don’t want friend. You want mama. I am not your mama.” Another tear fell from my eye. “Go!” Jan yelled. “Go!” I grabbed my coat and left.

After a couple months, my brief platonic affair seemed like a fever dream. Did I really stalk a 6’4”-by-6’4” Polish man? Did he really make my mother’s food? Then, I got a Facebook message from a “Karolina Kwasniewski.” It read “Hey, we need to talk. Call me when you can.” Thinking I could secure a date with a beautiful woman, albeit one with an erratic father, I called her back. Breathing heavily, she answered, but didn’t say anything.

“Karolina?” I asked.

“Hey,” she bumbled, “I just thought I’d tell you, my dad died of heart failure yesterday. He told me you two didn’t end on good terms, but I know he really cared about you. The funeral’s tomorrow at St. Mary’s in Brooklyn if you want to come.”

St. Mary’s was small, but every seat was filled. Patrons of Orzeł i Korona chatted about his remarkable food and warm heart. Staff spoke of how he’d slip cash into their pockets even when the restaurant was dead. His old friends and girlfriends spoke about his fun-loving personality and dance moves at Polish discos back in the day. I even heard the word “handsome” a few times. Not “sexy,” but close. After the long Catholic ceremony, most of the guests went back to the restaurant where there was a large Polish spread. I took some pierogi and bigos, a meat stew Jan told me about. Across the room, I saw Karolina sitting at the bar with her friends. I approached her.

“Hey,” I started, “I’m sorry for your loss. Your father was one of a kind.”

“Thank you,” she responded. Her friends stared at me, wondering if I was an old boyfriend or some distant acquaintance. “I’m really glad you came.” Her friends drifted away, realizing I was welcomed.

“I probably shouldn’t say this, but your dad’s pierogi are way better than these,” I blurted.

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “There’s Mr. Sunshine. Always talking about pierogi.”

“Yeah well, your dad made the best.”

“He did,” she paused, “that reminds me. Come here.” She guided me to the kitchen freezer. I saw a small piece of yellow paper taped to the back of the door. She pulled it off. “Here.”

“Is this…”

“Yep.”

“But don’t you need it? Your dad told me the recipe is for the restaurant.”

“Well, soon there won’t be a restaurant.”

“Why?”

“When he was here, he was living his dream. I was a Polish girl, eating Polish food, speaking Polish, but I never got to see the world. I never even got to see Poland. I think I’m gonna go there. And then go somewhere else. Find my dream.”

“Well, thank you,” I said, tears welling in my eyes.

“My pleasure. Hopefully they still remind you of your mom.”

They would, but they’d remind me of someone else too. I thought maybe I could start my own restaurant here. Call it “Jangzom’s Momorogi.” But what do I know about running a restaurant? Maybe I’d make them for Emily and Jason to thank them for playing therapist for six months. Maybe I’d make them for myself and think about my mom and Jan comparing cooking notes somewhere. Nevertheless, I knew what dinner would be that night.