This is a man who has a picture of the South Park chef posted in his kitchen. You see, Dom Polski is not so much a restaurant as a happening. Once a week, friends and acquaintances gather to socialize, drink Polish beer at the most beautiful bar on Capitol Hill, and eat. Well, not the kids. They climb on tables, support-beams, the piano, until waitresses shoo them off.
Servers appear and return at random intervals with ludicrously large plates of Polish fare.
No frilly garnishes, no particular timing. There are many, many delightful, filling, and comfort-giving foods on the menu, but let me dwell on the Polish Platter for a moment longer. This particular plate of meat and potatoes aroused such feelings of gratitude and fulfillment that as I gazed across a film of sweat at my lover, I remembered the many risky acts that had brought us to my present condition. When I returned this spring with a passel of fellow diners, we sampled nearly the entire menu, some items more than once. When I went back for a second bite, it was gone.