I Ordered Żurek in a Sunken City

The waiter had too many elbows. I say this descriptively. He used them well. The menu was carved into the table, which would have been charming if the table had not also been a calendar. I pointed at the familiar sourness. I said żurek. Something in the walls said ah.

They brought it in clay, which is correct, on an altar, which is ambitious. Steam rose and then thought better of the direction of up. A halved egg looked at me the way a landlord looks at a tenant who has asked about the deposit. Beside the bowl, a tentacle — not one of mine, I checked — waited for the spoon like a relative who arrived early.

Notes on the broth

Żurek is fermented rye flour and patience. In a sunken city it is also a peace treaty. The sourness cuts through silt, cult politics, and the aftertaste of unpronounceable garnish. There was sausage. There was marjoram. There was a white root I decided not to name, in case it answered. I ate it. I would eat it again. I would not, however, ask for the recipe. Recipes down there are binding.

The bread was excellent. It screamed only a little, and in a register I associate with good sourdough.

I tipped in sanity — they do not take złoty, which is a shame, because I had some — and left a mint on the altar for whoever does the napkins. Service: occult. Ambience: wet cathedral with stained glass fish. Would return if the stars align with lunch.

If you go, do not order the “catch of the aeon.” That is not a fish. That is a performance review. Stick to soup. Soup is older than gods and more consistent.

Pairing: a small beer, if the pressure allows carbonation, or a glass of kompot if you are someone’s grandchild. I was both.